of the final rendering.”
“Exactly,” burst in the superintendent; “it’s all Professor and no cryptogram.”
“Still, I think the reading is correct,” said Thorndyke. “As far as it goes, that is.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed the dismayed detective. “Do you mean to tell me, sir, that that balderdash is the real meaning of the thing?”
“I don’t say that,” replied Thorndyke. “I say it is correct as far as it goes; but I doubt its being the solution of the cryptogram.”
“Have you been studying that photograph that I gave you?” demanded Miller, with sudden eagerness.
“I have looked at it,” said Thorndyke evasively, “but I should like to examine the original if you have it with you.”
“I have,” said the detective. “Professor Poppelbaum sent it back with the solution. You can have a look at it, though I can’t leave it with you without special authority.”
He drew the document from his pocket-book and handed it to Thorndyke, who took it over to the window and scrutinized it closely. From the window he drifted into the adjacent office, closing the door after him; and presently the sound of a faint explosion told me that he had lighted the gas-fire.
“Of course,” said Miller, taking up the translation again, “this gibberish is the sort of stuff you might expect from a parcel of crack-brained anarchists; but it doesn’t seem to mean anything.”
“Not to us,” I agreed; “but the phrases may have some pre-arranged significance. And then there are the letters between the words. It is possible that they may really form a cipher.”
“I suggested that to the Professor,” said Miller, “but he wouldn’t hear of it. He is sure they are only dummies.”
“I think he is probably mistaken, and so, I fancy, does my colleague. But we shall hear what he has to say presently.”
“Oh, I know what he will say,” growled Miller. “He will put the thing under the microscope, and tell us who made the paper, and what the ink is composed of, and then we shall be just where we were.” The superintendent was evidently deeply depressed.
We sat for some time pondering in silence on the vague sentences of the Professor’s translation, until, at length, Thorndyke reappeared, holding the document in his hand. He laid it quietly on the table by the officer, and then inquired:
“Is this an official consultation?”
“Certainly,” replied Miller. “I was authorized to consult you respecting the translation, but nothing was said about the original. Still, if you want it for further study, I will get it for you.”
“No, thank you,” said Thorndyke. “I have finished with it. My theory turned out to be correct.”
“Your theory!” exclaimed the superintendent, eagerly. “Do you mean to say—?”
“And, as you are consulting me officially, I may as well give you this.”
He held out a sheet of paper, which the detective took from him and began to read.
“What is this?” he asked, looking up at Thorndyke with a puzzled frown. “Where did it come from?”
“It is the solution of the cryptogram,” replied Thorndyke.
The detective re-read the contents of the paper, and, with the frown of perplexity deepening, once more gazed at my colleague.
“This is a joke, sir; you are fooling me,” he said sulkily.
“Nothing of the kind,” answered Thorndyke. “That is the genuine solution.”
“But it’s impossible!” exclaimed Miller. “Just look at it, Dr. Jervis.”
I took the paper from his hand, and, as I glanced at it, I had no difficulty in understanding his surprise. It bore a short inscription in printed Roman capitals, thus:
“THE PICKERDILLEY STUF IS UP THE CHIMBLY 416 WARDOUR ST 2ND FLOUR BACK IT WAS HID BECOS OF OLD MOAKEYS JOOD MOAKEY IS A BLITER.”
“Then that fellow wasn’t an anarchist at all?” I exclaimed.
“No,” said Miller. “He was one of Moakey’s gang. We suspected Moakey of being mixed up with that job, but we couldn’t fix it on him. By Jove!” he added, slapping his thigh, “if this is right, and I can lay my hands on the loot! Can you lend me a bag, doctor? I’m off to Wardour Street this very moment.”
We furnished him with an empty suitcase, and, from the window, watched him making for Mitre Court at a smart double.
“I wonder if he will find the booty,” said Thorndyke. “It just depends on whether the hiding-place was known to more than one of the gang. Well, it has been a quaint case, and instructive, too. I suspect our friend Barton and the evasive Schönberg were the collaborators who produced that curiosity of literature.”
“May I ask how you deciphered the thing?” I said. “It didn’t appear to take long.”
“It didn’t. It was merely a matter of testing a hypothesis; and you ought not to have to ask that question,” he added, with mock severity, “seeing that you had what turn out to have been all the necessary facts, two days ago. But I will prepare a document and demonstrate to you tomorrow morning.”
* * * *
“So Miller was successful in his quest,” said Thorndyke, as we smoked our morning pipes after breakfast. “The ‘entire swag,’ as he calls it, was ‘up the chimbly,’ undisturbed.”
He handed me a note which had been left, with the empty suitcase, by a messenger, shortly before, and I was about to read it when an agitated knock was heard at our door. The visitor, whom I admitted, was a rather haggard and dishevelled elderly gentleman, who, as he entered, peered inquisitively through his concave spectacles from one of us to the other.
“Allow me to introduce myself, gentlemen,” said he. “I am Professor Poppelbaum.”
Thorndyke bowed and offered a chair.
“I called yesterday afternoon,” our visitor continued, “at Scotland Yard, where I heard of your remarkable decipherment and of the convincing proof of its correctness. Thereupon I borrowed the cryptogram, and have spent the entire night in studying it, but I cannot connect your solution with any of the characters. I wonder if you would do me the great favour of enlightening me as to your method of decipherment, and so save me further sleepless nights? You may rely on my discretion.”
“Have you the document with you?” asked Thorndyke.
The Professor produced it from his pocket-book, and passed it to my colleague.
“You observe, Professor,” said the latter, “that this is a laid paper, and has no water-mark?”
“Yes, I noticed that.”
“And that the writing is in indelible Chinese ink?”
“Yes, yes,” said the savant impatiently; “but it is the inscription that interests me, not the paper and ink.”
“Precisely,” said Thorndyke. “Now, it was the ink that interested me when I caught a glimpse of the document three days ago. ‘Why,’ I asked myself, ‘should anyone use this troublesome medium’—for this appears to be stick ink—‘when good writing ink is to be had?’ What advantages has Chinese ink over writing ink? It has several advantages as a drawing ink, but for writing purposes it has only one: it is quite unaffected by wet. The obvious inference, then, was that this document was, for some reason, likely to be exposed to wet. But this inference instantly suggested another, which I was yesterday able to put to the test—thus.”
He filled a tumbler with water, and, rolling up the document, dropped it in. Immediately there began to appear on it a new set of