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, sti