"It certainly would," I replied.
The reporter then did a most surprising thing, which gave a startling and dramatic turn to our conversation.
"I've been convinced all along," he said, as he walked over to a secretary, in which he unlocked and opened a drawer, "that there was a human agency—a master mind—at the bottom of all this. In what way, I didn't know—couldn't guess. But, now, I'm sure of it."
From an inner receptacle of the drawer, he produced the scroll, which was found in the rocket, the contents of which Olinski had so skillfully decoded, and he had put into scenario form. He laid it on the table before me.
"Take a look at that," he said.
Carefully unrolling the scroll, I inspected it closely through a reading glass. The tiny cuneiform writing was no more intelligible to me than the hieroglyphics on Cleopatra's Needle in Central Park. It was inscribed on what I judged to be papyrus, the writing-paper of the ancient Egyptians. No doubt the papyrus-plant also grew on Mars. As I looked it over carefully, I detected a curious, subtle scent, like some rare perfume. The roller, I took to be ebony.
I smiled dryly, and made a move to hand it back to the reporter. "I'm afraid I can't make anything out of it," I said; "at least, nothing suspicious, or in the way of a clue."
He waved it off. "You're not finished with it yet," he said. "Try holding it up against the light. Study it again—carefully."
I did as he directed, unrolling the scroll a little at a time, and looking through it, against the bright light of the reading lamp. Suddenly, I stopped—startled; my eyes seemed to pop.
McGinity's voice broke in on the silence.