"See what you can make of it," suggested Converse.
After a while McCaleb stood upright again, took a long breath, and shook his head.
"I can make nothing of it," said he; "the lines are too crisscrossed and mixed, the fragments of words too short and indistinct. Maybe—if I had a lens—something more to go on—"
"But is there nothing that particularly attracts your attention?"
Once more McCaleb frowned heavily and concentrated his mind upon the blotter.
"I suppose this is the one General Westbrook was using?" he asked.
"Yes."
In silence he studied it some moments longer.... "No," said he, with an air of finality; "I can make out nothing but a lot of curlicues that look like figure three's with tails to 'em. I can't imagine what they mean."
Converse chuckled in his throat. "My question was hardly fair," said he. "You hadn't the advantages in the first case I had. I'll tell you this much, though: they're letter 'z's.'"
"Oh, I begin to see. I suppose you would like me to confirm your opinion, by coming independently to the same conclusions. Well, I'll try again."