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.”
Mrs. Westerfield was alarmed.
“Do you mean that you want a large sum of money?” she asked.
“I mean that I don’t waste my time on easy ciphers invented by fools.”
She laid the slip of paper on his desk.
“Waste your time on that,” she said satirically, “and see how you like it!”
He examined it—first with his bleared red-rimmed eyes; then with a magnifying-glass. The only expression of opinion that escaped him was indicated by his actions. He shut up his book, and gloated over the signs and characters before him. On a sudden he looked at Mrs. Westerfield. “How did you come by this?” he asked.
“That’s no business of yours.”
“In other words, you have reasons of your own for not answering my question?”
“Yes.”
Drawing his own inferences from that reply, he showed his three last-left yellow teeth in a horrid grin. “I understand!” he said, speaking to himself. He looked at the cipher once more, and put another question: “Have you got a copy of this?”
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.”
He handed her back her papers for the second time. Mrs. Westerfield’s experience of poverty had never been the experience of such independence as this. In sheer bewilderment, she yielded again. He took back the original cipher, and locked it up in his desk. “Call here this day week,” he said—and returned to his book.
“You are not very polite,” she told him, on leaving the room.
“At any rate,” he answered, “I don’t interrupt people when they are reading.”
The week passed.
Repeating her visit, Mrs. Westerfield found him still seated at his desk, still surrounded by his books, still careless of the polite attentions that he owed to a lady.
“Well?” she asked, “have you earned your money?”
“I have found the clew.”
“What is it?” she burst out. “Tell me the substance. I can’t wait to read.”
He went on impenetrably with what he had to say. “But there are some minor combinations, which I have still to discover to my own satisfaction. I want a few days more.”
She positively refused to comply with this request. “Write down the substance of it,” she repeated, “and tell me what I owe you.”
He handed her back her cipher for the third time.
The woman who could have kept her temper, under such provocation as this, may be found when the mathematician is found who can square the circle, or the inventor who can discover perpetual motion. With a furious look, Mrs. Westerfield expressed her opinion of the philosopher in two words: “You brute!” She failed to produce the slightest impression on him.
“My work,” he proceeded, “must be well done or not done at all. This is Saturday, eleventh of the month. We will say the evening of Wednesday next.”
Mrs. Westerfield sufficiently controlled herself to be able to review her engagements for the coming week. On Thursday, the delay exacted by the marriage license would expire, and the wedding might take place. On Friday, the express train conveyed passengers to Liverpool, to be in time for the departure of the steamer for New York on Saturday morning. Having made these calculations, she asked, with sulky submission, if she was expected to call again on the Wednesday evening.
“No. Leave me your name and address. I will send you the cipher, interpreted, at eight o’clock.”
Mrs. Westerfield laid one of her visiting cards on his desk, and left him.
8.—The Diamonds.
The new week was essentially a week of events.
On the Monday morning, Mrs. Westerfield and her faithful James had their first quarrel. She took the liberty of reminding him that it was time to give notice of the marriage at the church, and to secure berths in the steamer for herself and her son. Instead of answering one way or another, James asked how the Expert was getting on.
“Has your old man found out where the diamonds are?”
“Not yet.”
“Then we’ll wait till he does.”
“Do you believe my word?” Mrs. Westerfield asked curtly.
James Bellbridge answered, with Roman brevity, “No.”
This was an insult; Mrs. Westerfield expressed her sense of it. She rose, and pointed to the door. “Go back to America, as soon as you please,” she said; “and find the money you want—if you can.”
As a proof that she was in earnest she took her copy of the cipher out of the bosom of her dress, and threw it into the fire. “The original is safe in my old man’s keeping,” she added. “Leave the room.”
James