During the next two days Rayburn reported to me several times.No success.The boy was still writing，but he always pocketed his paper with a careless air whenever Rayburn appeared in the vicinity.He had gone twice to an old deserted stable in the town，remained a minute or two，and come out again.One could not pooh-pooh these things—they had an evil look.I was obliged to confess to myself that I was getting uneasy.I went into my private quarters and sent for my second in command—an officer of intelligence and judgment，son of General James Watson Webb.He was surprised and troubled.We had a long talk over the matter，and came to the conclusion that it would be worth while to institute a secret search.I determined to take charge of that myself.So I had myself called at two in the morning；and pretty soon after I was in the musicians'quarters，crawling along the floor on my stomach among the snorers.I reached my slumbering waif's bunk at last，without disturbing anybody，captured his clothes and kit，and crawled stealthily back again.When I got to my own quarters，I found Webb there，waiting and eager to know the result.We made search immediately.The clothes were a disappointment.In the pockets we found blank paper and a pencil；nothing else，except a jack-knife and such queer odds and ends and useless trifles as boys hoard and value.We turned to the kit hopefully.Nothing there but a rebuke for us!—a little Bible with this written on the fly-leaf:“Stranger，be kind to my boy，for his mother's sake.”
I looked at Webb—he dropped his eyes；he looked at me—I dropped mine.Neither spoke.I put the book reverently back in its place.Presently Webb got up and went away，without remark.After a little I nerved myself up to my unpalatable job，and took the plunder back to where it belonged，crawling on my stomach as before.It seemed the peculiarly appropriate attitude for the business I was in.
I was most honestly glad when it was over and done with.
About noon next day Rayburn came，as usual，to report.I cut him short.I said：
“Let this nonsense be dropped.We are making a bugaboo out of a poor little cub who has got no more harm in him than a hymn-book.”
The sergeant looked surprised，and said：
“Well，you know it was your orders，sir，and I've got some of the writin'.”
“And what does it amount to？How did you get it？”
“I peeped through the keyhole，and see him writin'.So,when I judged he was about done，I made a sort of a little cough，and I see him crumple it up and throw it in the fire，and look all around to see if anybody was comin'.Then he settled back as comfortable and careless as anything.Then I comes in，and passes the time of day pleasantly，and sends him on an errand.He never looked uneasy，but went right along.It was a coal fire and new built；the writin'had gone over behind a chunk，out of sight；but I got it out；there it is；it ain't hardly scorched，you see.”
I glanced at the paper and took in a sentence or two.Then I dismissed the sergeant and told him to send Webb to me.Here is the paper in full：
FORT TRUMBULL，the 8th .
COLONELI was mistaken as to the caliber of the three guns I ended my list with.They are 18-pounders；all the rest of the armament is as I stated.The garrison
remains as before reported，except that the two light
infantry companies that were to be detached for service at the front are to stay here for the present—can't find
out for how long，just now，but will soon.We are
satisfied that，all things considered，matters had better be postponed un—
There it broke off—there is where Rayburn coughed and interrupted the writer.All my affection for the boy，all my respect for him and charity for his forlorn condition，withered in a moment under the blight of this revelation of cold-blooded baseness.
But never mind about that.Here was business—business that required profound and immediate attention，too.Webb and I turned the subject over and over，and examined it all around.Webb said：
“What a pity he was interrupted!Something is going to be postponed until—when？And what is the something？Possibly he would have mentioned it，the pious little reptile!”
“Yes，”I said，“we have missed a trick.And who is ‘we'in the letter？Is it conspirators inside the fort or outside？”
That “we”was uncomfortably suggestive.However，it was not worth while to be guessing around that，so we proceeded to matters more practical.In the first place，we decided to double the sentries and keep the strictest possible watch.Next，we thought of calling Wicklow in and making him divulge everything；but that did not seem wisest until other methods should fail.We must have some more of the writings；so we began to plan to that end.And now we had an idea:Wicklow never went to the post-office—perhaps the deserted stable was his post-office.We sent for my confidential clerk—a young German named Sterne，who was a sort of natural detective—and told him all about the case,and ordered him to go to work on it.Within the hour we got word that Wicklow was writing again.Shortly afterward word came that he had asked leave to go out into the town.He was detained awhile and meantime Sterne hurried off and concealed himself in the stable.By and by he saw Wicklow saunter in，look about him，then hide something under some rubbish in a corner，and take leisurely leave again.Sterne pounced upon the hidden article—a letter—and brought it to us.It had no superion and no signature.It repeated what we had already read，and then went on to say：
We think it best to postpone till the two companies are gone.I mean the four inside think so；have not communicated with the others—afraid of attracting attention.I say four because we have lost two；they had hardly enlisted and got inside when they were shipped off to the front.It will be absolutely necessary to have two in their places.The two that went were the brothers from Thirty-mile Point.I have something of the greatest importance to reveal，but must not trust it to this method of communication；will try the other.
