In Jeopardy

Chapter XI

"No use in your going over until three o'clock," he began. "At least that is the time set by the magistrate for the hearing, and it will take several hours to get the material witnesses together. I believe that summonses have been served on some of your people, including Marcus, the house-boy, and Zack and Zeb."

"Who is the man, and what were the circumstances of his arrest?" I asked.

"His name, as I told you last night, is Dave Campion."

"Oh, I know him," put in Betty. "He is a sort of peddler; at least he travels around with a miscellaneous lot of perfumes and hair ribbons for the women, and cheap safety razors for the men."

"Ostensibly so," nodded Warriner, "but his real business is bootlegging."

"You mean whiskey?"

"Yes, and worse. You have heard of 'coke'?"

"Cocaine powder?"

"Yes."

"'Happy dust' the darkies call it," added Betty. "Last month father forbade Campion to ever come on the place again."

Warriner looked interested. "I suppose Campion resented the exclusion," he remarked. But on this point Betty could say nothing; Mr. Graeme had merely told her that the negro peddler had been warned off the "Hundred" property.

"He is a smart nigger," explained Warriner. "And so light in color that you would hardly suspect the dash of the tar brush, as the English say. He was educated at Hampton-Sidney, and talks just like a white man—rather proud of it, too—but worthless in every way, and a menace to the community."

"Education then isn't any guarantee of morality among the negroes," I observed.

"Why should it be any more than with our own class?" retorted Warriner. "No, Campion is a bad nigger, and even Hampton-Sidney couldn't make him over."

"But about the arrest?" I urged.

"The fellow was drunk last night, and openly displayed a handsome matchbox; gold with a turquoise set in the spring knob. Several persons recognized it as belonging to Mr. Francis Graeme; in fact, it bore his initials. The police were informed, and the arrest followed."

"No explanations were made, I suppose."

"I told you he was a smart nigger. Not a word could they get out of him, beyond a general denial of any wrongdoing."

"Dave Campion was at the 'Hundred' the day my father died," said Betty. "I met him as I was riding down the Green Drive on my way to 'Powersthorp.' I dare say he took the drive in preference to the regular carriage road so as to avoid observation."

"About what time of the day was that?" asked Warriner.

"Close to one o'clock. I was lunching with Hilda Powers, and had been late in starting."

"That's an important point," mused Warriner.

"Do you think I ought to go to the hearing and testify?" continued Betty, evidently troubled.

"Not the least in the world," said Warriner promptly. "Sheriff Greenough may be countrified, but he can see through a grindstone with a hole in it as quickly as the next man. Undoubtedly he knows all about Campion's visit to the 'Hundred' that morning, and has his witnesses to prove it."

Warriner had business farther on, and presently he left us with the understanding that he would be at the magistrate's court at three o'clock. I was rather surprised to hear Betty express a wish to accompany me to Calverton. "Not to the hearing," she explained; "I don't think I could stand that. But I have some shopping to do, and then I'll go to Mary Crandall's for a cup of tea. You can pick me up there."

I felt bound in courtesy to invite Miss Trevor to make one of the party. But she refused, with a curtness that was almost rude. "I shan't waste any time running up blind alleys," she said sharply. "There won't be a shred of direct evidence against Campion, and the Court will be obliged to discharge him."

"But the matchbox," I persisted. "Surely he will have to explain very convincingly how it came to be in his possession."

"Well, you might ask Judge Hendricks why he doesn't read the papers once in a while," replied Miss Trevor, her black eyes snapping and her thin upper lip curling disdainfully. Evidently it was not for me to argue the case any further, and, personally, I was only too pleased that I should now have Betty to myself on the trip to Calverton and back.

Shortly after luncheon we started, Betty driving her own pony pair to a trim basket-phaeton. To think of going anywhere nowadays in other form of conveyance than the gas-wagon! But I fully appreciated the distinction of an equipage really well turned out, and then I was sitting at Betty Graeme's side; yes, I found it all very pleasant.

Arrived at Calverton I dropped Betty at White and Callender's, put up the team at a livery stable, and found my way to Justice Hendricks' chambers. Warriner joined me a few minutes later, and presently my former acquaintance, Sheriff Greenough, brought in the prisoner and the hearing began.

Dave Campion was a rather good-looking mulatto, keen-eyed, and apparently quite able to take care of his own interests. On being questioned by the judge, he made no secret of his having been at the "Hundred" the morning of June the twenty-first.

"Had you not been warned by Mr. Francis Graeme not to trespass upon his property?" asked Judge Hendricks.

"Yes, sir."

"Why did you disregard that injunction?"

"I went to the 'Hundred' on business."

"What sort of business?"

"Private, sir. With Mr. Graeme himself."

"Did you see him?"

"No, sir. Marcus, the house-boy, told me that he was at work in the library, and had left orders not to be disturbed."

"Then you were in the house?"

"Yes, sir. I went to the kitchen door, and Marcus took me to the butler's pantry."

"Where was Effingham?"

"At work in the dining room. I didn't see him at all."

"How long were you in the house?"

"About twenty minutes, I should say, sir. It was just quarter after one o'clock when I went away."

"What did you do then?"

"I went to the south lawn, and saw Zack Cameron."

"He bought some article, or articles, from you?"

"Yes, sir."

"How did Mr. Graeme's matchbox come into your possession?"

"I found it in the road nearly opposite S. Saviour's Church?"

"When?"

"About two weeks ago, sir."

"And you came to the 'Hundred' intending to return it to Mr. Graeme?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's all for the present. No; wait a moment. What particular article did you sell to Zack Cameron?"

Campion hesitated for a barely perceptible interval; then he answered steadily: "A pint of whiskey, sir."

"You knew that you were breaking the law?"

"Yes, sir."

On the whole Campion's testimony had been in his favor. His answers had been clear and apparently ingenuous, and his frank admission of the minor offence of illicit liquor selling added weight to his other statements.

Zack Cameron, on being closely interrogated, owned that he had not been entirely truthful about the presence of strangers at the "Hundred" on the morning in question. He admitted that the peddler, Dave Campion, had appeared on the south lawn a few minutes after he and Zeb has started on their post-meridian stint.

"What did you buy of him?"

Zack rolled his eyes, and looked excessively uncomfortable.

"Campion says it was a pint of whiskey. Is that true?"

"Yassah, dat am puffeckly c'rect. You see, Boss, I had a toofache——"

"Stand down," ordered the magistrate, and Marcus was called.

The house-boy corroborated in general the statements made by Campion. He had admitted the peddler at the back entrance, and had taken him to the butler's pantry. Campion had asked to see Mr. Graeme, and had been told that he was engaged.

"Were you with Campion all the time he was in the house?" asked Judge Hendricks.

"Yassah, 'cept when Mr. Effingham done call me into the dining room to help him turn ober the rug."

"Five minutes perhaps?"

But Marcus could not be positive about the elapsed period. He could only assert that when he returned to the pantry Campion had gone; presumably he had let himself out.

"But there is a door from the pantry into the short passage that leads to the library, isn't there?"

"Yassah."

"How about Effingham's master-key; did you ever hear of it?"

Marcus grinned all over with the irresistible comedy of his race. "Eberybody know all about 'um," he chuckled throatily. "Mr. Effingham hid 'um behind clock like old dog wif bone. Yah! yah!"

"Then it was no particular secret, the master-key and its hiding place?"

"Nossah."

"That will do. Let's have the prisoner again."

Campion remained perfectly cool and self-possessed. He readily agreed that he had been left alone in the pantry for a period of five minutes; it might even have been longer. He admitted that he had gone to the library door, and had knocked two or three times.

"That may have been what disturbed Eunice Trevor," whispered Warriner in my ear. "Just at that moment she must have been in the room with the despatch-box in her hand."

"You got no reply to your knock?" continued Judge Hendricks.

"No, sir."

"Did you know of the master-key?"

"Yes, sir. Marcus showed me its hiding place behind the clock, and we had been laughing at old Effingham's simplicity."

"Then it didn't occur to you that you might use the master-key?"

"Well, I didn't fancy the idea of actually intruding upon Mr. Graeme. You remember, sir, that he had forbidden me to come on the place."

"Yet you summoned enough courage to knock?"

"That was a little different, sir, from walking in on him unannounced. Besides, I really did wish to see him."

"For what purpose?"

It was the crucial question, and we all craned our necks in our eagerness to catch the reply. But Campion's voice was without a tremor.

"To restore the matchbox and claim the twenty dollars reward," he answered.

"What proof can you give that the article in question was lost and a reward offered for its return?"

The mulatto drew a folded newspaper from his pocket, and handed it to Judge Hendricks. It was a copy of the King William County Clarion, and a paragraph in the advertising columns was heavily blue-pencilled. It was to the effect that a gold and turquoise-jewelled matchbox, bearing the initials F. H. G., had been lost on the road between Calverton and Lynn. A reward of twenty dollars was offered for its return to Mr. Graeme of "Hildebrand Hundred."

"The date of this copy of the Clarion," said Judge Hendricks, frowning portentously, "is June 10, 1919. In the absence of any further evidence I direct the discharge of the prisoner."

"There still remain some interesting possibilities," said Warriner to me, as we walked down the street. "On one side of the locked door that black shadow of a woman, ready to do anything to save her lover's fortune; on the other, that yellow-faced scoundrel, eager for plunder, fingering the master-key, and trying to muster up enough courage to use it. And between them, a dead man. Or was he dead at that particular moment? Perhaps the two of them, working together, might have brought the thing about."

"But Campion could hardly have committed the murder, returned the master-key to its position behind the clock, and left the house, by the kitchen entrance, in the short space of five minutes," I objected.

"Well, how is this for an hypothesis?" retorted Warriner. "Campion is the tool employed by John Thaneford to do the dirty work. He is instructed to be at the library door at a few minutes past one. Thaneford, with his telephoto lens, sees that Graeme is dozing in his chair. He signals to Eunice, who enters by the postern-door and admits the waiting Campion, the master-key not being used at all. The crime accomplished, both escape by the secret door, leaving the cocoon gummed in place to destroy the clue."

"Rather fortuitous, don't you think? The whole train of circumstances goes off the track in case Mr. Graeme doesn't fall asleep at just the right moment."

"Of course," agreed Warriner. "And I was beginning to fancy myself as an amateur sleuth," he added a trifle ruefully.

"Anyway you have the magnifying telephoto lens and the purloined cocoon to your credit, my dear Chalmers. As for the rest of it, we may as well fall back on our coroner's verdict: Dead by the visitation of God. Will you come back to dinner this evening?"

But Warriner declined, pleading the pressure of his laboratory work. I picked up Betty at the Crandall's, and we drove back slowly to the "Hundred."

It was nearing sunset as we rolled up the drive under the arching shadow of the lindens. Suddenly Betty started, and grasped my arm. Directly opposite rose the massive bulk of the Sugar Loaf. In an open space a portion of the woodland road was visible, where it wound around the upper escarpment of the dome; and there, outlined against the level rays of the sinking sun, stood motionless a great black horse. The powerful figure of the rider was readily recognizable—John Thaneford.

"He told me that he was going away to-day," whispered Betty, as though fearful of being overheard. "For an indefinite period," she added.

"Forever, I hope," I muttered under my breath.

The silhouette of horse and rider stood out stark, almost colossal, against the crimsoning skyline. But the black shadow of Sugar Loaf was lengthening swiftly over the level meadows that margined the little river Whippany; the advancing darkness seemed to be sucking out, in its chill embrace, all the warmth and brightness of the summer day. Betty shivered, touched up the horses and we speeded on. But so long as I could see the great black horseman remained motionless, watchful, eternally menacing.

Chapter XII

Late in December Betty and I were married very quietly-at S. Saviour's Church, Bob Mercer coming down to assist in the ceremony. During the summer and autumn I had been absent almost continuously in Philadelphia, engaged in winding up the trusteeship which had formed the bulk of my professional work. Of course, I had already come to a full understanding with my dear girl, and it was quite natural that she should continue to live on at the "Hundred," the only home that she had ever known. The presence of Mrs. Anthony preserved the convenances; and, after long cogitation, I had formally requested Eunice Trevor to stay on, in her old capacity of paid companion to Betty. Perhaps it was an unwise decision, but let me briefly recapitulate the influencing circumstances. Here they are:

Eunice was Betty's first cousin, and the two girls had been brought up together, almost from infancy. Moreover, they were friendly, if not precisely intimate. Eunice was absolutely penniless, and I could not send her away, even with provision for her financial future, without a full explanation to Betty. Now whatever my surmises and suspicions there was no direct evidence that Francis Graeme's death had been due to violence; he was resting quietly in S. Saviour's churchyard, and Betty's sorrow ought not to be reawakened except for grave cause. Whatever part Eunice Trevor had taken in the tragedy—always assuming that there had been a tragedy—must have been a consequent of her unfortunate entanglement with John Thaneford; and God knows she had been punished for her fault through the irremediable wound to her affections. I could not believe, moreover, that she had been an active participant in any crime, overt or covert. Circumstances might have made her a confidante, even a tool, but she had not been an actual accessory to Francis Graeme's death, either before or after the event. So much by way of simple justice to the girl.

In the second place, the chapter of incidents seemed to have closed with the acquittal of Dave Campion and the disappearance of John Thaneford. No word of any kind had come from the latter, and his whereabouts remained entirely unknown; it was a fair presumption that he never would reappear to trouble us. His financial affairs were hopelessly involved, and "Thane Court" itself was to be sold at public auction in February in order to satisfy the demands of the creditors.

And finally, while the young woman's conduct had been indiscreet, if not absolutely disloyal, her lesson had been an exceedingly bitter one, and it was charitable to assume that it had been taken to heart. After my marriage to Betty in December it would be time enough to consider making other arrangements. Yes, my decision was taken, and now it was necessary to communicate it to Eunice herself.

Miss Trevor listened to my proposal in stony silence, but in the first flush of my new happiness I could easily overlook even a direct ungraciousness. Mrs. Anthony was old and a semi-invalid; Betty would have her cousin's companionship during my long continued absence North, and that was enough. The upshot of our conference was that Miss Trevor agreed to stay on at the "Hundred." She admitted that the arrangement would be convenient, as the school position for which she had applied would not be available until the following September.

"Then it is settled," I concluded, with as much cordiality as I could put into my voice. "I'm trusting Betty in your hands; you'll take good care of her."

"Yes, Mr. Hildebrand, I can certainly promise to do that," she began; then she broke off and looked away as though regretting that she had said even that much.

"That's all I want," I said, "and I'm glad we understand each other." I made a half motion to offer my hand, but she did not appear to notice the gesture, and we parted. Again I felt a twinge of disquietude, but the affair had been decided, and it was too late to reopen the discussion. A strange creature was Eunice Trevor, but I believe even now that she did love Betty Graeme. If only she had never looked into John Thaneford's baleful black eyes!

As I have said before, my marriage to Betty took place in the last part of December. We went to Aiken for the honeymoon, intending to be back at the "Hundred" for the Christmas holidays. But we had been gone only four days when we were recalled by Mrs. Anthony's fatal attack of pneumonia. She died on December the twenty-third, and the holly wreaths and mistletoe remained unhung for our first Christmas in the old homestead, while the festivities of the season had to be confined to the servants' hall and the quarters. But we had Chalmers Warriner and Doctor Marcy in for dinner, and in my heart of hearts I was not sorry that the big, county family functions had to be postponed indefinitely. I am a quiet person, and I best enjoy my happiness when there is no one to look on. A selfish attitude perhaps, but I try to pay my debts to humanity in other ways. Generally Betty sees to it that I do so.

In February "Thane Court" was sold at auction, and I bought it in. The property marched with that of the "Hundred," and being so well rid of one objectionable neighbor I had no mind to run any chances. Moreover, the land was of excellent quality, impoverished, it is true, by want of care and scientific cropping, but still capable of revival under reasonable management. I had bid it in for a price far under its real value, and I could easily get a tenant in case I concluded not to farm it myself. The house was old and in poor condition, and I determined to pull it down in the spring.

But I was spared the trouble, for one windy night in March I was awakened by the light pressure of Betty's hand on my shoulder. "There is a big fire over in the west," she said excitedly, "and I think it must be 'Thane Court.'"

I scrambled into some clothes, summoned all the men within reach, and made the best of my way to the scene of the conflagration, rather more than a mile distant.

Betty was right. "Thane Court" was on fire, and it was evident, at a glance, that the house was doomed. Buckets and handpumps were useless, and long before the fire apparatus from Calverton could cover the ten miles of rutted, frozen roads the edifice had been reduced to a smoking ruin.

It was three or four days later before we could venture to explore the smouldering debris. The furniture and other interior fittings were old and of no great value; all, of course, had been totally destroyed. The only thing left intact was a small safe, which I was informed, had stood in the room used by the elder Thaneford as an office. Now John Thaneford had not appeared at the sale, nor had he taken any steps to protect what interests he still retained in the estate. Everything in and about "Thane Court" had become my legal property, and so I had no hesitation in ordering the safe taken over to the "Hundred," it being my intention to open it and examine the contents. Of course any personal property would belong to John Thaneford, and I was quite sure of my own good faith in the matter. It might be impossible to locate the missing owner for some time to come, but we could cross that bridge when we came to it.

The safe was of comparatively modern workmanship, and seemed to have suffered no damage from its ordeal by fire. It was equipped with the usual numbered dial lock, and, naturally, I did not possess the combination. I could have sent for a safe expert from Baltimore, but the expense would have been considerable. Or mechanics from Calverton could have forced an opening by means of the oxygen flame, but so violent a procedure would have destroyed the safe itself, and I was not quite certain that I had the right to take such drastic action. True, John Thaneford had abandoned his property, and everything had been sold without reserve; nevertheless, I wanted to be sure of my ground before going further.

The safe had been thoroughly cleansed, and now stood temporarily under the principal staircase. I never passed it without an inquiring glance; somehow Betty and I could not resist the temptation of speculating about it; we were as curious as children, ever intent upon discovering what secrets it might hold. But how to find the key to the mystery?

And then one evening Betty had a brilliant idea. "Do you remember," she asked, "a series of numbers that I got from Mr. Thaneford the day he died?"

"Of course." I pulled out my note-book, and read the formula aloud: "1-4-2-4-8."

"He certainly wanted to tell me something," persisted Betty. "Why shouldn't it have been the very combination we are looking for?"

"Easy enough to find out," I answered. I went over to the safe, knelt down and took hold of the knob. Betty stood at my elbow, the note-book in her hand. "Ready?" she asked. "The numbers are: 1-4-2-4-8."

I turned the knob, counting the clicks as they passed. The door yielded and swung open.

Not much of a find after all—nothing but a leather-bound book resembling a diary in appearance. One of the covers had been slightly scorched by the intense heat, but the MS. seemed to be in excellent condition. I opened the book, scanned two or three lines, and looked up at Betty, who was leaning over my shoulder.

"Why it's just a jumble of letters!" she exclaimed in poignant disappointment. "I can't read a word of it; what does it mean?"

"Undoubtedly written in cypher," I replied. We looked at one another and laughed. Here indeed was an anti-climax.

Chapter XIII

"Obviously," I began, "the example before our eyes—long lines of letters without breaks or marks of punctuation—does not come under the first heading. It contains no recognizable words, or phonetic groups, which might correspond in the code book to actual sentences. For example, in the ordinary commercial systems, the word Barbarian may mean: 'The wheat market is advancing.' But if I cable the word Civilisation I really intend to say: 'Australian wool crop is a failure.' The principal value of the elaborate code system is in the saving of cable tolls, a single word conveying the meaning of an entire sentence. It is necessary, of course, that all of the correspondents should possess individual copies of the code, and loss or theft of the book discloses the whole secret. Do you understand?"

Betty thought she did, and seemed so interested that I was emboldened to assume my best lecture manner.

"Under the second head we may consider the mechanical device known as the grid, grille, or screen.

"The instrument in question consists of a plate, usually made of metal, pierced by a number of holes of different sizes and irregularly spaced. When the writer sets out to prepare his message he lays the grid on the paper, and marks in the letters making up the words of his despatch through the apertures. Then the screen is removed, and the blank spaces are filled up with writing which has nothing to do with the real subject matter, the process being repeated until the entire message has been coded. The recipient is provided with a precisely similar grid. By applying it to the communication he is then able to read, through the holes, the text of the secret message. The ancient Romans used a variation of this method, somewhat as follows. A long strip of paper was wound spirally about a cylinder or cone; the writing was then done parallel with the axis of the metal form. When unrolled, the communication seemed to be made up of arbitrary signs really parts of letters which were entirely unintelligible. The recipient, however, by rewinding the strip on a precisely similar form, would be able to read the message.

"Of course we may rule out the mechanical device. In this case we have a long communication of several hundred words, and the grille would be impracticable—too wasteful of space."

"That disposes of No. 2," said Betty hopefully. "What next?"

"In class 3 the coded message consists of numbers, or even of pure symbols—stars and daggers or what not. The latter variation is generally pure substitution, and may be called kindergarten cryptology. No one but a rank amateur would employ such a system.

"In the numeral code each correspondent is supplied with a dictionary, the same edition of course. Each word of the original message is represented by a group of five numbers, two designating the location of the required word on the page, and the remaining three denoting the number of the page itself. The process, both of coding and of uncoding, is very laborious, and hardly pays for the trouble involved. Another way to use the two dictionaries is to interpret the words of the code message by substituting other words removed a certain definite distance up or down the column. Suppose it is agreed that 'fifteen down' shall be the key, and that the despatch, as received, reads: Bull Collier. The recipient takes his copy of the dictionary, looks up the word Bull, and counts down fifteen, getting the word Buy. Similarly, Collier gives him Copper, and the decoded message will mean: 'Buy copper.' Finally, we may use a predetermined series of numbers as a key formula. We then divide the message to be coded into the same number of letter groups, and work out an intricate transposition, reversing the process in order to decode."

"Rather makes your head ache," remarked Betty plaintively. "Besides, this cypher doesn't use numbers at all."

"Right you are," I acquiesced, "and we are undoubtedly dealing with a system of the fourth order in which the letters are transposed according to a constant prearranged formula.

"Let us first consider the simple form; the regular substitution of one letter of the alphabet for another. For example, X always takes the place of E, while B invariably means T, and so on. Such cyphers are easily read by the expert, who works on the principle that all the letters of the English alphabet may be ranked on a numerical scale of average frequency in use. The letter E heads the list; consequently, if any particular symbol predominates in the message it must correspond to that hard-worked vowel. Again, as the is the commonest word group in the language we are quickly able to identify what stands for T and H. But this is quite too transparent a code for serious use."

"Then don't waste time over it," said my practical-minded wife. "Old Mr. Thaneford was not a foolish person."

I took a long look at the incomprehensible jumble of letters.

"There are any number of formulae," I went on, "by means of which we may effect a transposition of letters, the substitution being variable or irregular. For instance, the 'Checkerboard,' invented by the Russian nihilists, and similar devices, most of which depend for secrecy upon single or double key-words. Perhaps the cleverest system in this group is the cypher called by the French, 'Le Chiffre Indéchiffrable.'"

"'The Undecypherable Cypher,'" commented Betty. "Sounds rather hopeless."

"Well, you can decide for yourself if there is any reasonable possibility of unravelling it, unless you are lucky enough to stumble on the key-word."

"Try me," she challenged.

"To begin with, you write down the twenty-six letters of the English alphabet in a horizontal line, indenting it the space of a single letter."

"Indenting?"

"You'll understand when you see the diagram I'm preparing."

"Oh, you're making a magic square!"

"Yes. Now you repeat the process twenty-five times, the only difference being that all these other lines begin at the left-hand margin, each with a different letter in their strict alphabetical order. Your diagram will then look like this. For the present I am putting it in skeleton form:"

"Now choose a key-word, or preferably, a key-sentence. For simplicity's sake, we'll take the short word: BEAD, and suppose we wish to send in cypher the message: CAB FEED."

"Which is pure nonsense."

"Granted. I merely select two words at random which can be coded on my incomplete square. If I had the whole diagram drawn out the message could be anything you like."

"Go on," commanded Betty, her eyes snapping.

"First you write down your message; then above it you put the key-word, repeated in whole or in part as many times as may be necessary, thus:"

"Turning to the diagram you find B, the first letter of the key-word, in the top horizontal line; and C, the first letter of the word to be put into code, in the left-hand vertical line. Now look for the letter at the intersection of the vertical column headed by B and the horizontal line which C begins. You will find it to be E. Set this down as the first symbol of your cypher message, and obtain the other letters in a similar manner. Your despatch will then read: E F C J G J E. As an object lesson, place these letters under your original arrangement of key-word and message, thus:"

"You see at a glance that the substitution is irregular and variant. For example, the symbol E stands for both C and D. Again, the letter E in the word F E E D is at one time represented by G and secondly by J."

"How do you translate the cypher?" asked Betty.

"Merely reverse the process. You write down the cypher message, and above it as many letters of your key-word as may be needed, thus:"

"Now follow down the vertical column headed by B until you reach the symbol letter E; then move your pointer over left to the end of that horizontal line which will give you C, the first letter of the original message. Understand?"

Betty tried her hand, and quickly caught the trick; really it was very easy.

"One more point; it is better not to divide the cypher message into word groups as the continuous string of letters looks more mystifying. There is no difficulty in picking out the sense when decoding."

"Finally, you notice that the upper left-hand space in the diagram is vacant; consequently you must not use the letter Z in either the key-word or in the message to be coded. But this restriction is not of any practical disadvantage, Z being a letter that is seldom used. It will often appear, of course, in the cypher itself."

"Certainly it is all very simple," remarked Betty.

"But without the key-word where would you get off?"

"I don't see how anybody could possibly work it out; why the complications are absolutely overwhelming."

"And you can make them still more intricate by merely using a longer key-word, or indeed a whole sentence. For example: 'I love Betty Hildebrand.'"

"Everybody knows that," retorted Betty. "Still I don't mind an occasional restatement of the established fact. Please, Hugh! I spent any amount of time in getting those ruffles starched just so."

Betty took the diagram and carefully tucked it away in a drawer of her secretary. "Of course we can't be sure that old Mr. Thaneford really used 'Le Chiffre Indéchiffrable,'" she said thoughtfully.

"Only a possibility," I agreed.

"And without the key-word or key-sentence we shall never be any wiser than we are."

"Granted again."

"So there you are. Just the same, Hugh, I wish you would make me a complete diagram; I'd like to experiment with it."

"I'll do it for you to-night. Here's your precious diary."

Betty kissed me and went upstairs. It took me the best part of an hour to draw out the diagram in full; then I had to mount it on cardboard so as to keep it in good condition for constant handling. For the benefit of the curious-minded I reproduce it below:

LE CHIFFRE INDÉCHIFFRABLE

——————————————————————————-
| |A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|
——————————————————————————-
|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|
——————————————————————————-
|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|
——————————————————————————-
|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z|A|B|
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Note that while the diagram is a necessary piece of machinery in using this particular cypher system, it has no value in itself; the whole secret depends upon the possession of the key-word or key-sentence. As this may easily be memorized by the two correspondents there is no risk of discovery through the accident of loss or theft.

Chapter XIV

Certainly I had no cause for complaint. The "Hundred" was easily the best farm anywhere about. I could command sufficient ready money to be independent of the banks, and I was beginning to learn my trade. What more could the heart of man desire? And finally, there was Betty—but how could one inventory that immeasurable asset! Enough that our happiness was as complete as anything mundane could be, and I had only to bear in mind the old Greek admonition: "Tread softly lest the high gods overhear and be moved to celestial ire against a mortal so felicitous!"

Eunice Trevor was still living at the "Hundred," and the question of that other arrangement had been suffered to remain in abeyance. I did not fancy the ungracious task of turning her out of the house, and by temperament I am something of an opportunist; time is the great resolver of our difficulties; moreover, to do the woman justice, she seemed desirous of effacing herself in every possible way; for days on end I would hardly see her except at dinner, our one formal function. And then one day something occurred to set me thinking, an incident small in itself and yet curiously disquieting.

Miss Trevor was in the habit of driving over alone to Calverton two or three times a week. Still she was never absent more than a couple of hours, and it was none of my business how she employed her leisure. Betty commented upon these journeys once or twice, but neither of us cared to press the direct inquiry; there were plenty of horses available, and the girl's time was her own; what did it matter.

On this particular morning I chanced to be in the house at the moment of her return from town. She passed me in the hall, nodded briefly, and went up to her room. As I walked through the front door I noticed a letter lying on the threshold. I picked it up and saw that it was addressed to Miss Eunice Trevor, Lockbox 31, Calverton, Maryland. The handwriting was that of John Thaneford, a square, bold script with which I was perfectly familiar. The post-mark was that of a small town in Florida.

So Eunice and Thaneford were engaged in correspondence, and a secret one at that. It didn't look well, and I felt the blood reddening my temples. After all she was my house guest and eating my bread and salt. Spy is an ugly word, but Thaneford was an enemy, a quiescent one for the time being, yet none the less to be guarded against. "Hildebrand Hundred" was a goodly heritage, and it would have been his had it not been for my fortuitous meeting with Francis Graeme. There were no immediate prospects that Betty would present me with an heir to the property, and I realized guiltily that I had put off the duty of making a will. Suppose that I died intestate and without issue. Betty would have her dower rights, but Thaneford could put in a plausible claim for recognition as next of kin. I made instant resolve that I would see Mr. Eldon on the morrow and erect every possible legal safeguard to conserve Betty's interests. I could rest assured that if Thaneford were able to get enough ready money he would fight for his alleged rights. In the meantime, I could do nothing but let the letter lie where it had fallen. I whistled to Gyp and strode off to the stables. At the corner of the hedge I ventured to look back, and caught just a glimpse of feminine drapery disappearing into the cavernous gloom of the great hall door. So my lady had discovered her loss, and had been prompt in retrieving her property. Very well, but I should certainly call on Mr. Eldon in the morning.

But, as it so often happens, my fine resolutions came to naught, and six hours later I was on my way North, summoned by wire to the bedside of my only living relative, my good Aunt Livy Marston, who had been more than a mother to me for the best part of my life. Dear old lady! She finally won her battle with death, but it was not until nearly three weeks later that the doctors pronounced her to be out of danger, and I was free to return home; to be precise, it was on Monday night, June the twenty-second, that I left for Maryland, arriving at our little station of Crown Ferry late in the afternoon of the following day.

To my surprise Doctor Marcy, with his gig, was waiting for me. One glance at his face was enough. I tried to speak, but a great fear clutched at my throat.

"Betty is perfectly well," said Marcy hastily. "She sends her love, and is expecting you at the 'Hundred.'"

I threw my traveling bag in behind, and climbed to my place at his side; the doctor's whiplash flickered along the blue-roan's broad back, and we were quickly out of earshot, so far as the station loungers were concerned.

"Who is it then?" I asked.

"Eunice Trevor."

"Yes."

"She died day before yesterday—suddenly."

"An accident?"

"She was found dead, sitting in the library at the big, flat-topped desk," and Doctor Marcy shot me a sharp glance from the remote corner of his eye.

"You mean that her death recalls the mystery of Francis Graeme's taking off?"

"Just that."

"Go on and tell me the whole story, doctor. There's no need for us to beat about the bush."

"But it's so little I have to tell," protested Marcy. "The bare facts are these:"

"I was coming back from Lynn Saturday, and, on passing your gate, I thought I would drive in and ask Betty for a cup of tea. Lucky I did so, for I found her in a great state of mind. It seems that early in the morning Eunice had shut herself up in the library on the plea of doing some writing. She did not appear in the dining room at one o'clock, the luncheon hour, and Effingham reported that the door was locked on the inside. He had knocked repeatedly without getting any reply.

"Well, you can understand how all this recalled to Betty the peculiar circumstances surrounding Graeme's death. And the servants were scared out of their very wits; you know by this time the psychological vagaries of the African mind.

"There was only one thing to do. I had Effingham produce his master-key, and the door was opened. The room seemed to be in perfect order—absolutely no signs of a struggle of any kind. When I passed the screen—that same leather screen—I saw the girl. She was sitting in the swivel-chair, but her head had fallen forward on the table. The body was still warm, but she was stone dead."

"Any marks of violence?" I asked, thinking of the wound on Francis Graeme's forehead.

"None whatever."

"When did all this happen?"

"To-day is Monday the twenty-second. As I told you, the day was Saturday the twentieth. By the way, you never received Betty's telegram?"

"No, it must have reached Bangor just after I left. Probably, it never occurred to Aunt Livy to have it relayed to me on the train."

"No great matter. There was nothing to be done but to put the poor girl decently away."

"You mean that you've had the funeral?"

"Yes, this morning. We could get no word of you, and I rather pushed it on Betty's account."

"Was there an autopsy?"

"I couldn't see any reason for it. The general indications were those of cerebral hemorrhage, and I had no hesitation in giving apoplexy as the cause of death. Yes, I know I changed my mind about Graeme, but in this case there could be no doubt about it."

"She seemed to be in excellent general health," I remarked. "Had you ever noticed any premonitory signs—you know what I am trying to say?"

"I never had Miss Trevor as a patient," said Marcy, "and so I can't give any definite opinion."

"But you wouldn't put her down—I mean on the strength of your general observation—as predisposed to that sort of thing?"

"No, I shouldn't."

"You said virtually the same thing about my Cousin Francis."

"I admit it. Still in that case the presence of an external wound gave ample justification for going further."

"Just one or two more questions. Was the postern-door closed?"

"Tight as a safety vault. You and Betty have the only keys in existence that unlock it."

"How about the pridellas in the windows—the little ventilating apertures?"

"They were all shut, too. Afterwards I spoke to Warriner about that very point, and he confirmed my impression."

"Warriner!"

"He arrived at the 'Hundred' very soon after I did. I believe they were going horseback riding."

An unworthy thought crossed my mind, but I did my best to stamp it out of existence. Perhaps Betty had been feeling lonely during my long absence from home—perhaps.

"There's one thing more," continued the doctor. "Eunice had been writing, and there were a number of sheets of MS. lying on the desk. Betty had them sealed up, pending your return."

"Nothing has been heard of John Thaneford, I suppose?"

"Not that I know of."

I relapsed into silence, and presently we were at the house. Betty was waiting for me on the portico, and behind her loomed up the tall figure of Chalmers Warriner. I took my dear girl in my arms, and the tears came speedily to her relief; after all, Eunice Trevor had been her cousin and childhood playmate.

Betty went to her room, and Doctor Marcy had to keep a professional engagement. Warriner and I had a whiskey-and-soda apiece, and over it discussed the meager details of the distressing occurrence.

"Darker than ever," I remarked, when he had finished with his version of the affair.

"It does look that way," he admitted. "Understand, there is no evidence of suicide."

"So Marcy said."

"Her written statement may shed some light."

"You had better stay to dinner," I suggested, "and go over it with us."

Warriner assented with such friendly frankness that I felt a little ashamed of my somewhat perfunctory invitation. But perhaps he had not noticed the lack of cordiality in my voice. At any rate, he stayed, and the dinner passed off tolerably enough. After dessert I proposed an adjournment to the library for coffee, but Betty objected. "I couldn't sit in that room," she protested earnestly. So we compromised on the big living room on the left of the hall as one enters. I took the packet Betty handed me, and broke the seal. A dozen or more sheets of note-paper, written in pencil, fell out.

"It's a rather difficult handwriting," said Betty, "and I suppose I'm more familiar with it than either of you men." So Warriner and I lit our cigars and prepared to listen.