There had been a knock at the door. It opened and the butler appeared.
“A telegram for Mr. Colton, Miss Mabel,” he said.
“Give it to me. Tell the man to wait, Johnson. It is from Mr. Davis,” she exclaimed, turning to me. “I am sure it is. Yes. See!”
She handed me the yellow telegram. I read the following aloud:
“James W. Colton,
“Denboro, Mass.
“Galileo potato soap currency tomato deeds command army alcohol thief weather family—”
“What on earth—!” I exclaimed.
“That is in the code, Father's private code. Don't you see? The code book is here somewhere. I must find it.”
She was rummaging in the drawer of the desk. With a sigh of relief she produced a little blue leather-covered book.