She had been listening to Harriet's lively lisp and mimicry of Constantia's many aspirants. But that did not matter. I went down, and there, sitting on the edge of a chair--he had evidently just sat down--was Peter Kemp, the gamekeeper at Rushworth Court, where my father had been so long building greenhouses and doing other contracting jobs. "Hello, Peter Kemp!" I said. "What brings you here so early in the morning?" The man seemed a little bit scared; but whether because of his errand, or because I had come in at an inopportune time, or just that he felt a little awkward, I cannot say. "Why, this, Master Joe!" he said, holding out something that looked like a rook's feather, but smaller and with a thicker quick. The bottom of the quill had been cut away very deftly, and plugged with something white--bread crumbled between the fingers, I think. The plug had evidently been removed before, and as I looked curiously at it the gamekeeper said-- "I did that, Master Joe. You see, I had never seen the like before." Out of the hollow quill I drew a spiral of paper, like what people used to light pipes with--spills, they call them--only quite little, for such pipes as fairies might smoke. And there, written in my father's hand, in a sort of reddish-grey ink, were the words-- "To whoever finds this.--Please to inform Mrs. Yarrow, Breckonside, that her husband has been assaulted, carried off and confined, to compel him to sign papers. Otherwise not unkindly----" It broke off there, as if something had occurred to bring the writing to a close. "How did you get this, Peter?" I asked of the Rushworth gamekeeper. "I will tell you, Joe." (It was marvellous with what suddenness people resumed the "Joe," after calling me "Mister"--or "Master," at least.) "I got 'un off the tail of a jackdaw when I was thinnin' out them rooks up at our old ellums by the hall. Jackdaws flock with them sometimes, you know, Joe." "But that's no jackdaw's feather," I said; for, indeed, it was much bigger. Peter Kemp scratched his head. "No, Joe, it ain't," he said; "and that made me wonder myself. It's a rook's wing feather; but, true as truth, it was sticking out of the daw behind, like the tail of a comet. Perhaps it was that which made me pepper him. It sort of drew the eye, like." "Well," I told Peter, "that's a message from my father. He's hid somewhere--kept hidden, that is--against his will." "So I was thinkin'," said Peter Kemp uneasily. "Have you any idea where?"