The Tracer touched his gray mustache and bowed; the girl bowed very sweetly.
"You are Mr. Keen," she said; "you have an inscription for me to translate."
"A mystery for young eyes to interpret," he said, smiling. "May I sit here—and tell my story before I show you my inscription?"
"Please do," she said, seating herself at her desk and facing him, one slender white hand supporting the oval of her face.
The Tracer drew his chair a little forward. "It is a curious matter," he said. "May I give you a brief outline of the details?"
"By all means, Mr. Keen."
"Then let me begin by saying that the inscription of which I have a copy was probably scratched upon a window pane by means of a diamond."
"Oh! Then—then it is not an ancient inscription, Mr. Keen."
"The theme is ancient—the oldest theme in the world—love! The cipher is old—as old as King Solomon." She looked up quickly. The Tracer, apparently engrossed in his own story, went on with it. "Three years ago the young girl who wrote this inscription upon the window pane of her—her bedroom, I think it was—fell in love. Do you follow me, Miss Inwood?"
Miss Inwood sat very still—wide, dark eyes fixed on him.