as he had never
understood them before. He could understand why she so rarely spoke of
that time--why she never referred to his father's death.

"You can't remember the man's name, I suppose?"

"No, I can't remember that," answered Job, rubbing his head
thoughtfully, "'cept that it was a foreign one--Zuker, I think it was,
or some such name as that. Don't think no more about it. Thinking about
it don't do no good."

"Poor, poor father!" said Paul, as he turned once more towards the
house. "He must have been a brave man. Oh, that I could have seen him,
and known him, so that I might be able to remember him as he was in
life, instead of carrying about a dead image in my heart!"

Still, it was a comfort to know that his father had been loved by those
under him--that he had died a brave death. Better, far better, to die a
brave death than to live on in shame and infamy, as the man had probably
lived whom his father had saved.

And yet this mean, despicable spy might have turned over a new leaf from
the day his father had sacrificed his life to save him. He might have
begun a new and nobler life. If so, the sacrifice had not been in vain.

CHAPTER II

THE MESSAGE

The long autumn holiday was drawing to a close. In a couple of days'
time Paul would be back again at the old school--back again at Garside
House. He had had a pretty good time during the "vac.," but, none the
less, he should not be sorry to meet again the fellows of his Form.
School wasn't such a bad place, after all.

"Fact, if it wasn't for that wretched science master, Weevil--why wasn't
he christened Weazel?--one might put up with a lot of it. Don't know how
it is, but he always puts my back up."

Paul was returning home across the fields, and had just alighted over a
five-barred gate into a lane which wound round the side of the Manor
House into the main road, when he was arrested by a cry of distress.

"Hallo! What's that? Some one down? My--down it is!"

A horseman had come a cropper a little distance down the lane. Paul
immediately ran to his assistance.

"What's wrong, sir? A tumble?"

"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