John Thorndyke's Cases

by R. Austin Freeman

  V

  THE MOABITE CIPHER

  A large and motley crowd lined the pavements of Oxford Street asThorndyke and I made our way leisurely eastward. Floral decorations anddrooping bunting announced one of those functions inaugurated from timeto time by a benevolent Government for the entertainment of fashionableloungers and the relief of distressed pickpockets. For a Russian GrandDuke, who had torn himself away, amidst valedictory explosions, from aloving if too demonstrative people, was to pass anon on his way to theGuildhall; and a British Prince, heroically indiscreet, was expected tooccupy a seat in the ducal carriage.

  Near Rathbone Place Thorndyke halted and drew my attention to asmart-looking man who stood lounging in a doorway, cigarette in hand.

  "Our old friend Inspector Badger," said Thorndyke. "He seems mightilyinterested in that gentleman in the light overcoat. How d'ye do,Badger?" for at this moment the detective caught his eye and bowed. "Whois your friend?"

  "That's what I want to know, sir," replied the inspector. "I've beenshadowing him for the last half-hour, but I can't make him out, though Ibelieve I've seen him somewhere. He don't look like a foreigner, but hehas got something bulky in his pocket, so I must keep him in sight untilthe Duke is safely past. I wish," he added gloomily, "these beastlyRussians would stop at home. They give us no end of trouble."

  "Are you expecting any--occurrences, then?" asked Thorndyke.

  "Bless you, sir," exclaimed Badger, "the whole route is lined withplain-clothes men. You see, it is known that several desperatecharacters followed the Duke to England, and there are a good manyexiles living here who would like to have a rap at him. Hallo! What's heup to now?"

  The man in the light overcoat had suddenly caught the inspector's tooinquiring eye, and forthwith dived into the crowd at the edge of thepavement. In his haste he trod heavily on the foot of a big,rough-looking man, by whom he was in a moment hustled out into the roadwith such violence that he fell sprawling face downwards. It was anunlucky moment. A mounted constable was just then backing in upon thecrowd, and before he could gather the meaning of the shout that arosefrom the bystanders, his horse had set down one hind-hoof firmly on theprostrate man's back.

  The inspector signalled to a constable, who forthwith made a way for usthrough the crowd; but even as we approached the injured man, he rosestiffly and looked round with a pale, vacant face.

  "Are you hurt?" Thorndyke asked gently, with an earnest look into thefrightened, wondering eyes.

  "No, sir," was the reply; "only I feel queer--sinking--just here."

  He laid a trembling hand on his chest, and Thorndyke, still eyeing himanxiously, said in a low voice to the inspector: "Cab or ambulance, asquickly as you can."

  A cab was led round from Newman Street, and the injured man put into it.Thorndyke, Badger, and I entered, and we drove off up Rathbone Place. Aswe proceeded, our patient's face grew more and more ashen, drawn, andanxious; his breathing was shallow and uneven, and his teeth chatteredslightly. The cab swung round into Goodge Street, and then--suddenly, inthe twinkling of an eye--there came a change. The eyelids and jawrelaxed, the eyes became filmy, and the whole form subsided into thecorner in a shrunken heap, with the strange gelatinous limpness of abody that is dead as a whole, while its tissues are still alive.

  "God save us! The man's dead!" exclaimed the inspector in a shockedvoice--for even policemen have their feelings. He sat staring at thecorpse, as it nodded gently with the jolting of the cab, until we drewup inside the courtyard of the Middlesex Hospital, when he got outbriskly, with suddenly renewed cheerfulness, to help the porter to placethe body on the wheeled couch.

  "We shall know who he is now, at any rate," said he, as we followed thecouch to the casualty-room. Thorndyke nodded unsympathetically. Themedical instinct in him was for the moment stronger than the legal.

  The house-surgeon leaned over the couch, and made a rapid examination ashe listened to our account of the accident. Then he straightened himselfup and looked at Thorndyke.

  "Internal haemorrhage, I expect," said he. "At any rate, he's dead, poorbeggar!--as dead as Nebuchadnezzar. Ah! here comes a bobby; it's hisaffair now."

  A sergeant came into the room, breathing quickly, and looked in surprisefrom the corpse to the inspector. But the latter, without loss of time,proceeded to turn out the dead man's pockets, commencing with the bulkyobject that had first attracted his attention; which proved to be abrown-paper parcel tied up with red tape.

  "Pork-pie, begad!" he exclaimed with a crestfallen air as he cut thetape and opened the package. "You had better go through his otherpockets, sergeant."

  The small heap of odds and ends that resulted from this process tended,with a single exception, to throw little light on the man's identity;the exception being a letter, sealed, but not stamped, addressed in anexceedingly illiterate hand to Mr. Adolf Schoenberg, 213, Greek Street,Soho.

  "He was going to leave it by hand, I expect," observed the inspector,with a wistful glance at the sealed envelope. "I think I'll take itround myself, and you had better come with me, sergeant."

  He slipped the letter into his pocket, and, leaving the sergeant to takepossession of the other effects, made his way out of the building.

  "I suppose, Doctor," said he, as we crossed into Berners Street, "youare not coming our way! Don't want to see Mr. Schoenberg, h'm?"

  Thorndyke reflected for a moment. "Well, it isn't very far, and we mayas well see the end of the incident. Yes; let us go together."

  No. 213, Greek Street, was one of those houses that irresistibly suggestto the observer the idea of a church organ, either jamb of the doorwaybeing adorned with a row of brass bell-handles corresponding to thestop-knobs.

  These the sergeant examined with the air of an expert musician, andhaving, as it were, gauged the capacity of the instrument, selected themiddle knob on the right-hand side and pulled it briskly; whereupon afirst-floor window was thrown up and a head protruded. But it affordedus a momentary glimpse only, for, having caught the sergeant's upturnedeye, it retired with surprising precipitancy, and before we had time tospeculate on the apparition, the street-door was opened and a manemerged. He was about to close the door after him when the inspectorinterposed.

  "Does Mr. Adolf Schoenberg live here?"

  The new-comer, a very typical Jew of the red-haired type, surveyed usthoughtfully through his gold-rimmed spectacles as he repeated the name.

  "Schoenberg--Schoenberg? Ah, yes! I know. He lives on the third-floor. Isaw him go up a short time ago. Third-floor back;" and indicating theopen door with a wave of the hand, he raised his hat and passed into thestreet.

  "I suppose we had better go up," said the inspector, with a dubiousglance at the row of bell-pulls. He accordingly started up the stairs,and we all followed in his wake.

  There were two doors at the back on the third-floor, but as the one wasopen, displaying an unoccupied bedroom, the inspector rapped smartly onthe other. It flew open almost immediately, and a fierce-looking littleman confronted us with a hostile stare.

  "Well?" said he.

  "Mr. Adolf Schoenberg?" inquired the inspector.

  "Well? What about him?" snapped our new acquaintance.

  "I wished to have a few words with him," said Badger.

  "Then what the deuce do you come banging at _my_ door for?" demanded theother.

  "Why, doesn't he live here?"

  "No. First-floor front," replied our friend, preparing to close thedoor.

  "Pardon me," said Thorndyke, "but what is Mr. Schoenberg like? I mean--"

  "Like?" interrupted the resident. "He's like a blooming Sheeny, with acarroty beard and gold gig-lamps!" and, having presented thisimpressionist sketch, he brought the interview to a definite close byslamming the door and turning the key.

  With a wrathful exclamation, the inspector turned towards the stairs,down which the sergeant was already clattering in hot haste, and madehis way back to the ground-floor, followed, as before, by Thorndyke andme. On the doorstep we f
ound the sergeant breathlessly interrogating asmartly-dressed youth, whom I had seen alight from a hansom as weentered the house, and who now stood with a notebook tucked under hisarm, sharpening a pencil with deliberate care.

  "Mr. James saw him come out, sir," said the sergeant. "He turned uptowards the Square."

  "Did he seem to hurry?" asked the inspector.

  "Rather," replied the reporter. "As soon as you were inside, he went offlike a lamplighter. You won't catch him now."

  "We don't want to catch him," the detective rejoined gruffly; then,backing out of earshot of the eager pressman, he said in a lower tone:"That was Mr. Schoenberg, beyond a doubt, and it is clear that he hassome reason for making himself scarce; so I shall consider myselfjustified in opening that note."

  He suited the action to the word, and, having cut the envelope open withofficial neatness, drew out the enclosure.

  "My hat!" he exclaimed, as his eye fell upon the contents. "What increation is this? It isn't shorthand, but what the deuce is it?"

  He handed the document to Thorndyke, who, having held it up to the lightand felt the paper critically, proceeded to examine it with keeninterest. It consisted of a single half-sheet of thin notepaper, bothsides of which were covered with strange, crabbed characters, writtenwith a brownish-black ink in continuous lines, without any spaces toindicate the divisions into words; and, but for the modern materialwhich bore the writing, it might have been a portion of some ancientmanuscript or forgotten codex.

  "What do you make of it, Doctor?" inquired the inspector anxiously,after a pause, during which Thorndyke had scrutinized the strangewriting with knitted brows.

  "Not a great deal," replied Thorndyke. "The character is the Moabite orPhoenician--primitive Semitic, in fact--and reads from right to left.The language I take to be Hebrew. At any rate, I can find no Greekwords, and I see here a group of letters which _may_ form one of the fewHebrew words that I know--the word _badim_, 'lies.' But you had betterget it deciphered by an expert."

  "If it is Hebrew," said Badger, "we can manage it all right. There areplenty of Jews at our disposal."

  "You had much better take the paper to the British Museum," saidThorndyke, "and submit it to the keeper of the Phoenician antiquitiesfor decipherment."

  Inspector Badger smiled a foxy smile as he deposited the paper in hispocket-book. "We'll see what we can make of it ourselves first," hesaid; "but many thanks for your advice, all the same, Doctor. No, Mr.James, I can't give you any information just at present; you had betterapply at the hospital."

  "I suspect," said Thorndyke, as we took our way homewards, "that Mr.James has collected enough material for his purpose already. He musthave followed us from the hospital, and I have no doubt that he has hisreport, with 'full details,' mentally arranged at this moment. And I amnot sure that he didn't get a peep at the mysterious paper, in spite ofthe inspector's precautions."

  "By the way," I said, "what do you make of the document?"

  "A cipher, most probably," he replied. "It is written in the primitiveSemitic alphabet, which, as you know, is practically identical withprimitive Greek. It is written from right to left, like the Phoenician,Hebrew, and Moabite, as well as the earliest Greek, inscriptions. Thepaper is common cream-laid notepaper, and the ink is ordinary indelibleChinese ink, such as is used by draughtsmen. Those are the facts, andwithout further study of the document itself, they don't carry us veryfar."

  "Why do you think it is a cipher rather than a document instraightforward Hebrew?"

  "Because it is obviously a secret message of some kind. Now, everyeducated Jew knows more or less Hebrew, and, although he is able to readand write only the modern square Hebrew character, it is so easy totranspose one alphabet into another that the mere language would affordno security. Therefore, I expect that, when the experts translate thisdocument, the translation or transliteration will be a mere farrago ofunintelligible nonsense. But we shall see, and meanwhile the facts thatwe have offer several interesting suggestions which are well worthconsideration."

  "As, for instance--?"

  "Now, my dear Jervis," said Thorndyke, shaking an admonitory forefingerat me, "don't, I pray you, give way to mental indolence. You have thesefew facts that I have mentioned. Consider them separately andcollectively, and in their relation to the circumstances. Don't attemptto suck my brain when you have an excellent brain of your own to suck."

  On the following morning the papers fully justified my colleague'sopinion of Mr. James. All the events which had occurred, as well as anumber that had not, were given in the fullest and most vivid detail, alengthy reference being made to the paper "found on the person of thedead anarchist," and "written in a private shorthand or cryptogram."

  The report concluded with the gratifying--though untrue--statement that"in this intricate and important case, the police have wisely securedthe assistance of Dr. John Thorndyke, to whose acute intellect and vastexperience the portentous cryptogram will doubtless soon deliver up itssecret."

  "Very flattering," laughed Thorndyke, to whom I read the extract on hisreturn from the hospital, "but a little awkward if it should induce ourfriends to deposit a few trifling mementoes in the form ofnitro-compounds on our main staircase or in the cellars. By the way, Imet Superintendent Miller on London Bridge. The 'cryptogram,' as Mr.James calls it, has set Scotland Yard in a mighty ferment."

  "Naturally. What have they done in the matter?"

  "They adopted my suggestion, after all, finding that they could makenothing of it themselves, and took it to the British Museum. The Museumpeople referred them to Professor Poppelbaum, the great palaeographer, towhom they accordingly submitted it."

  "Did he express any opinion about it?"

  "Yes, provisionally. After a brief examination, he found it to consistof a number of Hebrew words sandwiched between apparently meaninglessgroups of letters. He furnished the Superintendent off-hand with atranslation of the words, and Miller forthwith struck off a number ofhectograph copies of it, which he has distributed among the seniorofficials of his department; so that at present"--here Thorndyke gavevent to a soft chuckle--"Scotland Yard is engaged in a sort of missingword--or, rather, missing sense--competition. Miller invited me to joinin the sport, and to that end presented me with one of the hectographcopies on which to exercise my wits, together with a photograph of thedocument."

  "And shall you?" I asked.

  "Not I," he replied, laughing. "In the first place, I have not beenformally consulted, and consequently am a passive, though interested,spectator. In the second place, I have a theory of my own which I shalltest if the occasion arises. But if you would like to take part in thecompetition, I am authorized to show you the photograph and thetranslation. I will pass them on to you, and I wish you joy of them."

  He handed me the photograph and a sheet of paper that he had just takenfrom his pocket-book, and watched me with grim amusement as I read outthe first few lines.

  THE CIPHER.]

  "Woe, city, lies, robbery, prey, noise, whip, rattling, wheel, horse,chariot, day, darkness, gloominess, clouds, darkness, morning, mountain,people, strong, fire, them, flame."

  "It doesn't look very promising at first sight," I remarked. "What isthe Professor's theory?"

  "His theory--provisionally, of course--is that the words form themessage, and the groups of letters represent mere filled-up spacesbetween the words."

  "But surely," I protested, "that would be a very transparent device."

  Thorndyke laughed. "There is a childlike simplicity about it," said he,"that is highly attractive--but discouraging. It is much more probablethat the words are dummies, and that the letters contain the message.Or, again, the solution may lie in an entirely different direction. Butlisten! Is that cab coming here?"

  It was. It drew up opposite our chambers, and a few moments later abrisk step ascending the stairs heralded a smart rat-tat at our door.Flinging open the latter, I found myself confronted by a well-dressedstranger, who, after a quick glance at m
e, peered inquisitively over myshoulder into the room.

  "I am relieved, Dr. Jervis," said he, "to find you and Dr. Thorndyke athome, as I have come on somewhat urgent professional business. My name,"he continued, entering in response to my invitation, "is Barton, but youdon't know me, though I know you both by sight. I have come to ask youif one of you--or, better still, both--could come to-night and see mybrother."

  "That," said Thorndyke, "depends on the circumstances and on thewhereabouts of your brother."

  "The circumstances," said Mr. Barton, "are, in my opinion, highlysuspicious, and I will place them before you--of course, in strictconfidence."

  Thorndyke nodded and indicated a chair.

  "My brother," continued Mr. Barton, taking the profferred seat, "hasrecently married for the second time. His age is fifty-five, and that ofhis wife twenty-six, and I may say that the marriage has been--well, byno means a success. Now, within the last fortnight, my brother has beenattacked by a mysterious and extremely painful affection of the stomach,to which his doctor seems unable to give a name. It has resisted alltreatment hitherto. Day by day the pain and distress increase, and Ifeel that, unless something decisive is done, the end cannot be faroff."

  "Is the pain worse after taking food?" inquired Thorndyke.

  "That's just it!" exclaimed our visitor. "I see what is in your mind,and it has been in mine, too; so much so that I have tried repeatedly toobtain samples of the food that he is taking. And this morning Isucceeded." Here he took from his pocket a wide-mouthed bottle, which,disengaging from its paper wrappings, he laid on the table. "When Icalled, he was taking his breakfast of arrowroot, which he complainedhad a gritty taste, supposed by his wife to be due to the sugar. Now Ihad provided myself with this bottle, and, during the absence of hiswife, I managed unobserved to convey a portion of the arrowroot that hehad left into it, and I should be greatly obliged if you would examineit and tell me if this arrowroot contains anything that it should not."

  He pushed the bottle across to Thorndyke, who carried it to the window,and, extracting a small quantity of the contents with a glass rod,examined the pasty mass with the aid of a lens; then, lifting thebell-glass cover from the microscope, which stood on its table by thewindow, he smeared a small quantity of the suspected matter on to aglass slip, and placed it on the stage of the instrument.

  "I observe a number of crystalline particles in this," he said, after abrief inspection, "which have the appearance of arsenious acid."

  "Ah!" ejaculated Mr. Barton, "just what I feared. But are you certain?"

  "No," replied Thorndyke; "but the matter is easily tested."

  He pressed the button of the bell that communicated with the laboratory,a summons that brought the laboratory assistant from his lair withcharacteristic promptitude.

  "Will you please prepare a Marsh's apparatus, Polton," said Thorndyke.

  "I have a couple ready, sir," replied Polton.

  "Then pour the acid into one and bring it to me, with a tile."

  As his familiar vanished silently, Thorndyke turned to Mr. Barton.

  "Supposing we find arsenic in this arrowroot, as we probably shall, whatdo you want us to do?"

  "I want you to come and see my brother," replied our client.

  "Why not take a note from me to his doctor?"

  "No, no; I want you to come--I should like you both to come--and put astop at once to this dreadful business. Consider! It's a matter of lifeand death. You won't refuse! I beg you not to refuse me your help inthese terrible circumstances."

  "Well," said Thorndyke, as his assistant reappeared, "let us first seewhat the test has to tell us."

  Polton advanced to the table, on which he deposited a small flask, thecontents of which were in a state of brisk effervescence, a bottlelabelled "calcium hypochlorite," and a white porcelain tile. The flaskwas fitted with a safety-funnel and a glass tube drawn out to a finejet, to which Polton cautiously applied a lighted match. Instantly theresprang from the jet a tiny, pale violet flame. Thorndyke now took thetile, and held it in the flame for a few seconds, when the appearance ofthe surface remained unchanged save for a small circle of condensedmoisture. His next proceeding was to thin the arrowroot with distilledwater until it was quite fluid, and then pour a small quantity into thefunnel. It ran slowly down the tube into the flask, with the bubblingcontents of which it became speedily mixed. Almost immediately a changebegan to appear in the character of the flame, which from a pale violetturned gradually to a sickly blue, while above it hung a faint cloud ofwhite smoke. Once more Thorndyke held the tile above the jet, but thistime, no sooner had the pallid flame touched the cold surface of theporcelain, than there appeared on the latter a glistening black stain.

  "That is pretty conclusive," observed Thorndyke, lifting the stopper outof the reagent bottle, "but we will apply the final test." He dropped afew drops of the hypochlorite solution on to the tile, and immediatelythe black stain faded away and vanished. "We can now answer yourquestion, Mr. Barton," said he, replacing the stopper as he turned toour client. "The specimen that you brought us certainly containsarsenic, and in very considerable quantities."

  "Then," exclaimed Mr. Barton, starting from his chair, "you will comeand help me to rescue my brother from this dreadful peril. Don't refuseme, Dr. Thorndyke, for mercy's sake, don't refuse."

  Thorndyke reflected for a moment.

  "Before we decide," said he, "we must see what engagements we have."

  With a quick, significant glance at me, he walked into the office,whither I followed in some bewilderment, for I knew that we had noengagements for the evening.

  "Now, Jervis," said Thorndyke, as he closed the office door, "what arewe to do?"

  "We must go, I suppose," I replied. "It seems a pretty urgent case."

  "It does," he agreed. "Of course, the man may be telling the truth,after all."

  "You don't think he is, then?"

  "No. It is a plausible tale, but there is too much arsenic in thatarrowroot. Still, I think I ought to go. It is an ordinary professionalrisk. But there is no reason why you should put your head into thenoose."

  "Thank you," said I, somewhat huffily. "I don't see what risk there is,but if any exists I claim the right to share it."

  "Very well," he answered with a smile, "we will both go. I think we cantake care of ourselves."

  He re-entered the sitting-room, and announced his decision to Mr.Barton, whose relief and gratitude were quite pathetic.

  "But," said Thorndyke, "you have not yet told us where your brotherlives."

  "Rexford," was the reply--"Rexford, in Essex. It is an out-of-the-wayplace, but if we catch the seven-fifteen train from Liverpool Street, weshall be there in an hour and a half."

  "And as to the return? You know the trains, I suppose?"

  "Oh yes," replied our client; "I will see that you don't miss yourtrain back."

  "Then I will be with you in a minute," said Thorndyke; and, taking thestill-bubbling flask, he retired to the laboratory, whence he returnedin a few minutes carrying his hat and overcoat.

  The cab which had brought our client was still waiting, and we were soonrattling through the streets towards the station, where we arrived intime to furnish ourselves with dinner-baskets and select our compartmentat leisure.

  During the early part of the journey our companion was in excellentspirits. He despatched the cold fowl from the basket and quaffed therather indifferent claret with as much relish as if he had not had asingle relation in the world, and after dinner he became genial to theverge of hilarity. But, as time went on, there crept into his manner acertain anxious restlessness. He became silent and preoccupied, andseveral times furtively consulted his watch.

  "The train is confoundedly late!" he exclaimed irritably. "Seven minutesbehind time already!"

  "A few minutes more or less are not of much consequence," saidThorndyke.

  "No, of course not; but still--Ah, thank Heaven, here we are!"

  He thrust his head out of the
off-side window, and gazed eagerly downthe line; then, leaping to his feet, he bustled out on to the platformwhile the train was still moving.

  Even as we alighted a warning bell rang furiously on the up-platform,and as Mr. Barton hurried us through the empty booking-office to theoutside of the station, the rumble of the approaching train could beheard above the noise made by our own train moving off.

  "My carriage doesn't seem to have arrived yet," exclaimed Mr. Barton,looking anxiously up the station approach. "If you will wait here amoment, I will go and make inquiries."

  He darted back into the booking-office and through it on to theplatform, just as the up-train roared into the station. Thorndykefollowed him with quick but stealthy steps, and, peering out of thebooking-office door, watched his proceedings; then he turned andbeckoned to me.

  "There he goes," said he, pointing to an iron footbridge that spannedthe line; and, as I looked, I saw, clearly defined against the dim nightsky, a flying figure racing towards the "up" side.

  It was hardly two-thirds across when the guard's whistle sang out itsshrill warning.

  "Quick, Jervis," exclaimed Thorndyke; "she's off!"

  He leaped down on to the line, whither I followed instantly, and,crossing the rails, we clambered up together on to the foot-boardopposite an empty first-class compartment. Thorndyke's magazine knife,containing, among other implements, a railway-key, was already in hishand. The door was speedily unlocked, and, as we entered, Thorndyke ranthrough and looked out on to the platform.

  "Just in time!" he exclaimed. "He is in one of the forwardcompartments."

  He relocked the door, and, seating himself, proceeded to fill his pipe.

  "And now," said I, as the train moved out of the station, "perhaps youwill explain this little comedy."

  "With pleasure," he replied, "if it needs any explanation. But you canhardly have forgotten Mr. James's flattering remarks in his report ofthe Greek Street incident, clearly giving the impression that themysterious document was in my possession. When I read that, I knew Imust look out for some attempt to recover it, though I hardly expectedsuch promptness. Still, when Mr. Barton called without credentials orappointment, I viewed him with some suspicion. That suspicion deepenedwhen he wanted us both to come. It deepened further when I found animpossible quantity of arsenic in his sample, and it gave place tocertainty when, having allowed him to select the trains by which we wereto travel, I went up to the laboratory and examined the time-table; forI then found that the last train for London left Rexford ten minutesafter we were due to arrive. Obviously this was a plan to get us bothsafely out of the way while he and some of his friends ransacked ourchambers for the missing document."

  "I see; and that accounts for his extraordinary anxiety at the latenessof the train. But why did you come, if you knew it was a 'plant'?"

  "My dear fellow," said Thorndyke, "I never miss an interestingexperience if I can help it. There are possibilities in this, too, don'tyou see?"

  "But supposing his friends have broken into our chambers already?"

  "That contingency has been provided for; but I think they will wait forMr. Barton--and us."

  Our train, being the last one up, stopped at every station, and crawledslothfully in the intervals, so that it was past eleven o'clock when wereached Liverpool Street. Here we got out cautiously, and, mingling withthe crowd, followed the unconscious Barton up the platform, through thebarrier, and out into the street. He seemed in no special hurry, for,after pausing to light a cigar, he set off at an easy pace up New BroadStreet.

  Thorndyke hailed a hansom, and, motioning me to enter, directed thecabman to drive to Clifford's Inn Passage.

  "Sit well back," said he, as we rattled away up New Broad Street. "Weshall be passing our gay deceiver presently--in fact, there he is, aliving, walking illustration of the folly of underrating theintelligence of one's adversary."

  At Clifford's Inn Passage we dismissed the cab, and, retiring into theshadow of the dark, narrow alley, kept an eye on the gate of InnerTemple Lane. In about twenty minutes we observed our friend approachingon the south side of Fleet Street. He halted at the gate, plied theknocker, and after a brief parley with the night-porter vanished throughthe wicket. We waited yet five minutes more, and then, having given himtime to get clear of the entrance, we crossed the road.

  The porter looked at us with some surprise.

  "There's a gentleman just gone down to your chambers, sir," said he. "Hetold me you were expecting him."

  "Quite right," said Thorndyke, with a dry smile, "I was. Good-night."

  We slunk down the lane, past the church, and through the gloomycloisters, giving a wide berth to all lamps and lighted entries, until,emerging into Paper Buildings, we crossed at the darkest part to King'sBench Walk, where Thorndyke made straight for the chambers of our friendAnstey, which were two doors above our own.

  "Why are we coming here?" I asked, as we ascended the stairs.

  But the question needed no answer when we reached the landing, forthrough the open door of our friend's chambers I could see in thedarkened room Anstey himself with two uniformed constables and a coupleof plain-clothes men.

  "There has been no signal yet, sir," said one of the latter, whom Irecognized as a detective-sergeant of our division.

  "No," said Thorndyke, "but the M.C. has arrived. He came in five minutesbefore us."

  "Then," exclaimed Anstey, "the ball will open shortly, ladies and gents.The boards are waxed, the fiddlers are tuning up, and--"

  "Not quite so loud, if you please, sir," said the sergeant. "I thinkthere is somebody coming up Crown Office Row."

  The ball had, in fact, opened. As we peered cautiously out of the openwindow, keeping well back in the darkened room, a stealthy figure creptout of the shadow, crossed the road, and stole noiselessly into theentry of Thorndyke's chambers. It was quickly followed by a secondfigure, and then by a third, in which I recognized our elusive client.

  "Now listen for the signal," said Thorndyke. "They won't waste time.Confound that clock!"

  The soft-voiced bell of the Inner Temple clock, mingling with theharsher tones of St. Dunstan's and the Law Courts, slowly told out thehour of midnight; and as the last reverberations were dying away, somemetallic object, apparently a coin, dropped with a sharp clink on to thepavement under our window.

  At the sound the watchers simultaneously sprang to their feet.

  "You two go first," said the sergeant, addressing the uniformed men, whothereupon stole noiselessly, in their rubber-soled boots, down the stonestairs and along the pavement. The rest of us followed, with lessattention to silence, and as we ran up to Thorndyke's chambers, we wereaware of quick but stealthy footsteps on the stairs above.

  "They've been at work, you see," whispered one of the constables,flashing his lantern on to the iron-bound outer door of oursitting-room, on which the marks of a large jemmy were plainly visible.

  The sergeant nodded grimly, and, bidding the constables to remain on thelanding, led the way upwards.

  As we ascended, faint rustlings continued to be audible from above, andon the second-floor landing we met a man descending briskly, but withouthurry, from the third. It was Mr. Barton, and I could not but admire thecomposure with which he passed the two detectives. But suddenly hisglance fell on Thorndyke, and his composure vanished. With a wild stareof incredulous horror, he halted as if petrified; then he broke away andraced furiously down the stairs, and a moment later a muffled shout andthe sound of a scuffle told us that he had received a check. On the nextflight we met two more men, who, more hurried and less self-possessed,endeavoured to push past; but the sergeant barred the way.

  "Why, bless me!" exclaimed the latter, "it's Moakey; and isn't that TomHarris?"

  "It's all right, sergeant," said Moakey plaintively, striving to escapefrom the officer's grip. "We've come to the wrong house, that's all."

  The sergeant smiled indulgently. "I know," he replied. "But you'realways coming to the wrong house, Moakey; an
d now you're just comingalong with me to the right house."

  He slipped his hand inside his captive's coat, and adroitly fished out alarge, folding jemmy; whereupon the discomforted burglar abandoned allfurther protest.

  On our return to the first-floor, we found Mr. Barton sulkily awaitingus, handcuffed to one of the constables, and watched by Polton withpensive disapproval.

  "I needn't trouble you to-night, Doctor," said the sergeant, as hemarshalled his little troop of captors and captives. "You'll hear fromus in the morning. Good-night, sir."

  The melancholy procession moved off down the stairs, and we retired intoour chambers with Anstey to smoke a last pipe.

  "A capable man, that Barton," observed Thorndyke--"ready, plausible, andingenious, but spoilt by prolonged contact with fools. I wonder if thepolice will perceive the significance of this little affair."

  "They will be more acute than I am if they do," said I.

  "Naturally," interposed Anstey, who loved to "cheek" his revered senior,"because there isn't any. It's only Thorndyke's bounce. He is really ina deuce of a fog himself."

  However this may have been, the police were a good deal puzzled by theincident, for, on the following morning, we received a visit from noless a person than Superintendent Miller, of Scotland Yard.

  "This is a queer business," said he, coming to the point at once--"thisburglary, I mean. Why should they want to crack your place, right herein the Temple, too? You've got nothing of value here, have you? No'hard stuff,' as they call it, for instance?"

  "Not so much as a silver teaspoon," replied Thorndyke, who had aconscientious objection to plate of all kinds.

  "It's odd," said the superintendent, "deuced odd. When we got your note,we thought these anarchist idiots had mixed you up with the case--yousaw the papers, I suppose--and wanted to go through your rooms for somereason. We thought we had our hands on the gang, instead of which wefind a party of common crooks that we're sick of the sight of. I tellyou, sir, it's annoying when you think you've hooked a salmon, to bringup a blooming eel."

  "It must be a great disappointment," Thorndyke agreed, suppressing asmile.

  "It is," said the detective. "Not but what we're glad enough to getthese beggars, especially Halkett, or Barton, as he calls himself--amighty slippery customer is Halkett, and mischievous, too--but we're notwanting any disappointments just now. There was that big jewel job inPiccadilly, Taplin and Horne's; I don't mind telling you that we've notgot the ghost of a clue. Then there's this anarchist affair. We're allin the dark there, too."

  "But what about the cipher?" asked Thorndyke.

  "Oh, hang the cipher!" exclaimed the detective irritably. "ThisProfessor Poppelbaum may be a very learned man, but he doesn't help _us_much. He says the document is in Hebrew, and he has translated it intoDouble Dutch. Just listen to this!" He dragged out of his pocket abundle of papers, and, dabbing down a photograph of the document beforeThorndyke, commenced to read the Professor's report. "'The document iswritten in the characters of the well-known inscription of Mesha, Kingof Moab' (who the devil's he? Never heard of him. Well known, indeed!)'The language is Hebrew, and the words are separated by groups ofletters, which are meaningless, and obviously introduced to mislead andconfuse the reader. The words themselves are not strictly consecutive,but, by the interpellation of certain other words, a series ofintelligible sentences is obtained, the meaning of which is not veryclear, but is no doubt allegorical. The method of decipherment is shownin the accompanying tables, and the full rendering suggested on theenclosed sheet. It is to be noted that the writer of this document wasapparently quite unacquainted with the Hebrew language, as appears fromthe absence of any grammatical construction.' That's the Professor'sreport, Doctor, and here are the tables showing how he worked it out. Itmakes my head spin to look at 'em."

  He handed to Thorndyke a bundle of ruled sheets, which my colleagueexamined attentively for a while, and then passed on to me.

  "This is very systematic and thorough," said he. "But now let us see thefinal result at which he arrives."

  "It may be all very systematic," growled the superintendent, sorting outhis papers, "but I tell you, sir, it's all BOSH!" The latter word hejerked out viciously, as he slapped down on the table the final productof the Professor's labours. "There," he continued, "that's what he callsthe 'full rendering,' and I reckon it'll make your hair curl. It mightbe a message from Bedlam."

  Thorndyke took up the first sheet, and as he compared the constructedrenderings with the literal translation, the ghost of a smile stoleacross his usually immovable countenance.

  "The meaning is certainly a little obscure," he observed, "though thereconstruction is highly ingenious; and, moreover, I think the Professoris probably right. That is to say, the words which he has supplied areprobably the omitted parts of the passages from which the words of thecryptogram were taken. What do you think, Jervis?"

  THE PROFESSOR'S ANALYSIS.

  Handwritten: Analysis of the cipher with translation into modern squareHebrew characters + a translation into English. N.B. The cipher readsfrom right to left.]

  He handed me the two papers, of which one gave the actual words of thecryptogram, and the other a suggested reconstruction, with omitted wordssupplied. The first read:

  "Woe city lies robbery prey noise whip rattling wheel horse chariot day darkness gloominess cloud darkness morning mountain people strong fire them flame."

  Turning to the second paper, I read out the suggested rendering:

  "'Woe _to the bloody_ city! _It is full of_ lies _and_ robbery; _the_prey _departeth not_. _The_ noise _of a_ whip, _and the noise of the_rattling _of the_ wheel_s_, _and of the prancing_ horse_s_, _and of thejumping_ chariot_s_.

  "'_A_ day _of_ darkness _and of_ gloominess, _a day of_ cloud_s_, _andof thick_ darkness, _as the_ morning _spread upon the_ mountain_s_, _agreat_ people _and a_ strong.

  "'_A_ fire _devoureth before_ them, _and behind them a_ flame_burneth_.'"

  Here the first sheet ended, and, as I laid it down, Thorndyke looked atme inquiringly.

  "There is a good deal of reconstruction in proportion to the originalmatter," I objected. "The Professor has 'supplied' more thanthree-quarters of the final rendering."

  "Exactly," burst in the superintendent; "it's all Professor and nocryptogram."

  "Still, I think the reading is correct," said Thorndyke. "As far as itgoes, 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 itgoes; but I doubt its being the solution of the cryptogram."

  "Have you been studying that photograph that I gave you?" demandedMiller, with sudden eagerness.

  "I have looked at it," said Thorndyke evasively, "but I should like toexamine the original if you have it with you."

  "I have," said the detective. "Professor Poppelbaum sent it back withthe solution. You can have a look at it, though I can't leave it withyou 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 thewindow he drifted into the adjacent office, closing the door after him;and presently the sound of a faint explosion told me that he had lightedthe gas-fire.

  "Of course," said Miller, taking up the translation again, "thisgibberish is the sort of stuff you might expect from a parcel ofcrack-brained anarchists; but it doesn't seem to mean anything."

  "Not to us," I agreed; "but the phrases may have some pre-arrangedsignificance. And then there are the letters between the words. It ispossible that they may really form a cipher."

  "I suggested that to the Professor," said Miller, "but he wouldn't hearof it. He is sure they are only dummies."

  "I think he is probably mistaken, and so, I fancy, does my colleague.But we s
hall hear what he has to say presently."

  "Oh, I know what he will say," growled Miller. "He will put the thingunder the microscope, and tell us who made the paper, and what the inkis composed of, and then we shall be just where we were." Thesuperintendent was evidently deeply depressed.

  We sat for some time pondering in silence on the vague sentences of theProfessor's translation, until, at length, Thorndyke reappeared, holdingthe document in his hand. He laid it quietly on the table by theofficer, and then inquired:

  "Is this an official consultation?"

  "Certainly," replied Miller. "I was authorized to consult you respectingthe translation, but nothing was said about the original. Still, if youwant it for further study, I will get it for you."

  "No, thank you," said Thorndyke. "I have finished with it. My theoryturned out to be correct."

  "Your theory!" exclaimed the superintendent, eagerly. "Do you mean tosay--?"

  "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 andbegan 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 ofperplexity 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 genuinesolution."

  "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 nodifficulty in understanding his surprise. It bore a short inscription inprinted Roman capitals, thus:

  "THE PICKERDILLEY STUF IS UP THE CHIMBLY 416 WARDOUR ST 2ND FLOUR BACKIT 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 ofbeing 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 handson the loot! Can you lend me a bag, doctor? I'm off to Wardour Streetthis very moment."

  We furnished him with an empty suit-case, and, from the window, watchedhim making for Mitre Court at a smart double.

  "I wonder if he will find the booty," said Thorndyke. "It just dependson 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 ourfriend Barton and the evasive Schoenberg were the collaborators whoproduced that curiosity of literature."

  "May I ask how you deciphered the thing?" I said. "It didn't appear totake long."

  "It didn't. It was merely a matter of testing a hypothesis; and youought 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 youto-morrow morning."

  * * * * *

  "So Miller was successful in his quest," said Thorndyke, as we smokedour 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 suit-case, by amessenger, shortly before, and I was about to read it when an agitatedknock was heard at our door. The visitor, whom I admitted, was a ratherhaggard and dishevelled elderly gentleman, who, as he entered, peeredinquisitively through his concave spectacles from one of us to theother.

  "Allow me to introduce myself, gentlemen," said he. "I am ProfessorPoppelbaum."

  Thorndyke bowed and offered a chair.

  "I called yesterday afternoon," our visitor continued, "at ScotlandYard, where I heard of your remarkable decipherment and of theconvincing proof of its correctness. Thereupon I borrowed thecryptogram, and have spent the entire night in studying it, but I cannotconnect your solution with any of the characters. I wonder if you woulddo me the great favour of enlightening me as to your method ofdecipherment, and so save me further sleepless nights? You may rely onmy discretion."

  "Have you the document with you?" asked Thorndyke.

  The Professor produced it from his pocket-book, and passed it to mycolleague.

  "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 thatinterests me, not the paper and ink."

  "Precisely," said Thorndyke. "Now, it was the ink that interested mewhen I caught a glimpse of the document three days ago. 'Why,' I askedmyself, 'should anyone use this troublesome medium'--for this appears tobe stick ink--'when good writing ink is to be had?' What advantages hasChinese ink over writing ink? It has several advantages as a drawingink, but for writing purposes it has only one: it is quite unaffectedby wet. The obvious inference, then, was that this document was, forsome reason, likely to be exposed to wet. But this inference instantlysuggested another, which I was yesterday able to put to the test--thus."

  He filled a tumbler with water, and, rolling up the document, dropped itin. Immediately there began to appear on it a new set of characters of acurious grey colour. In a few seconds Thorndyke lifted out the wetpaper, and held it up to the light, and now there was plainly visible aninscription in transparent lettering, like a very distinct water-mark.It was in printed Roman capitals, written across the other writing, andread:

  "THE PICKERDILLEY STUF IS UP THE CHIMBLY 416 WARDOUR ST 2ND FLOUR BACKIT WAS HID BECOS OF OLD MOAKEYS JOOD MOAKEY IS A BLITER."

  The Professor regarded the inscription with profound disfavour.

  "How do you suppose this was done?" he asked gloomily.

  "I will show you," said Thorndyke. "I have prepared a piece of paper todemonstrate the process to Dr. Jervis. It is exceedingly simple."

  He fetched from the office a small plate of glass, and a photographicdish in which a piece of thin notepaper was soaking in water.

  "This paper," said Thorndyke, lifting it out and laying it on the glass,"has been soaking all night, and is now quite pulpy."

  He spread a dry sheet of paper over the wet one, and on the former wroteheavily with a hard pencil, "Moakey is a bliter." On lifting the uppersheet, the writing was seen to be transferred in a deep grey to the wetpaper, and when the latter was held up to the light the inscriptionstood out clear and transparent as if written with oil.

  "When this dries," said Thorndyke, "the writing will completelydisappear, but it will reappear whenever the paper is again wetted."

  The Professor nodded.

  "Very ingenious," said he--"a sort of artificial palimpsest, in fact.But I do not understand how that illiterate man could have written inthe difficult Moabite script."

  "He did not," said Thorndyke. "The 'cryptogram' was probably written byone of the leaders of the gang, who, no doubt, supplied copies to theother members to use instead of blank paper for secret communications.The object of the Moabite writing was evidently to divert attention fromthe paper itself, in case the communication fell into the wrong hands,and I must say it seems to have answered its purpose very well."

  The Professor started, stung by the sudden recollection of his labours.

  "Yes," he snorted; "but I am a scholar, sir, not a policeman. Every manto his trade."

  He snatched up his hat, and with a curt "Good-morning," flung out of theroom in dudgeon.

  Thorndyke laughed softly.

  "Poor Professor!" he murmured. "Our playful friend Barton has much toanswer for."