“I suppose you have heard of what we call the science of graphology?” he inquired, motioning in pantomime to me to fill a basin with warm water. “It is the reading of character in handwriting.”
Into the basin he dropped the blank sheet. We waited in silence. I, at least, was not surprised when he held up the wet paper, now covered with figures scrawled over it.
“Even though there is writing on this sheet,” he observed, holding up the note, “and figures on the other, I think any one could tell at a glance that they were not made by the same hand. This was by no means my first clue.” He was waving the wet paper with the figures. “But it decided me. Though the message was hidden both by sympathetic ink and a cryptogram, still, in the light of this new science, the character of the writer stands out as plain as if it were shouted from the house-top.”
He paused again. “Graphology tells me,” he proceeded, slowly, “that the hand that wrote these figures is the hand of one who has all the characteristics of a spy and a traitor. Before we go further, let me call to your mind some rather remarkable deductions and discoveries I have made. By the way, Burke, you left word where we were, in case we get any news?”
The Secret Service man nodded, but said nothing, as if he did not wish his voice to break the thread of Kennedy’s disclosure.
“The plot against Maddox Munitions and particularly the wonderful telautomaton,” continued Kennedy, gravely, “was subtle. Apparently all was to be accomplished at one coup. The plans were to be stolen on the Sybarite the same night that the model was to be taken from the safe in New York. How the latter was accomplished we know well enough, now, for all practical purposes. Marshall Maddox’s keys were to admit the thief to the office. The burglar’s microphone did the rest.
“How it was accomplished here I know, too. Without a doubt, the Japanese, Mito, admitted the plotter to the Sybarite, at least signaled so that it was possible to creep up quietly in a cruiser and throw a chlorine-gas bomb through a marked port. Marshall Maddox was overcome—killed. Through the same port-hole his body was thrown.
“Thus at once both the plans and the keys that gave access to the model were obtained.”
As Craig spoke, my mind hastily reviewed the events of what seemed now weeks instead of days past. It was as though he had failed in an explanation of the events in a silent drama.
“Mito was seen ashore that night,” he resumed. “He was suspected. I was watching him. Worse than that, he knew too much. He was a weak link, an ever-present danger. Therefore he must be got out of the way. He was killed. But his mute lips tell quite as eloquent a story as if he were here before us now. There is another who played an even more important part. She is not here, but I know you all know whom I mean.”