The safe had been thoroughly cleansed, and now stood temporarily under the principal staircase. I never passed it without an inquiring glance; somehow Betty and I could not resist the temptation of speculating about it; we were as curious as children, ever intent upon discovering what secrets it might hold. But how to find the key to the mystery?
And then one evening Betty had a brilliant idea. "Do you remember," she asked, "a series of numbers that I got from Mr. Thaneford the day he died?"
"Of course." I pulled out my note-book, and read the formula aloud: "1-4-2-4-8."
"He certainly wanted to tell me something," persisted Betty. "Why shouldn't it have been the very combination we are looking for?"
"Easy enough to find out," I answered. I went over to the safe, knelt down and took hold of the knob. Betty stood at my elbow, the note-book in her hand. "Ready?" she asked. "The numbers are: 1-4-2-4-8."
I turned the knob, counting the clicks as they passed. The door yielded and swung open.
Not much of a find after all—nothing but a leather-bound book resembling a diary in appearance. One of the covers had been slightly scorched by the intense heat, but the MS. seemed to be in excellent condition. I opened the book, scanned two or three lines, and looked up at Betty, who was leaning over my shoulder.
"Why it's just a jumble of letters!" she exclaimed in poignant disappointment. "I can't read a word of it; what does it mean?"
"Undoubtedly written in cypher," I replied. We looked at one another and laughed. Here indeed was an anti-climax.