hie 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 God'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 windlass, 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 embassy.
Neither alternative was very palatable