"Paul Percival. I have often seen you amongst the other Beetles; but you don't live about here, do you?"

"Not now." And there was a deep note of melancholy in Wyndham's voice.

"You can see, it's a ruin; but before it was a ruin I lived here with my mother and youngest brother, Archie. He's gone--now."

"Gone?"

Wyndham nodded, and Paul understood too well what "gone" meant.

Wyndham's brother was dead; but he wondered what his death could have to do with the ruined house. There was a painful silence between them for some moments.

"I think you said you were going to Redmead?"

"Yes; Oakville, that's the house I want."

"I know it. Mr. Moncrief lives there. He's a big man at Chatham Dockyard, and has a lot to do with the defences of the Medway and the Thames, so I've heard. He designs things, too, for the Admiralty. I'm going partly that way if you don't mind walking with a Beetle."

Paul laughed, and remarked that he could put up for once with a Beetle if the Beetle could put up with a Gargoyle.

So they started together, and Wyndham told Paul by the way the reason of the ruined house.

His father and mother had taken the house soon after they were married.

He, Gilbert, was born there; so was his younger brother Archie. Three years after the birth of Archie, G.o.d visited upon them a great misfortune by calling to Himself Mr. Wyndham. Gilbert had by this time started on his school career, for he was several years older than his brother. The second misfortune occurred while he was away at school, three years after the death of his father.

Little Archie was the idol of his mother, and a great pet with old Martha, the housekeeper, who had been in the household ever since the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham. Early one morning Mrs. Wyndham awoke with a feeling of suffocation. On looking, half dazed, around the bedroom, she found it full of smoke. Her first thought was of Archie.

She made her way to his bed. It was empty! She went to the landing; that was full of smoke also. She called for her boy. No answer came. The bewildered mother imagined that he must have escaped from the burning house while she slept.

By G.o.d's providence she got out. She found that the two servants had managed to escape from the burning house; but there were no signs of little Archie! The distracted mother would have entered the burning house again to search for him, but she was held back. It was a merciful thing that she became unconscious, and did not see the end of the homestead where she had spent so many happy, peaceful hours. It was burnt almost to the ground, and amongst the ruins in the kitchen were found the charred remains of Archie.

The little fellow was fond of watching old Martha when she lit the fires. It was believed, therefore, that he had stolen out of bed that fatal morning and tried to light the fire in the kitchen on his own account. The lighted match set fire to his bedgown, the bedgown to some curtains, and so the fire had spread. Archie joined his father in heaven.

"I was away at school at the time," said Wyndham, when he had finished his painful story. "You can judge what a homecoming that was for me!"

"It must indeed have been sad," said Paul feelingly.

"My mother was ill for a long time, but at length she got well again. I was the only one left to her. After that we lived in a house about a mile from here. The ruins of the old house still remain, as you have seen. Some day my mother may build again, but she hasn't the heart for it at present."

The story of little Archie Wyndham is perfectly true. It is not fiction.

It happened precisely in the way I have described. I know the terrible fascination that fire has for children. Unfortunately they do not understand its danger. When, therefore, my dear boy or girl, you are tempted to play with fire, will you remember the sad fate of little Archie Wyndham? That will enable you, by G.o.d's help, to put the temptation from you.

All at once Paul came to a dead stop. His hand went to his coat-pocket.

Absorbed in Wyndham's story, he had forgotten all about the letter he was to take to Mr. Walter Moncrief.

"What's the matter?" asked Wyndham.

Paul's face had turned to an ashen hue. His hand was still searching his pocket.

"The letter!" he exclaimed.

"The letter--well, what about it?"

"It's gone!"

"Gone!" echoed Wyndham scarce able to believe his ears.

CHAPTER IV

SHADOWS OF THE EVENING

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 windla.s.s, 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 emba.s.sy.

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.