“By the way,” he said a moment later, “I have a queer sort of message from my pal here in my pocket. It’s all done in figures and signs. How he could expect me to read it is more than I know. And yet, somehow I feel that it must be important.”
“Perhaps I can help you. Let me see it.”
Johnny drew the crumpled bit of paper from his pocket, smoothed it out on his knee, then gave it to the girl.
By the light of a tiny flashlight, which Johnny always carried, she studied it for a full three minutes.
“That is queer,” she said at last, twisting her brow into a puzzled frown. “But somehow it seems easy enough if only one knew how to begin.”
For three minutes longer, as the wind sang across the top of their grotto and the rain came dashing down, she studied that bit of paper. Then of a sudden she asked:
“Johnny, how does your friend end his notes to you?”
“Why,” said Johnny thoughtfully, “he hasn’t written me many. Near as I can recall, when he comes to the end he just stops.”
The girl’s laugh rang out high and clear.
“I mean does he say, ‘Yours truly,’ ‘Your pal,’ or something like that?”