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"Not only that telegram," he whispered sharply. "I have another one." He drew a piece of paper out of his pocket. "The night telegraphist is an old acquaintance of mine, and he gave it to me. You must promise me the utmost discretion as to its origin, otherwise the man will lose his post."

As Rothgroschen at once promised everything, Diederich continued without looking at the paper:

"It is addressed to the military depot and must be communicated by the colonel himself to the sentry who shot the workman. It reads as follows: 'For your valour on the field of honour against the domestic enemy we are pleased to extend our approval and hereby promote you to the rank of lance-corporal. &hellip;' Here, look for yourself"—and Diederich handed the paper to the editor. But Rothgroschen did not look at it, he only stared at Diederich in blank amazement, at his adamant bearing, at his moustache pointing upwards and his flashing eyes.

"It almost seems to me—" stammered Rothgroschen. "You look so very like—His&hellip;"