As he rose to go, there was a soft knock at the door. A little girl, in a shabby frock, ventured to show herself in the room.
“What do you want here?” her mother asked sharply.
Syd held out a small thin hand, with a letter in it, which represented her only excuse. Mrs. Westerfield read the letter, and crumpled it up in her pocket. “One of your secrets?” James asked. “Anything about the diamonds, for instance?”
“Wait till you are my husband,” she said, “and then you may be as inquisitive as you please.” Her amiable sweetheart’s guess had actually hit the mark. During the year that had passed, she too had tried her luck among the Experts, and had failed. Having recently heard of a foreign interpreter of ciphers, she had written to ask his terms. The reply (just received) not only estimated his services at an extravagantly high rate, but asked cautious questions which it was not convenient to answer. Another attempt had been made to discover the mystery of the cipher, and made in vain.
James Bellbridge had his moments of good-humor, and was on those rare occasions easily amused. He eyed the child with condescending curiosity. “Looks half starved,” he said—as if he were considering the case of a stray cat. “Hollo, there! Buy a bit of bread.” He tossed a penny to Syd as she left the room; and took the opportunity of binding his bargain with Syd’s mother. “Mind! if I take you to New York, I’m not going to be burdened with both your children. Is that girl the one you leave behind you?”
Mrs. Westerfield smiled sweetly, and answered: “Yes, dear.”
7.—The Cipher.
An advertisement in the newspapers, addressed to persons skilled in the interpretation of ciphers, now represented Mrs. Westerfield’s only chance of discovering where the diamonds were hidden. The first answer that she received made some amends for previous disappointment. It offered references to gentlemen, whose names were in themselves a sufficient guarantee. She verified the references nevertheless, and paid a visit to her correspondent on the same day.
His personal appearance was not in his favor—he was old and dirty, infirm and poor. His mean room was littered with shabby books. None of the ordinary courtesies of life seemed to be known to him; he neither wished Mrs. Westerfield good-morning nor asked her to take a seat. When she attempted to enter into explanations relating to her errand, he rudely interrupted her.
“Show me your cipher,” he said; “I don’t promise to study it unless I find it worth my while.”