CHAPTER II
THE MESSAGE
The long autumn holiday was drawing to a close. In a couple of days'time Paul would be back again at the old school--back again at GarsideHouse. He had had a pretty good time during the "vac.," but, none theless, he should not be sorry to meet again the fellows of his Form.School wasn't such a bad place, after all.
"Fact, if it wasn't for that wretched science master, Weevil--why wasn'the christened Weazel?--one might put up with a lot of it. Don't know howit is, but he always puts my back up."
Paul was returning home across the fields, and had just alighted over afive-barred gate into a lane which wound round the side of the ManorHouse into the main road, when he was arrested by a cry of distress.
"Hallo! What's that? Some one down? My--down it is!"
A horseman had come a cropper a little distance down the lane. Paulimmediately ran to his assistance.
"What's wrong, sir? A tumble?"
"Yes; Falcon slipped, and before I quite knew where I was I was out ofthe saddle. But I don't think I'm hurt very much."
Paul extended a hand to the fallen rider. He grasped it, and tried torise; a spasm of pain crossed his face.
"I'm afraid that you are hurt, sir."
"A little more than I thought," said the gentleman, as he leaned againstthe saddle. "Poor old Falcon," patting the horse, "don't look sogrieved. It wasn't so much your fault as my carelessness."
Then the caressing movement of the hand ceased, and he stood listeningas one who fears pursuit. He tried to mount to the saddle, but failed.
"Heaven help me!" he murmured. And then, as though Heaven had inspiredhim, he turned to Paul suddenly with a hopeful light in his eye: "Canyou ride, my lad?"
"Rather! I learnt to ride almost as soon as I could walk," smiled Paul.
It was no empty boast. Paul had been taught riding at a very early age,and was as much at home in the saddle as on his feet.
"I seem to have sprained my leg, and it is getting more painful everymoment. I've got a message of the utmost importance that must reachRedmead to-night. You know Redmead?"
"Well."
"Will you take a message for me? I ask it as a great favour, my lad."
He spoke with great earnestness, and waited eagerly for Paul's answer.Paul did not at once respond. Redmead was seven miles distant; it wasgetting dusk; the journey to Redmead and back would take him close upontwo hours; his mother would wonder at his absence.
"You won't refuse me, lad. You don't know what it means to me, andothers."
Paul liked the stranger's face. He was a man of about thirty-seven orthirty-eight, with clear, honest eyes, and an open, gentlemanly bearing.It was plain that the business on which he wished Paul to go wasimportant. The boy's sympathies were with him, but still he hesitated.
"Whereabouts in Redmead?"
"To Oakville, the house of Mr. Moncrief."
"Moncrief!" cried Paul. "I've a chum at school named Moncrief--StanleyMoncrief."
"He's my son. The gentleman living at Redmead is Stanley's uncle. Whatis your name?"
"Paul Percival."
"I've often heard my boy speak of you. Glad to make your acquaintance,though I wish our introduction had taken place under happiercircumstances."
His chum's father! Paul was all aglow. He hesitated no longer.
"Give me your message, sir. I shall only be too pleased to do anythingfor Stan's father."
Mr. Moncrief wrote rapidly on a sheet from his pocket-book:
"Enclosed fragments have come to hand. It is a letter from Zuker, theGerman Jew, who is in England. Take care. Be on guard!"
When he had finished this brief note, Mr. Moncrief took from hispocket-book several fragments of torn paper, bearing on them, as itappeared to Paul, mysterious hieroglyphics. He put these inside anenvelope together with the note he had written. Then he sealed it downand handed it to Paul.
"You are my boy's chum, I feel that I can trust you. Give this to mybrother, Mr. Walter Moncrief--in no one else's hands. I cannot tell youhow much may depend upon those pieces of paper reaching him. You willnot part with them whatever happens?"
"God helping me," said Paul, impressed with the earnestness of Mr.Moncrief's words and manner. "There is my house, sir"--pointing to theManor House. "You will find rest there, and perhaps you wouldn't mindtelling my mother where I've gone."
Paul mounted to the saddle. Falcon, as though anxious to resume itsjourney, sped along the lane into the open road. Though it was gettingdusk, it mattered little to Paul, for he was well acquainted with everyinch of the country for miles around. He could not help thinking of thestrangeness of the adventure.
"Stan's father--only fancy! I'm glad that I was able to help him andtake his message. Shan't I have something to tell old Stan when I getback to school!"
Then he began to wonder what the torn fragments of paper, with thehieroglyphics on them, could mean, and what could be the message ofwhich he was the bearer. Had he seen it, his wonder would assuredly havegrown.
The cool breeze of evening fell upon his face. The shadows began tolengthen. The leaves rustled beneath Falcon's feet. It was a noble,intelligent horse, and seemed as conscious of the importance of themessage upon which it was going as Paul himself.
"Good horse--good Falcon!" cried Paul, stroking its neck. "I wouldn'tmind a horse like you. I wonder how many times Stan has ridden you."
By this time they had reached an open common. It had been a perilousplace to ride over in years gone by, when robbers abounded, but thosedays had gone, and no thought of danger occurred to Paul as he reachedit. There were two ways of going to his destination--one was by takingthe road by the side of the common and skirting it, the other, by themore solitary but nearer road across it. Paul selected the latter,urging his horse to a gallop as he did so. Falcon immediately respondedto the call of its young rider, and soon they were speeding across thecommon.
When they reached the other side the road leading to Redmead stretchedbefore them. It had grown suddenly darker. The road was bounded oneither side by hedges, and the branches of trees interlaced each otherin an arch-way overhead. Whether from the sudden darkness or that he hadscented some hidden danger, Falcon slackened speed.
"What's wrong, Falcon?" cried Paul. "Get on--the sooner our journey'sended, the sooner you'll have your supper. Now, then, old boy."
The horse was about to speed forward again, but scarcely were the wordsfrom Paul's lips than a man sprang from the hedge and seized the bridle.
"Stop!" came a sharp, decisive voice, with a foreign accent, "Stop!"
Paul just caught a glimpse of the man's face in the half light. Thecheekbones were somewhat high, but narrowed down sharply at the chin. Hewore eyeglasses on the eyes, which seemed to Paul, in that swift glancehe caught of them, of a steely blue. He had a thick, military moustache,drawn out to fierce points; but his chin was clean-shaven. Directly hestopped the horse, a second man sprang to the other side of it. Paulimmediately concluded they were robbers.
"What do you want? I've got no money--at least, only a few coppers.You're welcome to those, if you'll only let me ride on."
"We're not robbers," said the first man, who seemed to be the master ofthe two, "and, therefore, we don't want your coppers. We've got one ortwo questions to put to you. If you'll only answer them civilly, we'lllet you go your way. If you don't answer them----"
He broke off with a shrug of the shoulders to indicate the terrible fatewhich might await the boy in the event of his declining to answer thequestions put to him.
"You're riding Mr. Moncrief's horse, Falcon?"
Paul wondered who the man was, and how he had come by his information.
"Yes, that's right. What of it?"
"How is it you are riding Falcon instead of Mr. Moncrief?"
Paul did not at once answer. He wondered whether by answering he wouldbe doing wrong. Yet what wrong could he do by speaking the truth. Paulwas an honest boy--as honest as the day--and detested falsehood
of anykind.
"Mr. Moncrief met with an accident--that's why," he answered doggedly.
"An accident"--the stranger exchanged glances with the other man."That's the reason he's been left behind, is it? You've come in hisstead--eh?"
Paul nodded. He felt somehow that he was giving Mr. Moncrief away, buthe could not help himself.
"Thought so. You're going to Mr. Walter Moncrief, his brother--eh?"
Paul remained silent. He felt that he had said too much already.
"Tongue-tied--eh? Well, I won't trouble you to answer, for I know wellenough my information's right. All you need do is just to hand over tome the packet you're taking to Mr. Walter Moncrief. I'll take care ofit."
The stranger's information was only too accurate; Paul marvelled at itsaccuracy; but nevertheless Mr. Moncrief's words, "I feel that I cantrust you. You will not part with the letter, whatever happens," came tohim, and he determined not to give up the packet without a struggle.
"You're not deaf as well as tongue-tied--eh? Quick! quick! hand overthe packet," came the imperious voice of the stranger.
Paul saw that he was in a desperate situation--one from which it wouldonly be possible to extricate himself by strategy. He put his hand tothe inner pocket where the packet lay, and drew it a little way from hispocket. This movement disarmed the man who held the bridle. He slackenedhis hold. As he did so Paul brought down his riding-whip--or, rather,Mr. Moncrief's riding-whip--sharply on the other man's face.
With a cry of mingled rage and pain the man dropped the bridle.
"Good Falcon--good. Now!" cried Paul, urging the horse forward.
The second man made a lunge at the horse. Falcon, as though fully aliveto the need of getting away, bounded forward like a dart along the road.It went forward at a breakneck speed, quivering in every limb, as thoughfeverishly anxious to place as great a distance as possible between Pauland his pursuers.
"Thank God, thank God!" Paul murmured, overjoyed at their escape. "Whata noble horse it is. That man is a foreigner, I'm sure of it--one whowould stop at nothing to gain his ends. Who is he, I wonder?"
If Paul had only known! But all was dark to him, as dark as the roadalong which he was speeding. Only one thing was clear--that these menwere the enemies of Mr. Moncrief; that they were anxious to get from himthe packet of which he was the bearer. More and more Paul wondered whatcould be the meaning of it all--what could be the meaning of the curioushieroglyphics in his pocket.
But suddenly, just as he was congratulating himself on the distance hehad placed between himself and his pursuers, Falcon slackened speed, andbegan to breathe hard. What was the meaning of it? Had an accidentbefallen him, or had he grown weary? Paul knew enough of the animal toknow that it would not readily slacken speed through weariness. Falconwas one of those sterling animals who would take every inch from himselfbefore he would give in through weariness.
If he could only get it a little farther on the road, it might bepossible to keep the advantage he had gained on his pursuers. Once morehe encouraged the horse to go forward; and once more it made a desperateeffort to obey him.
Then it reeled again. Paul had just time to extricate his feet from thestirrups when Falcon fell with a crash by the roadside.
Paul hurt one of his legs by the fall, but he had no thought for himselfas he bent over the horse.
"Heaven help us!" was his fervent prayer, for in that one brief glancehe could tell that poor Falcon was dying, and he knew that not longwould elapse before his pursuers reached him.
"What is it, old fellow? Good Falcon--good!"
Once more Falcon responded to the call; it made desperate efforts torise; but almost immediately slackened. Paul's hand went to its neck. Itwas bathed in perspiration and foam. What had happened to it? In theuncertain light it was impossible to tell. Had it injured a foot or leg?All at once Paul recalled the way in which the man had lunged at thehorse at the moment of their escape. He must have injured it in someway.