He had not the slightest idea as to what the paper might be.

He had risked his life to secure it, and now the crumpled, blood-stained paper had been taken away from him by a person whom it could not interest in any way whatever.
He blinked under Claiborne's sharp scrutiny as they faced each other in the library.
"You are the man who brought a horse back to our stable an hour ago." "Yes, sir." "You have been a soldier." "In the cavalry, sir.

I have my discharge at home." "Where do you live ?" "I work as teamster in the coal mines--yes ?--they are by Lamar, sir." Claiborne studied Oscar's erect figure carefully.
"Let me see your hands," he commanded; and Oscar extended his palms.
"You are lying; you do not work in the coal mines.

Your clothes are not those of a miner; and a discharged soldier doesn't go to digging coal.
Stand where you are, and it will be the worse for you if you try to bolt." Claiborne turned to the table with the envelope.

It was not sealed, and he took out the plain sheet of notepaper on which was written: CABLEGRAM WlNKELRIED, VIENNA.
Not later than Friday.
CHAUVENET.
Claiborne read and re-read these eight words; then he spoke bluntly to Oscar.
"Where did you get this ?" "From the hat of the sheep-stealer up yonder." "Who is he and where did he get it ?" "I don't know, sir.