It had not occurred to her to take a copy. He rose and pointed to his empty chair. His opinion of the cipher was, to all appearance, forced to express itself by the discovery that there was no copy.
“Do you know what might happen?” he asked. “The only cipher that has puzzled me for the last ten years might be lost—or stolen—or burned if there was a fire in the house. You deserve to be punished for your carelessness. Make the copy yourself.”
This desirable suggestion (uncivilly as it was expressed) had its effect upon Mrs. Westerfield. Her marriage depended on that precious slip of paper. She was confirmed in her opinion that this very disagreeable man might nevertheless be a man to be trusted.
“Shall you be long in finding out what it means?” she asked when her task was completed.
He carefully compared the copy with the original—and then he replied:
“Days may pass before I can find the clew; I won’t attempt it unless you give me a week.”
She pleaded for a shorter interval. He coolly handed back her papers; the original and the copy.
“Try somebody else,” he suggested—and opened his book again. Mrs. Westerfield yielded with the worst possible grace. In granting him the week of delay, she approached the subject of his fee for the second time. “How much will it cost me?” she inquired.
“I’ll tell you when I’ve done.”
“That won’t do! I must know the amount first.”