‘Oh, I see. For your oath’s sake. That is what Herod said to the daughter of Herodias. It is not a good example to follow.’
He spoke stiffly, but she shook her head.
‘I only ask for a few words, Willie.’
‘But Talbot writes to me in confidence; about matters that only affect him and me. There is not a word that concerns you in it.’
Still she shook her head. The girl was truth itself, not only in the spirit but in the letter. She had sworn not to speak with him unless he did a certain thing, and though the reason for his doing so no longer existed, her oath remained. Her stubbornness evidently annoyed him. Their parts in the little drama had as it were become reversed. The wrongdoer had become the injured person, and vice versâ.
‘The facts are these,’ he said slowly. ‘Talbot and I, as you know, have a secret in common. He is the only person save myself, who has seen my patron. What he writes of him and his concerns—that is of the manuscripts—we do not wish others to see. We have therefore hit upon a device to keep our communications secret.’
He took out of the drawer a piece of cardboard exactly the shape and size of ordinary letter-paper, full of large holes neatly cut at unequal distances. He placed it on blank paper, and through the interstices wrote these words:
‘Margaret has done you the honour to take your finnikin hand-writing for that of Mrs. Jordan.’
Then he took off the cardboard and filled in the spaces with a number of inconsequent words, so that the whole communication became meaningless.