h for, in fact; and what can a man have more? So
again I said, "Yes."

"We are agreed in all points, then. If you will come into my room "--we
were by this time arrived at the house--"you shall have your first lesson
in cryptography."

I assented with eagerness, for I was burning to begin, and, from what Mr.
Fortescue had said, I did not anticipate any great difficulty in making
out the cipher.

But when he produced a specimen page of his manuscript, my confidence,
like Bob Acre's courage, oozed out at my finger-ends, or rather, all over
me, for I broke out into a cold sweat.

The first few lines resembled a confused array of algebraic formula. (I
detest algebra.) Then came several lines that seemed to have been made by
the crawlings of tipsy flies with inky legs, followed by half a dozen or
so that looked like the ravings of a lunatic done into Welsh, while the
remainder consisted of Roman numerals and ordinary figures mixed up,
higgledy-piggledy.

"This is nothing less than appalling," I almost groaned. "It will take me
longer to learn than two or three languages."

"Oh, no! When you have got the clew, and learned the signs, you will read
the cipher with ease."

"Very likely; but when will that be?"

"Soon. The system is not nearly so complicated as it looks, and the
language being English--"

"English! It looks like a mixture of ancient Mexican and modern Chinese."

"The language being English, nothing could be easier for a man of ordinary
intelligence. If I had expected that my manuscript would fall into the
hands of a cryptographist, I should have contrived something much more
complicated and written it in several languages; and you have the key
ready to your hand. Come, let us begin."

After half an hour's instruction I began to see daylight, and to feel that
with patience and practice I should be able to write out the story in
legible English. The little I had read with Mr. Fortescue made me keen to
know more; but as the cryptographic narrative did not begin at the
beginning, he proposed that I should write this, as also any other missing
parts, to his dictation.

"Who knows that you may not make a book of it?" he said.

"Do you think I am intelligent Enough?" I asked, resentfully; for his
uncomplimentary references to my mental capacity were still rankling in my
mind.

"I should hope so. Everybody writes in these days. Don't worry yourself on
that score, my dear Mr. Bacon. Even though you may w