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 Garside
House. He had had a pretty good time during the "vac.," but, none the
less, 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't
he christened Weazel?--one might put up with a lot of it. Don't know how
it is, but he always puts my back up."
Paul was returning home across the fields, and had just alighted over a
five-barred gate into a lane which wound round the side of the Manor
House 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. Paul
immediately ran to his assistance.
"What's wrong, sir? A tumble?"
"Yes; Falcon slipped, and before I quite knew where I was I was out of
the saddle. But I don't think I'm hurt very much."
Paul extended a hand to the fallen rider. He grasped it, and tried to
rise; 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 against
the saddle. "Poor old Falcon," patting the horse, "don't look so
grieved. It wasn't so much your fault as my carelessness."
Then the caressing movement of the hand ceased, and he stood listening
as one who fears pursuit. He tried to mount to the saddle, but failed.
"Heaven help me!" he murmured. And then, as though Heaven had inspired
him, he turned to Paul suddenly with a hopeful light in his eye: "Can
you 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 every
moment. I've got a message of the utmost importance that must reach
Redmead 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 was
getting dusk; the journey to Redmead and back would take him close upon
two hours; his mother would wonder at his absence.
"You won't refuse me, lad. You don't know what it means to me, and
others."
Paul liked the stranger's face. He was a man of about thirty-seven or
thirty-eight, with clear, honest eyes, and an open, gentlemanly bearing.
It was plain that the business on which he wished Paul to go was
important. 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--Stanley
Moncrief."
"He's my son. The gentleman living at Redmead is Stanley's uncle. What
is 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 happier
circumstances."
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 anything
for 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, the
German Jew, who is in England. Take care. Be on guard!"
When he had finished this brief note, Mr. Moncrief took from his
pocket-book several fragments of torn paper, bearing on them, as it
appeared to Paul, mysterious hieroglyphics. He put these inside an
envelope together with the note he had written. Then he sealed it down
and handed it to Paul.
"You are my boy's chum, I feel that I can trust you. Give this to my
brother, Mr. Walter Moncrief--in no one else's hands. I cannot tell you
how much may depend upon those pieces of paper reaching him. You will
not 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 the
Manor House. "You will find rest there, and perhaps you wouldn't mind
telling my mother where I've gone."
Paul mounted to the saddle. Falcon, as though anxious to resume its
journey, sped along the lane into the open road. Though it was getting
dusk, it mattered little to Paul, for he was well acquainted with every
inch of the country for miles around. He could not help thinking of the
strangeness of the adventure.
"Stan's father--only fancy! I'm glad that I was able to help him and
take his message. Shan't I have something to tell old Stan when I get
back to school!"
Then he began to wonder what the torn fragments of paper, with the
hieroglyphics on them, could mean, and what could be the message of
which he was the bearer. Had he seen it, his wonder would assuredly have
grown.
The cool breeze of evening fell upon his face. The shadows began to
lengthen. The leaves rustled beneath Falcon's feet. It was a noble,
intelligent horse, and seemed as conscious of the importance of the
message upon which it was going as Paul himself.
"Good horse--good Falcon!" cried Paul, stroking its neck. "I wouldn't
mind 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 perilous
place to ride over in years gone by, when robbers abounded, but those
days had gone, and no thought of danger occurred to Paul as he reached
it. There were two ways of going to his destination--one was by taking
the road by the side of the common and skirting it, the other, by the
more solitary but nearer road across it. Paul selected the latter,
urging his horse to a gallop as he did so. Falcon immediately responded
to the call of its young rider, and soon they were speeding across the
common.
When they reached the other side the road leading to Redmead stretched
before them. It had grown suddenly darker. The road was bounded on
either side by hedges, and the branches of trees interlaced each other
in an arch-way overhead. Whether from the sudden darkness or that he had
scented some hidden danger, Falcon slackened speed.
"What's wrong, Falcon?" cried Paul. "Get on--the sooner our journey's
ended, the sooner you'll have your supper. Now, then, old boy."
The horse was about to speed forward again, but scarcely were the words
from 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. The
cheekbones were somewhat high, but narrowed down sharply at the chin. He
wore eyeglasses on the eyes, which seemed to Paul, in that swift glance
he 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 he
stopped the horse, a second man sprang to the other side of it. Paul
immediately 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 of
the two, "and, therefore, we don't want your coppers. We've got one or
two questions to put to you. If you'll only answer them civilly, we'll
let you go your way. If you don't answer them----"
He broke off with a shrug of the shoulders to indicate the terrible fate
which might await the boy in the event of his declining to answer the
questions 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 would
be doing wrong. Yet what wrong could he do by speaking the truth. Paul
was an honest boy--as honest as the day--and detested falsehood of any
kind.
"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 his
stead--eh?"
Paul nodded. He felt somehow that he was giving Mr. Moncrief away, but
he 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 well
enough my information's right. All you need do is just to hand over to
me the packet you're taking to Mr. Walter Moncrief. I'll take care of
it."
The stranger's information was only too accurate; Paul marvelled at its
accuracy; but nevertheless Mr. Moncrief's words, "I feel that I can
trust you. You will not part with the letter, whatever happens," came to
him, 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 over
the packet," came the imperious voice of the stranger.
Paul saw that he was in a desperate situation--one from which it would
only be possible to extricate himself by strategy. He put his hand to
the inner pocket where the packet lay, and drew it a little way from his
pocket. This movement disarmed the man who held the bridle. He slackened
his 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 alive
to 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 though
feverishly anxious to place as great a distance as possible between Paul
and his pursuers.
"Thank God, thank God!" Paul murmured, overjoyed at their escape. "What
a noble horse it is. That man is a foreigner, I'm sure of it--one who
would 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 road
along which he was speeding. Only one thing was clear--that these men
were the enemies of Mr. Moncrief; that they were anxious to get from him
the packet of which he was the bearer. More and more Paul wondered what
could be the meaning of it all--what could be the meaning of the curious
hieroglyphics in his pocket.
But suddenly, just as he was congratulating himself on the distance he
had placed between himself and his pursuers, Falcon slackened speed, and
began to breathe hard. What was the meaning of it? Had an accident
befallen him, or had he grown weary? Paul knew enough of the animal to
know that it would not readily slacken speed through weariness. Falcon
was one of those sterling animals who would take every inch from himself
before he would give in through weariness.
If he could only get it a little farther on the road, it might be
possible to keep the advantage he had gained on his pursuers. Once more
he encouraged the horse to go forward; and once more it made a desperate
effort to obey him.
Then it reeled again. Paul had just time to extricate his feet from the
stirrups when Falcon fell with a crash by the roadside.
Paul hurt one of his legs by the fall, but he had no thought for himself
as he bent over the horse.
"Heaven help us!" was his fervent prayer, for in that one brief glance
he could tell that poor Falcon was dying, and he knew that not long
would 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 to
rise; but almost immediately slackened. Paul's hand went to its neck. It
was bathed in perspiration and foam. What had happened to it? In the
uncertain 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 the
horse at the moment of their escape. He must have injured it in some
way.