My eager eyes devoured it. Near the foot was sketched a strange device, very much like a plan, for in the centre of three unequal triangles was a small circle, and with them certain cabalistic signs.
“You see it is unfortunately in cipher,” Staffurth pointed out. “But it no doubt has something to do with the treasure.”
“But we have the key,” I exclaimed. “It is written in the vellum book.”
He shook his white head, saying: “No. I have already tried it. Our key is useless. This is entirely different.”
“It may be a copy of the document sold by Knutton,” I cried. “Possibly it has been placed among the Government records for safety, in case the Knuttons should lose the one entrusted to their care.”
“Possibly,” was his answer. “But our key to the cipher gives us absolutely no assistance. What I want you to do is to copy it. Take that pen and write down the letters at my dictation.”
I obeyed, and with care printed in capitals as he read them off as follows —
HPSEWXOQHWHPBARLHEOWC MRS OWCWPASROOBK LPC AXHAHBXHO BOW RSO BOWUAC SOP KSRSEBBNK PUA CJOOALAJOFCZXHO OKYSOP PORCJU O LP BRRIPCPCO BALCJO OLPROLLPO SB OO WRCRR XHA CFA XH BSJSQOM ECLSXISPBNCXCMOHOLEWXIO EHOBI OB LBS
There were some forty lines, all as utterly unintelligible as the extract given above. The parchment was yellow, and here and there were damp stains where the ink had faded until the deciphering of the capitals was a matter of some difficulty. But, with the practised eye of an expert, old Mr. Staffurth read off the rather difficult Italian hand just as easily as a newspaper.
He showed me the great difference in the English hand in Elizabeth’s day to the Italian, and we concluded that it was in the autography of Bartholomew da Schorno himself. But, possessing no key to the cipher, neither of us was hopeful of reading the statement contained therein. I could not help thinking that the key in the vellum book would be of some use to us, but my friend was quite positive that it had nothing whatever to do with the present cryptic writing.