‘Look!’ he exclaimed in a low voice, nudging the Prefect to enforce attention, ‘look at yon old man. That is no other than Tucca, at whose house the fair Plautia is lodged. What does he up here? It would be worth while knowing, I’ll warrant! A thousand pounds, but if we could get to know we should need little more.’ ‘But how?’ ‘Quick! There is time, and he does not notice us. Send and bid yon Pretorian stop him and ask his business inside the villa. Let your slave linger by and listen.’ Sejanus turned hastily and spoke to his slave Lygdus, who hastened to carry the order to the sentinel, whose post was one of mere discipline, since the townspeople came and went, and did their trafficking without the least ceremony, except at the entrances of the Imperial residence itself, which were closely watched. The party then turned their steps and appeared to stroll gently back, as if in earnest talk. They saw the sentinel stop the wine‐grower by placing his spear across his body. Lygdus stood by, and, after a brief parley, the old man was suffered to proceed. He finally disappeared into the door of the building which led to the officers’ quarters. ‘Pooh, ’tis only some concern of his own,’ remarked Sejanus,—‘buying or selling. Well, what did yonder fellow want?’ he said to Lygdus, who came up. ‘He seems a dirty, disreputable knave to wander about here without question.’ ‘He is charged with a letter to deliver to the Centurion Martialis, so please your highness,’ replied the Nubian slave. ‘From whom?’ demanded his master. ‘I do not know. I did not think it right to inquire into anything of the Centurion’s affairs without authority, so I did not ask.’ ‘Humph! Quite right, Lygdus; but did you see the tablets? He might have been lying.’ ‘I saw them when the guard demanded to see them. The man is Tucca, one of the oldest islanders and wine‐growers. He is well known.’ ‘Is he, indeed? I crave his pardon, but he looked most villainously to my eyes. He should get himself a better tunic. But what seemed the letter like—the writing?’ ‘It was quite strange to me.’ ‘It is necessary that I see it. The Centurion has left the island till evening—you understand. We will go in again for a space. Come!’ Lygdus bent his head and retired to the rear, until Sejanus and his confidant had re‐entered the officers’ quarters. Then in a minute he appeared before the Prefect and the knight with the ill‐fated epistle in his hands. ‘No one saw you, Lygdus?’ said Sejanus. ‘No one. The Centurion’s room is empty, and this was lying on his couch.’ ‘Warm water and open it.’ The slave brought a cup of hot water, and, by its aid, he softened the wax and removed the thread in a most dexterous manner, which bore strong evidence that it was not the first time such a task had been required of him. The handwriting was large and bold, but palpably disguised. The keen eyes who perused it were easily assured of that.