blood ran cold at
the sight. Could any one in the shape of humanity have had the heart to
lay violent hands on the poor boy? There was no telling. He scarce
dared to look towards the ditch lest he should see the lifeless body
there. But perhaps a gipsy had got hold of the child, and stripped him
for his clothes: such things used to be done formerly. But, then, why
hang the silk handkerchief in such a conspicuous place? for it could not
have got there by accident, nor been blown there, for it had been
manifestly fastened and suspended there by human fingers. Trembling in
every limb, Amos unfastened the handkerchief from the post. There was
something stiff inside it. He unfolded it slowly; an envelope disclosed
itself. It was directed in pencil. The direction was, "Amos
Huntingdon, Esq. Please forward without delay."

Here, then, was a clue to the mystery. Amos opened the envelope and
read the enclosure, which was also written in pencil, in a neat and
thoroughly legible hand. It ran thus:--

"You are doubtless anxious to know what has become of the little boy
George. Come _alone_ to-morrow morning to the old oak in Brendon wood,
and you shall be duly informed. Mind, come _alone_: if you attempt to
bring one or more with you, it will be simply lost labour, for then
there will be no one to meet you. You have nothing to fear as to any
harm to your own person, or interference with your liberty."

There was no signature to the letter, either of name or initials. Amos
was sorely puzzled what to do when he had read this strange epistle. Of
course it was plain that the writer could put him in the way of
recovering little George if he would; but, then, where was Brendon wood?
and how was he to get to it on the following morning? And yet, if he
did not act upon this letter and follow its directions, the child might
be lost to him for ever, and that he could not bear to think of. The
nearest town to the finger-post was yet some five miles distant; and
should he reach that, and make his inquiries about the wood with
success, it would be difficult for him to return home the same evening
by any reasonable hour. Still, he could not find it in his heart to
abandon the search, and he therefore made the best of his way to the
little town of Redbury.

As he was giving up his pony to the care of the hostler at the
Wheatsheaf, the principal inn in the place, he observed a man--tall,
with long beard, and very dark eye