On the fourth day, Desmond, who was at the window, said in a tone of excitement: 

“There is a man down there who, after looking fixedly in this direction, is making his way towards us.  He does not come straight, but moves about among the houses; but he continues to approach.  I can’t make out his face yet, but there is something about him that reminds me of Mike; though how he could be here, when we left him in the prison at Harwich, is more than I can say.”

O’Neil and O’Sullivan in turn looked through the window.  Not being so much accustomed as he was to Mike’s figure and walk, they could not recognize in the man, in the dress of a country peasant, the well-set-up soldier who attended on Desmond.  Both admitted, however, that in point of figure it might well be the man.

“If it is,” Desmond said, “all our difficulties are at an end, and I will wager that we shall be free in three or four days.  Now, how are we to communicate with him?”

“I have a piece of paper in my pocket.  It is only an old bill, and they threw it down, contemptuously, when they searched me,” O’Neil said.  “I picked it up again.  I hardly know why, except perhaps that the idea occurred to me that, some day, I might get a chance of paying it.  But as we have no ink, nor pen, nor charcoal, I don’t see how it can benefit us.”

He drew the bill from the pocket of his coatee.  Desmond took it, and stood looking at it in silence for a minute.  Then an idea occurred to him.

“I have it!” he exclaimed, presently.  “O’Neil, see if you can get a piece of this gold wire off my facings.  I want it five or six inches long, so that when it is doubled up and twisted together, so as to be an inch long, it will be stiff enough for our purpose.”

Somewhat puzzled, O’Neil did as he was requested.  Desmond straightened out the fine wire wrapped round the centre thread, doubled, and again doubled it, and finally twisting it together, reduced it to a length of about an inch, and the thickness of a pin.  The others looked on, wondering what was his intention.

He held the paper out before him, and began pricking small holes through it, close together.  He continued to work for some time, and then held it up to the light.  The others understood the nature of his work, and they could now read: 

Come ten tonight under window.  Bring long thin string.  Whistle.  We will lower thread.  Tie end of string to it.  Will give further instructions.

He tore off the portion of the bill on which the message was written, twisted off two of the buttons of his coatee, folded them in the paper, and took his place at the window again.  The man who had been watching was standing some sixty feet from the foot of the wall.  His back was towards them.  Presently he turned, carelessly looked up at the window, and then, as if undecided what to do, took off his cap and scratched his head.

“It is Mike, sure enough,” Desmond exclaimed, and, thrusting his hand through the bars, waved it for a moment.