He wrinkled his forehead in a perplexed way for a minute, and placed his hand inside his coat. Yes, there it was, sewed up with the rest--the letter of poor Luke Bonsall to his mother. It would be a sad thing to break the news, but it was a trust. At last he went up stairs to his room, and ripped the letters from his waistcoat lining. He had pasted the cipher alphabet on a stiff bit of leather which hung from a cord around his neck. Tacked loosely over it, so as to hide it carefully, was a miniature of none other than Aunt Clarissa in her days of youth and beauty. It was the only one he could procure, and a safe hiding-place it would have made, for no one would have thought of looking back of a lady's portrait, and especially Aunt Clarissa's, for an important Yankee cipher. The magnifying-glass was covered with snuff in his small round snuff-box. He lit a candle, and began to write carefully and laboriously. It was late at night when he had finished. His chamber window opened upon a sloping roof which was bordered by a high stone wall. It was but the work of a moment to slip from the wall to the ground. He found himself in Waddell Lane. The despatch which he had written with the aid of the hieroglyphics was safe in his pocket, and now for the post-box of the conspirators. A group of drunken soldiers reeled by him. One was singing at the top of his voice. From the light of a window at his elbow George saw that it was Corporal McCune, whom he remembered as the tall soldier to whom he and his beloved brother had asserted their loyalty to the King when on their first trip to the city. What surprised George the most as he walked along was the smoothness with which everything had worked. Perhaps Colonel Hewes's reputation for rashness was entirely undeserved. Though he did not know exactly as yet what the project was in which he was to be a factor, yet, inflamed by the excitement, he could not doubt its successful accomplishment. What the morrow would bring forth it was hard to tell. In the letter which he had written, or, better, printed, he had told his name, who had sent him, what he had come for, where he was stopping--in fact, had given an accurate description of himself and his supposed individuality. The letter added that he was waiting for his course of action to be determined upon by any orders he might receive.