In accordance with instructions, I telegraphed to the Department, in cipher, the progress made, and also described the above ticket. We seemed to be in a strong enough position now to venture to throw off the mask as regarded Wicklow; so I sent for him. I also sent for and received back the letter written in sympathetic ink, the surgeon accompanying it with the information that thus far it had resisted his tests, but that there were others he could apply when I should be ready for him to do so. Presently Wicklow entered. He had a somewhat worn and anxious look, but he was composed and easy, and if he suspected anything it did not appear in his face or manner. I allowed him to stand there a moment or two, then I said pleasantly,— “My boy, why do you go to that old stable so much?” He answered, with simple demeanor and without embarrassment,— “Well, I hardly know, sir; there isn’t any particular reason, except that I like to be alone, and I amuse myself there.” “You amuse yourself there, do you?” “Yes, sir,” he replied, as innocently and simply as before. “Is that all you do there?” “Yes, sir,” he said, looking up with childlike wonderment in his big soft eyes. “You are _sure_?” “Yes, sir, sure.” After a pause, I said,— “Wicklow, why do you write so much?” “I? I do not write much, sir.” “You don’t?” “No, sir. Oh, if you mean scribbling, I _do_ scribble some, for amusement.” “What do you do with your scribblings?” “Nothing, sir—throw them away.” “Never send them to anybody?” “No, sir.” I suddenly thrust before him the letter to the “Colonel.” He started slightly, but immediately composed himself. A slight tinge spread itself over his cheek. “How came you to send _this_ piece of scribbling, then?” “I nev—never meant any harm, sir.” “Never meant any harm! You betray the armament and condition of the post, and mean no harm by it?” He hung his head and was silent. “Come, speak up, and stop lying. Whom was this letter intended for?” He showed signs of distress, now; but quickly collected himself, and replied, in a tone of deep earnestness,— “I will tell you the truth, sir—the whole truth. The letter was never intended for anybody at all. I wrote it only to amuse myself. I see the error and foolishness of it, now,—but it is the only offence, sir, upon my honor.” “Ah, I am glad of that. It is dangerous to be writing such letters. I hope you are sure this is the only one you wrote?” “Yes, sir, perfectly sure.” His hardihood was stupefying. He told that lie with as sincere a countenance as any creature ever wore. I waited a moment to soothe down my rising temper, and then said,— “Wicklow, jog your memory now, and see if you can help me with two or three little matters which I wish to inquire about.” “I will do my very best, sir.” “Then, to begin with—who is ‘the Master’?” It betrayed him into darting a startled glance at our faces, but that was all. He was serene again in a moment, and tranquilly answered,—