But too true—the letter had gone. No wonder Paul was bewildered, stupefied. He had risked so much to get that letter to its destination—had braved more than one peril, and come safely through—that it seemed heart-breaking to find the letter gone.

"Have you searched all your pockets?" asked Wyndham.

"All," answered Paul. "It was in this one—here"—he placed his hand upon his breast-pocket. "I put it here when it was given me, and I haven't shifted it."

"Where, then, can it have gone?"

Where? Paul knew well enough that it was in his possession when he left poor Falcon by the roadside, for he had felt in his pocket, and found it there. He must, therefore, have lost it since; but where—where? That was the question he kept repeating to himself without finding an answer. Of a sudden it came to him. It must have been jerked from his pocket at the moment Wyndham caught the handle of the windlass, nearly precipitating him from the bucket to the water.

"I believe it's in the well."

"What?" cried Wyndham. "In the well? How can that be?"

Paul explained.

"You must be right," said Wyndham thoughtfully, when the explanation was ended. "Well, there's one consolation—it's better for the letter to be in the well than you. It's a pity, but it can't be helped. What will you do?"

Paul had been thinking. He could go forward to Mr. Moncrief at Redmead, and explain to him that he had lost the letter, or he could go back, and explain to the other Mr. Moncrief that he had failed in his embassy. Neither alternative was very palatable to him. Duty was before him as a pole-star. A still small voice was ever whispering to him, "Paul, thy duty. Do that in spite of anything that may happen to you. Place that first and foremost, even before self." What, then, was his duty? To confess to failure and defeat? No, never! That was the coward's part. He would not rest satisfied until he had made an effort to recover the letter he had lost, and he told Wyndham so.

"I like your pluck; 'pon my word I do. Didn't think a Gargoyle had so much—really I didn't," said Wyndham; "but it's no use being foolhardy. If the letter's at the bottom of the well, how, in the name of wonder, are you going to get it up again?"

"I don't believe it's at the bottom. The water was pretty thick, I'm certain, by the odour. There would be vegetable stuff, and that sort of thing floating on the top of it. Well, if that's so, the letter wouldn't sink. The gravity of the water would be greater than the weight of the letter."

"Oh, the Gargoyles do go in a bit for physics—eh?" smiled Wyndham. "Fire away. I believe you're right. What's the next step?"

"The next step is to go down the well again, and prove whether I'm right or wrong. Is it asking too much of you to go back with me?"

"You mean going down the well again?"

"If you'll oblige me by again turning the handle."

Wyndham was by this time thoroughly interested in Paul and his mission, and he couldn't help admiring still further his pluck and determination. He never imagined that a despised "Gargoyle" had so much of those qualities. He willingly fell in with Paul's suggestion, and soon they were back again at the well.

"I've forgotten one thing," said Paul. "I haven't a light."

"Luckily I can lend you one. Wait here for a moment."

Paul waited while Wyndham disappeared among the ruins. Presently he returned with a lantern, which he lighted and handed to Paul. Thus equipped, he once more took his position in the bucket.

"Pay out slowly, and I'll tell you when to stop."

The bucket slowly descended till Paul was within a foot or two of the water.

"Stop!" he shouted.

The bucket stopped, then Paul leaned over the side, and flashed the light of the lantern on the water. There, to his great joy, was the missing letter, floating on the weeds. He cautiously leaned forward, and grasping the letter, returned it once more in safety to his pocket.

"Haul away!" he cried.

And Wyndham hauled away, so that a minute later Paul was again at the brink of the well.

"Found it?" asked Wyndham eagerly.

For answer Paul produced the letter. It was slightly damp, but little the worse otherwise for its immersion.

"Well, you deserve it. I'm jolly glad you've found it."

"I should never have got it hadn't it been for you. It was very good of you to turn back with me, and I hope if at any time I can do you a service, you'll let me know."

The two boys tramped on once more to their destination. Wyndham wished Paul good-night at the entrance to Redmead, his home lying in another direction. It was not long before Paul came in sight of Oakville. It was a fine old country house. A light was shining from its gabled front. By its light Paul could see that there was a man hovering about the house. He could not get a clear glimpse of him, but he was certain, from the man's figure and gait, that it was Brockman, the confederate of Zuker, the German spy. Knowing that Paul must come to the house, he had evidently been on the watch for him.

Now that he had come so far, Paul did not intend being foiled at the last moment. He saw that it was useless trying to enter by the front of the house, so he crept round to the back.

A light was coming from one of the windows. Paul made for this window, and looked through. He was scarcely prepared for what he saw. It was evidently a play-room. There was a large rocking-horse in one corner. A trapeze was slung up in the centre. There were single-sticks and foils on the wall, dumb-bells, Indian-clubs, a parallel-bar, and a vaulting-horse stowed away in another part of the room. But it was not so much these things which attracted the attention of Paul as the occupants of the room. A middle-aged gentleman was kneeling. He was praying aloud. Near him was a lady. On either side of her was a girl and boy—the boy about twelve, the girl a couple of years older. In line with them were a couple of maidservants and a governess. Paul could see that they were at family prayers. He guessed that the gentleman who was praying was Mr. Walter Moncrief, the gentleman he had come in search of by his likeness to his brother.

When they had finished prayers, the lady went to the piano, and the little group joined heartily in a hymn Paul had often heard at school:

Paul listened reverently, with bowed head. How appropriate the words seemed to be. In very truth had the shadows been stealing across the sky that evening, and they had not yet dispersed. Brockman, the man without, was still hovering darkly, like a cloud, over that house. Again the singers within raised their voices:

Paul echoed those words very earnestly in his heart as his hand clasped tightly the letter for which he had risked so much. The room was an addition to the house, and led by a separate door into the garden. When the singing had ended, Paul stepped softly to the door and knocked gently on it with his knuckles. It was opened by one of the servants. The light of the lamp fell upon Paul as the door opened, and the eyes of all in the room turned to him as he stood there, with the letter in his hand.

"Can I see Mr. Moncrief?"

"I am Mr. Moncrief. What is it you want with me, my lad?" said that gentleman stepping forward.

"'I am Mr. Moncrief,' said that gentleman, stepping forward."

"I've brought a letter from your brother, Mr. Henry Moncrief. He couldn't bring it himself, because of an accident——"

"An accident?"

"Nothing very serious, sir. A sprain, I think. He asked me to take the letter for him, and as he's the father of a school chum of mine, Stan Moncrief; I brought it along, and here it is," Paul explained rapidly, as he handed Mr. Moncrief the letter.

Paul had by this time entered the room. Directly Mr. Moncrief glanced at the letter his face became very grave. He went from the room, and his wife followed him, evidently as anxious as himself to know the contents. The servants retired, and Paul was thus left alone with the boy and girl.

There was not the least shyness about the former, for directly his parents left the room, he came forward and introduced himself.

"I'm Harry Moncrief—named after the uncle you brought that letter from. He was my godfather, you know. This is my sister, Connie." Connie, who was a pretty, fair girl, looked embarrassed at her brother's blunt method of introduction, but he rattled on. "Rather good for a girl. Not so slow as most of them. Can take a turn with the bells or clubs"—by bells and clubs was meant dumb-bells and Indian-clubs—"and she can scout at cricket. Didn't I hear you say you were a chum of cousin Stanley's?"

"Yes; we're in the same Form."

"What—at Garside School?" asked the boy eagerly.

Paul nodded.

"Hurrah!—hurrah!" cried Harry. "I'm going to Garside next term. I've left Gaffer Quelch's, thank goodness!"—Gaffer Quelch's was a college for juvenile scholars in the neighbourhood—"and I'm going to see life at Garside."

Paul could not help smiling at the boy's idea of "seeing life," and the high and exalted notion he seemed to have of Garside.

"Do you know young Plunger? He used to be my chum at Quelch's, but he left there a term ago, and went to Garside. That's another reason I'm going there. Things are awfully slow at Quelch's since Plunger left He's a big pot at Garside, isn't he?"

"Very," answered Paul drily.

Paul knew young Plunger well enough. He was in one of the junior Forms. Though he had been at Garside only a term, he had almost succeeded in creating a record for the number of scrapes into which he had got during that short period.

"Cousin Stan being so high up in the school, I don't want to let him down, you know, by making any mistakes when I get to Garside," Harry rattled on. "I want to do things in correct form, you see; for if I let myself down, I let Stan down. So I asked Plunger the right thing to do on going to Garside. Plunger's an awfully good sort of fellow, so he took the trouble to write down for me what ought to be done; but I wasn't to show it to any one here, for some of the things are school secrets, he tells me."

Connie had discreetly withdrawn from the room, leaving Paul and her brother together. The latter, however, glanced round to make sure they were quite alone before he drew from his pocket the mysterious document which Plunger had written for his instruction on entering Garside School.

"1. Trousers to be turned up at bottom three inches.

"2. Spats on boots (patents).

"3. White waistcoat. Eton jacket.

"4. Introduce yourself to Bax, the porter, by giving him two slaps on the back and a dig with right-hand forefinger in ribs. Give him following particulars: Age and weight. Whether vaccinated—show marks. Give also measurement of biceps and chest.

"5. On seeing Mrs. Trounce (matron) go down on right knee, and present her with your portrait (for school album). Write on bottom of card, in clear handwriting, 'With love and kind regards.'

"6. Two shillings to be left at Billiter's for 'footing,' etc."

Paul could scarcely refrain from smiling at the code of rules which the audacious Plunger had drawn up for his chum's instruction, the more so as Harry, who had never been to a public school, seemed to take them in all seriousness.

"You've been through it all, of course?" said Harry, as Paul handed the rules back to him. "Kind of Plunger to take so much trouble, isn't it?"

Paul was on the point of answering as Mr. Moncrief entered the room.

Harry hastily thrust the paper out of sight.