A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE
The revelation that Paul had heard in the sick-room overwhelmed him. It
was not till he was in the open air that he realized what it all meant.
The foreign spy, for whom his father had sacrificed his life--the man
who, in turn, had tried to steal from him the packet which had been
entrusted to him by Mr. Moncrief--Hibbert's father! Was he standing on
his head or his heels?
Again he could feel the night wind on his face as he galloped along the
road to Redmead; again he saw himself confronted by Zuker and his
confederate; again he felt himself rising in the saddle and bringing
down his whip on the man's face; again he felt the thrill of joy that
leapt through his veins as he escaped from the clutches of his pursuers,
and bounded once more along the road; and then--then that feeling of
despair when Falcon suddenly sank to the ground, and he found that the
noble horse was dying. This man, the man for whom his father had died,
the man who had so relentlessly pursued him on the road to Redmead, the
man who had caused the death of Falcon--this man of all men Hibbert's
father, the father of the boy whom he had watched over and protected
ever since he came to Garside, the father of the boy he had loved as a
brother, and whom he had risked his own life to save, even as his father
had risked his life to save the life of Zuker so long ago!
It was indeed staggering. No wonder he hastened into the fresh air.
Spiders seemed spinning webs about his brain. He could neither see nor
think clearly.
"Where am I standing?" he asked himself, and simple as the question was,
it was not so simple to answer, for the world seemed suddenly
topsy-turvy.
Gradually the night air swept away the cobwebs, and he began to see
things in a clearer light. This man Zuker was a spy still; nothing had
changed since the day he had been found in his father's cabin, except
perhaps that he had grown more daring. A spy! What did that mean? It
meant that he was a menace to honest people, a danger to England, a
danger to the peace and weal of the country which had given Paul
birth--the country for which so many of his relatives had given their
lives, the country which he loved. There could be no quarter for such a
man. The longer he was at large the greater the danger.
"He's in my power completely. A word from me will send him to prison,"
Paul said to himself. "To prison he shall go this very night."
Full of this determination, Paul turned to the gate. It was a couple of
miles to the police-station, but what of that? He would soon cover the
distance, and be back again at Garside. So he started on his journey
with a run. He had not gone far, however, before a still, small voice
began to whisper plaintively in his ear. It was the voice of
Hibbert--the pleading, pathetic voice that had become so dear to him.
"Paul, Paul! Are you forgetting the promise you made to me so soon? Was
it for this I told you my secret? Reveal my story to the police, and you
will kill me--kill me, as surely as though you were to thrust a knife in
my breast."
That was what the voice seemed saying to him. Paul pulled himself up
with a jerk. What was he about to do? Betray Hibbert, the poor boy who
had entrusted him with his secret! Betray Hibbert, who had clung to him
and loved him through good report and evil, who had never shrunk from
him when one by one the boys at Garside had shrunk from him as from a
leper! God help him! What was he about to do?
He was about to turn back when that other voice whispered to him: "Your
country first and foremost. You have a higher duty than the duty you
owe to Hibbert--the duty to your country. Besides, this boy's father
betrayed your father. Why should you shrink from betraying him? Eye for
eye, tooth for tooth. Pay back the debt that has been owing so long."
Paul hastened on again, but again he paused as another voice--a voice
that was full of wondrous and sublime melody--sounded in his ear:
"Vengeance is mine, I will repay."
It seemed to him as he stood there in the moonlight, the stillness so
great and solemn that he could hear his heart throb, that God had
spoken. The danger to his country was not so great that it called upon
him to give up the secret which had been entrusted in confidence to his
keeping.
He could not be true to himself or his country by being false to
Hibbert!
He would wait. Hibbert would get better. If the danger became real, he
would lay bare his breast to Hibbert as Hibbert had laid bare his breast
to him. He would tell him, fairly and honestly, why he could no longer
keep his secret; then Hibbert would be able to warn his father, and he
would be able to flee from the country he had sought to betray.
Paul felt easier when he had come to this decision. It seemed to him
that he had divided his secret with God, and that he was now acting as
He would have counselled him.
And surely His hand had been in it from the first--from the hour when
he, Paul, had been shielded from his pursuers in his ride to Redmead to
the hour which had brought the son of his pursuer to a sick bed, and
induced him to pour his strange confession in his ear. Nay, could not
the hand of God be seen in it still farther back, from the very hour
when, at the risk of his own life, Paul's father had sacrificed his own
life for the life of his enemy? Even at that time the hand of Providence
must have been at work weaving the strange events which were still
unfolding themselves.
Paul was on the point of turning back as these thoughts flitted through
his mind when the sound of a footstep caused him to draw back hastily
into the shadow of the hedge. Scarcely had he done so than a tall, lean
figure, with head thrust forward, passed quickly by. It was Mr. Weevil.
"Where is he off to, I wonder?" thought Paul.
The master had been so concentrated in his thoughts that he had no
suspicion as to who was in hiding by the roadside. Paul's memory at once
went back to the last part of Hibbert's story--the part which he had
almost lost sight of in the overwhelming interest of the first part. Mr.
Weevil was Hibbert's uncle--Zuker's brother-in-law.
Were they in league together? Paul's glance followed Mr. Weevil along
the road. An overmastering desire seized him, a desire that he could not
resist. Instinctively, as one in a dream, he followed in the footsteps
of the master. Presently they reached Cranstead Common. Instead of
turning in the direction of the sand-pits, the battle-ground of the
Bedes and the Garsiders, Mr. Weevil turned to the left--to that part of
it which was more thickly wooded--where there were trees and
furze-bushes and bramble in wild profusion.
"Where on earth can he be going?" Paul asked himself wonderingly.
Well might he ask, for it was scarcely possible to imagine a wilder or
more solitary spot. It led to no habitation, none at least that Paul was
aware of, and he was pretty familiar with the common.
"He can't be on a visit to any one, unless it be the pixies, or
creatures of that sort," thought Paul. "P'raps he's thinking out some
scientific problem, and finds this wild part the best place to do it
in."
He paused for an instant. What was the use of going farther? He was on a
wildgoose chase, but still the overmastering impulse which had led him
to follow Mr. Weevil held him in its grip and would not let him turn
back. So he went on in close pursuit of the shadowy figure in front of
him.
"Why, he'll be getting to the river presently. Perhaps that is what he
is making for?" thought Paul as the master plunged deeper into the
thicket.
The river skirted the far side of the common, and it was precisely in
that direction Mr. Weevil was travelling. He had never once looked to
the right or left, so absorbed had he been in his thoughts, but now he
suddenly paused and looked back.
Paul had just time to hide himself in the friendly shelter of a tree. He
stood there for an instant, then peeped out from his hiding-place. He
caught one glimpse of Mr. Weevil, and then, to his amazement, he
disappeared from view as completely as though the earth had opened and
swallowed him up.
Paul rubbed his eyes. What was the meaning of it! Where had the master
disappeared to? Had he been following some phantom, or had Mr. Weevil
really sunk through the ground? Paul advanced to the spot. There was
apparently nothing there but bushes. Again and again he pondered on the
strange disappearance of the master and was unable to account for it.
"Well, if that isn't one of the strangest things I've ever seen," said
he to himself. "Mr. Weevil was there a minute since, as large as life
and twice as natural. Now he's gone."
A feeling of awe stole over Paul. Mr. Weevil had always seemed a strange
being, a man quite by himself, and different from ordinary beings. Had
his dealings with science taught him some dark secret by which he could
make himself invisible? But Paul quickly dismissed this wild idea from
his mind. The days of miracles were past. Whatever Mr. Weevil's
knowledge of science, it did not lend itself to feats of magic worthy of
the genii in the enchanted realms of _The Arabian Nights_.
None the less, where was he? What had become of him? Paul examined the
bushes as closely as the darkness would permit, but could find no trace
of the master. He stood still and listened. Save for a light breeze that
was moving gently among the trees, there was no sound. It was as quiet
as the grave.
"My word! That's one of the greatest mysteries I've ever struck,"
thought Paul. He withdrew a pace or two, and took up his position
beneath a decayed elm. Possibly Mr. Weevil might make his reappearance
in the same mysterious way in which he had disappeared. He waited a few
minutes, but his patience was not rewarded. Nothing happened.
Paul began to fear that he might be locked out unless he hastened back,
so he reluctantly retraced his footsteps, determined to visit the spot
at the earliest opportunity.
He got back to Garside without mishap or incident, but when he lay down
to rest that night it was not to sleep. He could not help wondering what
had become of Mr. Weevil, and whether he had spent a night on Cranstead
Common. He was still thinking when the school clock chimed the hour of
midnight. About five minutes later he heard a quiet footstep in the
corridor.
"That's Mr. Weevil," he said to himself. "I am quite sure. I could swear
to his footsteps anywhere."
He listened till they disappeared in the corridor, then he turned on his
pillow, and tried to sleep. But he did not succeed for a long time. The
events of that night had banished sleep.
The next day Mr. Weevil was at his post as usual, and closely as Paul
watched him he could see nothing unusual in his demeanour. He was as
grave as ever--the eyes opened and closed in the same manner, most
wakeful when they seemed most sleepful; and he was as prompt and
diligent as ever in the discharge of his duties in the school.
"Was it all a dream?" Paul asked himself, as his mind went back to what
had happened on the previous night.
As that afternoon was a half-holiday, he had some idea of paying a
second visit to the spot, and continuing his examination of it. But he
remembered that there was a still more important duty before him. He had
pledged himself in the presence of Sedgefield and his companions that he
would get back the school flag, and that once again they would see it
flying from its old place on the turret.
So far, he had done nothing to redeem his pledge. Those Third Form
fellows who had cheered him so lustily would think there was no meaning
in his words, that his boast was an empty one. The time had come for him
to do something to make good his promise.
He would begin to carry out his plan that very afternoon.