"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."