All the evening Paul watched in a fever of anxiety for Muggridge. He could not rest. He knew that the boots must be cleaned from all traces of his folly of the morning, and must be in their place by breakfast time the next day, or searching inquiries would begin. And matters were a hundred times worse now that the poor things were hidden away so suspiciously than if they had been found in his room.

But night came on without bringing any sign of Muggridge, and Paul could not shake off his depression, which deepened until every one wondered what was the matter with him. When the others came home, full of all they had done and seen, the children's pleasure was greatly spoiled by his gloomy indifference.

After they had all gone to bed Mr. and Mrs. Anketell sat for a long time discussing the change in their boy, and wondering with pain what it was that was troubling him, and why he would not confide in them.

Paul, lying awake in his own little room, heard his father and mother come up to bed. He could not sleep, his mind was in such a turmoil, and he felt himself in such a terrible situation. It seemed to him now that it would have been but a little thing to have taken the chance of his muddy boots being found, and of having to own up, compared with what he had to face now, unless—

He sprang up in his bed as a sudden inspiration came to him. Here was a way out of his troubles, if he could but carry it through. Everything could be set right, and nothing need ever be known. And if, he told himself, he got off this time, he would be a good boy for ever after. If he could only get his boots now from their hiding-place and put them where Muggridge would be sure to find them in the morning, all would be right. No sooner had the idea entered his head than he felt he must carry it out. It was his one and only chance—but there were difficulties. He got out of bed and crept to the window. The moon was giving a fair light, and would be brighter later. He thought if he could only get free of the house he could make his way to the clump of furze though, of course, it would be difficult, for he would not be able to get out of the garden as he had before, the door being always locked at night, and the walls too high to climb. And to try to find one particular furze bush unless one approached it from the same point would be no easy task. He determined, however, to make the attempt, and began at once to drag on some garments. Then he bethought him that he must not make the attempt just yet, for the household might not have fallen asleep, and he lay down again to wait with what patience he could. But at last he thought he might venture, and raising the latch of his door softly, he popped out his head, first an inch or two, then further and further, and listened for any sound of voices from his father's and mother's room. They were talking, and they went on doing so for what seemed to Paul an endless time—he little guessed that it was his behaviour which was keeping them awake and sleepless—but at last, to his great relief, other sounds reached him; he heard his father snoring gently, and determined to put his fortunes at once to the test.

His depression had gone now, and for the moment he felt only the excitement of the adventure. Stuffing a piece of candle and a box of matches into his pocket, he crept downstairs more quietly than he had ever moved in his life before, and through the stone passage to the kitchen, for the front door, when opened, grated on the stone floor, and made a noise which could not fail to rouse the whole household. Everything, looked strange and uncanny in the dim light, but Paul was too anxious and eager to feel fear, and of ordinary pluck and spirit he had plenty; it was moral courage, which is, after all, the true courage, that he lacked. His spirit was dashed, though, when he reached the back door and saw the huge bolts by which it was secured. It was locked too, and the key taken away. "I must try a window," he thought, rallying from his disappointment. Shutters were fastened over the kitchen window, and he had had to light his candle to see anything. But the shutters were easily unfastened, and the window opened, and with very little trouble Paul clambered through and reached the ground. His stockinged feet made no sound on the paved yard, and all was easy now for him if he could but find the right bush. But when he got away from the house, and found himself, to all appearances, alone on the great empty moor with its hushed, mysterious noises, its strange shadows, its rises and dips, here and there a gleaming pool, and here and there a strangely shaped form, all looking to him odd and uncanny in the dim, weird light, a great awe fell on him. He thought of the wild animals wandering about there, the treacherous ground, the people who had been lost there, and never heard of again, and it seemed to him that a white mysterious light moved about over some of the hollows. His heart beat fast and heavily, his throat felt dry and stiff, but he did not dare hesitate. He felt only one great longing to have his errand done, and be safely back in the house again. How snug, and safe, and comfortable his little bedroom seemed now! How he envied those who were able to lie in their beds with clean consciences, and no unconfessed sins to haunt them! How silly, and worse than silly—how bad had been the act which had brought all this trouble on him! And he felt no pride in himself now.

It seemed to him he would never reach the spot he wanted; the distance around the house to it seemed far, far greater than he had thought, and all looked so different and strange, approached from this point. He began to fear he would never find the particular bush he sought; it seemed such a hopeless task to embark on in the dark, and alone. In order to make it more easy, he made his way to the door in the wall, and tried to retrace his steps of yesterday, as nearly as possible, but even that was more difficult than he had imagined. He thought the bush was straight ahead, and not very far off, but when he acted on this idea he found himself on the edge of a pool, into which he nearly fell. He did not know that when one walks in the dark, one instinctively bears away to the left all the time, and that, consequently, he was going straight away from the poor boots.

Then a cloud came over the moon, and Paul almost despaired. He was shaking with excitement and cold, for the wind blew fresh across that spot all the year round, and Paul was very slightly dressed. At last he lit his candle, after a great deal of trouble, and holding it carefully in the hollow of his hands, managed to keep it alight; and finally, more by good luck than anything else, found himself close to the very bush he was looking for. In another moment he was on his knees, and diving his arm cautiously under it. Joy! there were his boots, his poor old boots, the source of all his trouble. He grabbed them delightedly, and rose. At the same instant his candle went out, and his heart almost stood still with terror, for, close by him he heard the sound of stealthy footsteps, and the clank of a chain.