Why had the master produced the Black Book?

What was it to do with the question whether Percival should or should not be expelled?

"You are wondering why I produce the Black Book," said the master slowly, as though reading their thoughts. "I will explain—we have never yet discovered who tore out the leaves from this book. It occurred to me that before taking the step of expelling Percival from the school, it would be as well to make one more effort to find out who is the culprit.

"A few weeks ago, I received an anonymous letter suggesting that Percival should be questioned as to what he was doing on the night that part of the Black Book, and other documents, disappeared from my desk. As a rule, I take no heed of anonymous communications. The testimony of any one who is ashamed to put his name to a letter is, as a rule, worthless. But I was keenly interested in trying to discover who the culprit was who opened my desk, and I thought it just possible that if I could only find out the writer of this anonymous letter, it might lead to other discoveries which would throw light upon the theft of my notes."

The boys listened intently. What did it mean? Was yet another and more serious charge to be made against Percival?

"The letter was in a disguised hand, like most anonymous letters," the master proceeded; "but a master becomes a bit of an expert in handwriting, so, with the help of Mr. Travers here, the master of your Form, I was not long in finding out who wrote the anonymous letter. It was written by Parfitt."

The accusation was made slowly, deliberately, as by one who makes sure of his facts before speaking. It fell as a bomb in the midst of the listening boys. Parfitt turned to an ashen hue, and muttered something between his teeth.

"Speak up, sir! Please not to mutter," commanded Mr. Weevil, turning to Parfitt. "Do you deny that this letter"—he held up the anonymous letter, with its cramped, disguised handwriting—"is the work of your hand?"

Parfitt held up his head, and put on a bold front.

"No, sir; I don't deny it. That letter was written by me. As there were other things coming out against Percival, I thought it only right that you should make some inquiry into what he was doing on the night when the pages were torn from the Black Book. I did not want to push myself forward. I thought the inquiry would be better made by you; but as no steps seem to have been taken to find out what Percival did, I don't see why I should keep back what I know any longer."

"Well, what is it? What do you know? I am here to learn all I can."

"Well, sir, on the night that the pages were torn from the Black Book, I saw Percival get out of bed, slip into some of his things, and out of the dormitory. I saw him steal along the corridor, for what purpose I couldn't guess. I made a pretty good guess the next day."

"Your guess was that Percival opened my desk, and stole the papers?"

"I believe he did, sir. For what else could he have stolen from the dormitory in the dead of night?"

"Well, but what could be his purpose? Can you explain that?"

"Oh, that's easy enough explained. There were entries against himself and his friend Moncrief in the book. A serious one had been made against Moncrief that very afternoon, for which, you will remember, sir, he was sent to Dormitory X."

"I remember—quite well," said the master. "Well, Percival, what have you to say against this last charge?"

"Only that it is as false as the other."

"Did you leave your dormitory that night?"

"Yes, sir; I don't deny that. I did leave my room, but not to steal. I left it to go to Moncrief in Dormitory X. I thought the punishment too severe, sir, if you'll pardon me for saying so, so I thought that I would keep him company. It was wrong of me, I know; but I did not give it much thought at the time."

"And I can confirm every word that Percival has said!" exclaimed Stanley. "He came to me that night—to Dormitory X."

"Pshaw!" cried Newall, taking up Parfitt's case. "How could he get to you through the locked door?"

"He didn't get through the door. He came along the parapet, and got through the dormer window."

Blank amazement fell on the group.

"It's all very well to say that. Any one could say that," cried Parfitt; "but we want something better than that. We want proof!"

"If you won't take Moncrief's word, I think I can prove it by Mr. Weevil," said Paul, turning to the master. "As I passed by the window of your room, sir, I took the liberty of peeping in. I saw you discussing some plans with a friend. Perhaps you can recall it, sir?"

Mr. Weevil's mind had gone back to that night. He knew well enough to whom Paul was referring thus delicately as his friend—Zuker.

"Percival is right in every particular, but"—he broke off, as though suddenly recalling something—"there is one thing I ought to say. Fancying I heard a noise in Dormitory X that night, I paid it a visit, but found nobody there, except Moncrief, and he seemed fast asleep."

Parfitt, who had been looking glum, brightened up at this again.

"Seemed, sir," repeated Stanley, with a smile; "but I was just about as wide awake as I am now, and Percival was—under the bed."

There was a titter of laughter at this piece of information. The ghost of a smile played across the stern face of Mr. Weevil.

"I think Percival has made it perfectly clear as to where he was that night. You see that he is perfectly innocent of the charge brought against him by Parfitt; so we are thrown back into precisely the position we were in before. We have still to find out who is the real culprit—who it was opened my desk that night. As Parfitt has failed in his purpose, let us put our heads together and see if we can get a little nearer the truth. I will try to reconstruct the case for you, as the French say. Who was the culprit? What was his motive? His motive was to get possession of certain pieces of paper in my desk which gave valuable information for a prize competition which was taking place amongst the seniors—the prize, that is to say, to be given by Admiral Talbot for the best essay on 'The Invasion of Great Britain.' He did not want the Black Book. That would give him no assistance in his essay; but what he wanted was to throw suspicion on a certain boy—also a competitor for the prize—who was absent from his dormitory that night. He did this by removing the leaf, amongst others, which referred to the boy himself and the detention of his friend in the Punishment Dormitory. Am I clear?"

The Form were following Mr. Weevil so closely that they could only murmur an assent.

"I have told you about the anonymous letter," continued Mr. Weevil, "and the conclusion I had arrived at by the help of Mr. Travers. You have seen that that conclusion is correct, for Parfitt has himself admitted it. So much is clear. Now follow me a little farther. Not long after receiving this anonymous letter, some of the competitors began to send in their essays for the Talbot prize. Among others was one from Parfitt."

A profound silence fell on the room as the master once more pronounced that name. Every eye was turned to Parfitt, who was still doing his best to put on a bold face.

"It was a remarkably clever piece of work and would assuredly have won the prize. It was too clever, in fact. It contained information which astonished me—information which could not be obtained from the school library. It was information, in fact, such as I myself had obtained after special research, and which had been embodied in the notes that had been stolen from my desk."

"You mean to say that I am the thief—that I stole your notes!" blustered Parfitt.

"Silence, sir!" came the stern voice of the master. "Have the courtesy to hear me to the end. I have but little more to add, and then I shall be only too pleased to hear anything you may have to say in your defence. The way in which the information was used was so ingenious that it would have been quite impossible to declare that the writer of this essay was the culprit. I was quite certain of it in my own mind, but it needed additional proof. How to get it was the next point. In consultation with Mr. Travers here, a speedy decision was come to. It was of the utmost importance that the innocent should be cleared; the guilty punished. A locksmith was called in on the next half-holiday. Parfitt's box was opened, its contents examined. At the bottom we discovered the missing notes. The pages from the Black Book, as being useless, had been destroyed. The same fate would doubtless have followed my notes, so soon as the result of the competition was known. I took the notes from the box. A facsimile was put in their place. Here are the originals."

He held up the notes. All heads were eagerly craned forward to look at them.

"These are the originals," repeated the master, when the sensation caused by their production had abated. "I doubt not the facsimiles to which I have referred will still be found in Parfitt's box. What I suggest, therefore, is that he hand over his key to Hasluck, the head of this Form, that the porter should then bring the box to this room, and that it be opened in the presence of all of you. We shall then see if the facsimiles are still there."

Not a word fell from Parfitt's lips in answer to this appeal. At that moment he was passing through one of the most terrible ordeals a boy can pass through. The silence in the room became painful.

"I hope it won't be needful to call in the locksmith again, Parfitt," said the master. Then in a burst of agony came from the wretched boy's lips:

"You needn't open the box. I—I did it."

He dropped to the form, and covered his ashen face with his hands. Then came the master's voice again, with the solemnity of a judge pronouncing sentence:

"I did not wish to go through this ignominy, Parfitt, before the whole school. That is the reason I confined the inquiry to your Form and this room. Everything has been done to spare your feelings, though I cannot help saying that you do not seem to have cared very much for the feelings of others. I am sorry to say that the sentence you wished passed on Percival must be passed on yourself. You can no longer remain a scholar at Garside."

Parfitt knew well enough what that meant—it was a sentence of expulsion. He staggered to his feet, and was about to pass out without a word, when the voice of Paul brought him to a standstill.

"I do not mind what has been said against me—indeed, I don't!" exclaimed Paul; "we've all made mistakes; so please don't go so far with Parfitt. Don't expel him. Give him another chance!"

Parfitt could scarcely believe his ears. The boy whom he had sought to expel was taking his part—pleading that he might remain.

"It is generous of you to plead for him, but after what has happened, how is it possible for him to remain?" said the master.

Paul scarcely knew how to answer; but as he stood nonplussed a mist rose in the room, and as the mist cleared he saw a garden, with a delicate-faced boy, lying in an invalid chair, as though asleep. A little wren had perched itself upon his shoulder.

"Let him stay for—for Hibbert's sake," came in a gulp.

The master turned his head for a moment. When he once more faced the boys, the hard light had vanished from the blinking eyes, and a softer light shone there.

"What has happened has not gone beyond this room. The facts, so far, have not been disclosed to the whole school," he said. "It may not, perhaps, be necessary. I will see what can be done in consultation with my colleagues. I trust it may be possible for us to respond to Percival's generous appeal. Attention! Half-turn! March!"

And the boys filed slowly from the class-room.

Vacation at last!

To Paul the term through which he had passed was the most memorable in his school life, as it was, perhaps, the most memorable in the history of the school. He spent a week with the good mother whom he loved, and who so loved him. He sat again in the old church with her, and heard again the vicar's fervent voice in the Litany:

"From lightning and tempest; from plague, pestilence, and famine; from battle and murder, and from sudden death."

In the days gone by he used to wonder how it was that his mother's hand used to tremble in his when those solemn words echoed in the church. Now he understood, as he knelt once more by her dear side—none better. The last term at Garside had taught him a lesson which would never be erased from his mind so long as life lasted.

At the end of the week he went to Redmead, in response to the invitation which Mr. Walter Moncrief had sent him in that letter to Garside which had caused him such heart-burning. Stanley was there to meet him. The old friendship between them was resumed. The clouds had passed away, leaving them the better, the stronger—they were once more in the sunshine.

Mr. Moncrief had learnt all that had happened at Garside. Harry entertained them at tea-time with his and Plunger's adventures as members of the Mystic Order of Beetles, and his sister nearly had a fit of apoplexy as he described Plunger crawling on hands and knees round the ring while the Mystic Brethren proceeded to initiate him as "a brother."

Stanley was the only one who was not infected with Connie's mirth. He remained so serious amid the general merriment that Harry suddenly brought down his hand upon his shoulder and in a tragic voice declaimed the incantation which had made so remarkable an impression upon Plunger:

and so on.

"No, we're not going to send Stan to the Realms of Creepy-Crawley," smiled Connie, putting her arm through her cousin's with an air of possession as Harry ended:

"We don't mind Mr. Plunger going there. He'd be quite at home; but not Stan."

Stanley smiled, but soon relapsed into his former gravity.

"A penny for your thoughts, Stan!" said Mrs. Moncrief.

"Oh, I was only thinking of one of the Beetles—Wyndham. I was wondering whether we should see anything of him during the vac."

"Would you like to meet him?" asked Mr. Moncrief.

"Very much."

Paul said nothing; but he felt a keen sense of gratification at the words that fell from Stanley. It showed that all animosity towards Wyndham had completely vanished, and that he was anxious to meet him again, not as an enemy, but on a footing of friendship.

Mr. Moncrief was absent for a good part of the next day. On the day following he announced that he was going to take them for a drive in the wagonette. They were, of course, anxious to know where.

"Well, Harry has asked me once or twice whether we couldn't travel over some of the ground over which Paul travelled on the night when he broke in upon us here at the end of his last vacation. I think this is the most favourable opportunity we shall have to carry out his suggestion, if you're all agreeable."

Of course they were agreeable. So, early the next morning, the wagonette came to the door, and the little party, in the best of spirits, started on the drive.

No contrast could have been greater than the contrast between that morning of bright sunshine and the night when Paul started from Redmead with Mr. Moncrief. On that never-to-be-forgotten night danger seemed to be lurking in every hedgerow. The shadows lay thickly across their pathway, and the sight of home had never been so dear to Paul as when he at length came in sight of it that night. How different it all seemed in the bright sunshine!

By an indirect route they came to the common over which Paul had ridden on Falcon. They stopped at the spot where Zuker and his confederate had seized Falcon's bridle. Then they turned back, and paused once more where the brave horse had staggered and fallen. Paul had not seen the place since, and as they reached it, he lived once again through the incidents of those few terrible moments when the life-blood of Falcon was slowly oozing away. He could see it lying there; he could see the crimson stream running from its flank, the look of pathos in its eyes as it turned to him.

"I think we will drive on," said Mr. Moncrief gently. "We owe a good deal to Falcon, so I mean to have a little memorial to his memory some day—to the memory of a noble horse. There are some animals, it seems to me, who are as much entitled to it as human beings."

A great surprise was in store for them when they reached the well down which Paul had hidden from his pursuers. Wyndham was standing there, just as he had stood on the night when he had covered Paul's retreat!

Then it turned out that Mr. Moncrief had arranged this little surprise on the previous day; that he had visited Wyndham, and appointed to meet him at the well. To the delight of the boys, the arrangement went still further—Wyndham was to return with them, and spend a few days at Redmead.

Stanley was one of the first to give him a hearty greeting.

"You must be my friend as well as Paul's," he said earnestly, as he shook him by the hand.

"There's no one, I suppose, who would like to repeat Paul's experience in the well?" smiled Mr. Moncrief, when the excitement of the meeting had cooled down.

The invitation, it is unnecessary to say, was "declined with thanks."

The happy party returned to Redmead. When the evening came on, the blinds drawn, the lamps lit, and the friends were all together, Paul could not help thinking there was just one thing missing to complete the day's experience.

"When I came here that night and listened at the door, you were singing," he said.

"Singing what?" asked Mrs. Moncrief.

"'Now the day is over.'"

"Happy thought! Let us have it again!" exclaimed Mr. Moncrief.

Mrs. Moncrief went to the piano, and heartily they sang:

Of a surety that fervent appeal had been answered. God had indeed guarded the boys through the "long night watches" at school, and through much trial and temptation had brought them safely together under the same hospitable roof.

THE END