“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
WINKELRIED, VIENNA.
Not later than Friday. CHAUVENET.