“That is the most likely quarter to find the mistake,” said the postmaster. “Perhaps he delivered it to the wrong party, or dropped it.”
Ray turned away.
“Hullo, Harry,” said he to me. “You see, I am tracing up that letter. I’d give anything to know where the blame lies.”
“Probably on Ridley, as the postmaster suggests,” I responded. “You know he is nothing but a small boy, and liable to be careless at times.”
“Well, we will see. Come on over to my room,” and Ray linked his arm in mine.
When we reached the entrance to Warburton Hall, Ray went to the head of the stairs that led down into the cellar, and called into the darkness,
“Hullo, Ridley!”
After repeated calls, there was a sound in the regions below. First came the hollow clang of an iron shovel, then the crash of a coal scuttle, and the noise of scattering coal, accompanied by muttered exclamations of a character that betokened disaster. Finally, out of the cellar, and as black as the darkness he left behind him, came the unlucky Ridley, his coat off, his woolen shirt torn, and rubbing his shins where they had come to grief against the coal scuttle. He looked like a veritable imp of the night as he stood there in the glare of the single gas jet that lighted the hallway. Ray looked at him with mock severity.
“Ridley!” he exclaimed.