“Was anything seen of Doran to-day?”
Ben shook his head.
“I half believe,” Mr. Havens continued, “that the code despatches were stolen by him last night from the hotel, copied, and the copies sent out to the field to be delivered to some one of the conspirators.”
“But no one could translate them,” suggested Ben.
“I’m not so sure of that,” was the reply. “The code is by no means a new one. I have often reproached myself for not changing it after Redfern disappeared with the money.”
“If it’s the same code you used then,” Ben argued, “you may be sure there is some one of the conspirators who can do the translating. Why,” he went on, “there must be. They wouldn’t have stolen code despatches unless they knew how to read them.”
“In that case,” smiled Mr. Havens grimly, “they have actually secured the information they desire from the men they are fighting.”
“Were the messages important?” asked Ben.
“Duplicates of papers contained in deposit box A,” was the answer.
“What can they learn from them?”