“That is the sheep-stealer,” said Oscar.  “We shall catch him—­yes?”

Zmai peered toward them uncertainly for a moment; then turned abruptly and ran toward the road.  Oscar started to cut off his retreat, but Claiborne caught the sergeant by the shoulder and flung him back.

“One of you at a time!  They can turn the hounds on the other rascal.  What’s that you have there?  Give it to me—­quick!”

“It’s a piece of wool—­”

But Claiborne snatched the paper from Oscar’s hand, and commanded the man to march ahead of him to the house.  So over the meadow and through the pergola they went, across the veranda and into the library.  The power of army discipline was upon Oscar; if Claiborne had not been an officer he would have run for it in the garden.  As it was, he was taxing his wits to find some way out of his predicament.  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.  He was of Servia, and they are an ugly race—­yes?”

“What were you going to do with the paper?”

Oscar grinned.

“If I could read it—­yes; I might know; but if Austria is in the paper, then it is mischief; and maybe it would be murder; who knows?”

Claiborne looked frowningly from the paper to Oscar’s tranquil eyes.

“Dick!” called Shirley from the hall, and she appeared in the doorway, drawing on her gloves; but paused at seeing Oscar.

“Shirley, I caught this man in the sheepfold.  Did you ever see him before?”