CHAPTER XII
THE CIPHER
It was a haggard, heavy-eyed young man who presented himself at Henry Blaine’s office, early the next morning, with his report. The detective made no comment upon his subordinate’s changed appearance and manner, but eyed him keenly as with dogged determination Guy Morrow told his story through to the end.
“The letter––the cipher letter!” Blaine demanded, curtly, when the operative paused at length. “You have it with you?”
Morrow drew a deep breath and unconsciously he squared his shoulders.
“No, sir,” he responded, his voice significantly steady and controlled.
“Where is it?”
“I gave it back to her––to Miss Brunell.”
“What! Then you solved it?” the detective leaned forward suddenly, the level gaze from beneath his close-drawn brows seeming to pierce the younger man’s impassivity.
“No, sir. It was a cryptogram, of course––an arrangement of cabalistic signs instead of letters, but I could make nothing of it. The message, whatever it is, would take hours of careful study to decipher; and even then, without the key, one might fail. I have seen nothing quite like it, in all my experience.”