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. H