"Come!" said the Tracer suddenly; "this won't do. There are too few
symbols to give us a key; too few repetitions to furnish us with any key
basis. Come, Captain, let us use our intellects; let us talk it over
with that paper lying there between us. It's a simple cipher--a
childishly simple one if we use our wits. Now, sir, what I see repeated
before us on this sheet of paper is merely one of the forms of a symbol
known as Solomon's Seal. The symbol is, as we see, repeated a great many
times. Every seal has been dotted or crossed on some one of the lines
composing it; some seals are coupled with brackets and armatures."
[Illustration: Cryptographic symbol]
"What of it?" inquired Harren vacantly.
"Well, sir, in the first place, that symbol is supposed to represent the
spiritual and material, as you know. What else do you know about it?"
[Illustration: Cryptographic symbol]
"Nothing. I bought a book about it, but made nothing of it."
"Isn't it supposed," asked Mr. Keen, "to contain within itself the nine
numerals, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and even the zero symbol?"
"I believe so."
"_Ex_actly. Here's the seal
[Illustration: Cryptographic symbol]
Now I'll mark the one, two, and three by crossing the lines, like this:
one,
[Illustration: Cryptographic symbol]
two,
[Illustration: Cryptographic symbol]
three,
[Illustration: Cryptographic symbol]
Now, eliminating all lines not crossed there remains
the one,
[Illustration: Cryptographic symbol]
the two,
[Illustration: Cryptographic symbol]
the three,
[Illustration: Cryptographic symbol]
And here is the entire series:
[Illustration: Cryptographic symbols]
and the zero--"
[Illustration: Cryptographic symbol]
A sudden excitement stirred Harren; he leaned over the paper, gazing
earnestly at the cipher; the Tracer rose and glanced around the room as
though in search of something.
"Is there a telephone here?" he asked.
"For Heaven's sake, don't give this up just yet," exclaimed Harren.
"These things mean numbers; don't you see? Look at that!" pointing to a
linked pair of seals,
[Illustration: Cryptographic symbol]
"That means the number nineteen! You can form it by using only the
crossed lines of the seal.
[Illustration: Cryptographic symbol]
Don't you see, Mr. Keen?"
"Yes, Captain Harren, the cipher is, as you say, very plain; quite as
easy to read as so much handwriting. That is why I wish to use your
telephone--at once, if you please."
"It's in my bedroom; you don't mind if I go on working out this cipher
while you're telephoning?"
"Not in the least," said the Tracer blandly. He walked into the
Captain's bedroom, closing the door behind him; then he stepped over to
the telephone, unhooked the receiver, and called up his own
headquarters.
"Hello. This is Mr. Keen. I want to speak to Miss Borrow."
In a few moments Miss Borrow answered: "I am here, Mr. Keen."
"Good. Look up the name Inwood. Try New York first--Edith Inwood is the
name. Look sharp, please; I am holding the wire."
He held it for ten full minutes; then Miss Borrow's low voice called him
over the wire.
"Go ahead," said the Tracer quietly.
"There is only one Edith Inwood in New York, Mr. Keen--Miss Edith
Inwood, graduate of Barnard, 1902--left an orphan 1903 and obliged to
support herself--became an assistant to Professor Boggs of the Museum of
Inscriptions. Is considered an authority upon Arabian cryptograms. Has
written a monograph on the Herati symbol--a short treatise on the
Swastika. She is twenty-four years of age. Do you require further
details?"
"No," said the Tracer; "please ring off."
Then he called up General Information. "I want the Museum of
Inscriptions. Get me their number, please." After a moment: "Is this the
Museum of Inscriptions?"
* * * * *
"Is Professor Boggs there?"
* * * * *
"Is this Professor Boggs?"
* * * * *
"Could you find time to decipher an inscription for me at once?"
* * * * *
"Of course I know you are extremely busy, but have you no assistant who
could do it?"
* * * * *
"What did you say her name is? Miss Inwood?"
* * * * *
"Oh! And will the young lady translate the inscription at once if I send
a copy of it to her by messenger?"
* * * * *
"Thank you very much, Professor. I will send a messenger to Miss Inwood
with a copy of the inscription. Good-by."
He hung up the receiver, turned thoughtfully, opened the door again, and
walked into the sunlit living room.
"Look here!" cried the Captain in a high state of excitement. "I've got
a lot of numbers out of it already."
"Wonderful!" murmured the Tracer, looking over the young man's broad
shoulders at a sheet of paper bearing these numbers:
9--14--5--22--5--18--19--1--23--25--15--21--2--21--20--15--14--3--5--
9--12--15--22--5--25--15--21--5--4--9--20--8--9--14--23--15--15--4.
"Marvelous!" repeated the Tracer, smiling. "Now what _do_ you suppose
those numbers can stand for?"
"Letters!" announced the Captain triumphantly. "Take the number nine,
for example. The ninth letter in the alphabet is I! Mr. Keen, suppose we
try writing down the letters according to that system!"
"Suppose we do," agreed the Tracer gravely.
So, counting under his breath, the young man set down the letters in the
following order, not attempting to group them into words:
INEVERSAWYOUBUTONCEILOVEYOUEDITHINWOOD.
Then he leaned back, excited, triumphant.
"There you are!" he said; "only, of course, it makes no sense." He
examined it in silence, and gradually a hopeless expression effaced the
animation. "How the deuce am I going to separate that mass of letters
into words?" he muttered.
"This way," said the Tracer, smilingly taking the pencil from his
fingers, and he wrote: I--NEVER--SAW--YOU--BUT--ONCE. I--LOVE--YOU.
EDITH INWOOD.
Then he laid the pencil on the table and walked to the window.
Once or twice he fancied that he heard incoherent sounds behind him.
And after a while he turned, retracing his steps leisurely. Captain
Harren, extremely pink, stood tugging at his short mustache and studying
the papers on the desk.
"Well?" inquired the Tracer, amused.
The young man pointed to the translation with unsteady finger. "W-what
on earth does that mean?" he demanded shakily. "Who is Edith Inwood?
W-what on earth does that cryptogram mean on the window pane in the
photograph? How did it come there? It isn't on my window pane, you see!"
The Tracer said quietly: "That is not a photograph of your window."
"What!"
"No, Captain. Here! Look at it closely through this glass. There are
sixteen small panes in that sash; now count the panes in your
window--eight! Besides, look at that curtain. It is made of some figured
stuff like chintz. Now, look at your own curtain yonder! It is of plain
velour."
"But--but I took that photograph! She stood there--there by that very
window!"
The Tracer leaned over the photograph, examining it through the glass.
And, studying it, he said: "Do you still see _her_ in this photograph,
Captain Harren?"
"Certainly. Can you not see her?"
"No," murmured the Tracer, "but I see the window which she really stood
by when her phantom came here seeking you. And that is sufficient. Come,
Captain Harren, we are going out together."
The Captain looked at him earnestly; something in Mr. Keen's eyes seemed
to fascinate him.
"You think that--that it's likely we are g-going to see--_her_!" he
faltered.
"If I were you," mused the Tracer of Lost Persons, joining the tips of
his lean fingers meditatively--"If I were you I should wear a silk hat
and a frock coat. It's--it's afternoon, anyhow," he added deprecatingly,
"and we are liable to make a call."
Captain Harren turned like a man in a dream and entered his bedroom. And
when he emerged he was dressed and groomed with pathetic precision.
"Mr. Keen," he said, "I--I don't know why I am d-daring to hope for all
s-sorts of things. Nothing you have said really warrants it. But somehow
I'm venturing to cherish an absurd notion that I may s-see her."
"Perhaps," said the Tracer, smiling.
"Mr. Keen! You wouldn't say that if--if there was no chance, would you?
You wouldn't dash a fellow's hopes--"
"No, I wouldn't," said Mr. Keen. "I tell you frankly that I expect to
find her."
"To-day?"
"We'll see," said Mr. Keen guardedly. "Come, Captain, don't look that
way! Courage, sir! We are about to execute a turning movement; but you
look like a Russian general on his way to the south front."
Harren managed to laugh; they went out, side by side, descended the
elevator, and found a cab at the _porte-cochère_. Mr. Keen gave the
directions and followed the Captain into the cab.
"Now," he said, as they wheeled south, "we are first going to visit the
Museum of Inscriptions and have this cipher translation verified. Here
is the cipher as I copied it. Hold it tightly, Captain; we've only a few
blocks to drive."
Indeed they were already nearly there. The hansom drew up in front of a
plain granite building wedged in between some rather elaborate private
dwelling-houses. Over the door were letters of dull bronze:
AMERICAN MUSEUM OF INSCRIPTIONS
and the two men descended and entered a wide marble hall lined with
glass-covered cabinets containing plaster casts of various ancient
inscriptions and a few bronze and marble originals. Several female
frumps were nosing the exhibits.
An attendant in livery stood in the middle distance. The Tracer walked
over to him. "I have an appointment to consult Miss Inwood," he
whispered.
"This way, sir," nodded the attendant, and the Tracer signaled the
Captain to follow.
They climbed several marble stairways, crossed a rotunda, and entered a
room--a sort of library. Beyond was a door which bore the inscription:
ASSISTANT CURATOR
"Now," said the Tracer of Lost Persons in a low voice to Captain Harren,
"I am going to ask you to sit here for a few minutes while I interview
the assistant curator. You don't mind, do you?"
"No, I don't mind," said Harren wearily, "only, when are we going to
begin to search for--_her_?"
"Very soon--I may say extremely soon," said Mr. Keen gravely. "By the
way, I think I'll take that sheet of paper on which I copied the cipher.
Thank you. I won't be long."
The attendant had vanished. Captain Harren sat down by a window and
gazed out into the late afternoon sunshine. The Tracer of Lost Persons,
treading softly across the carpeted floor, approached the sanctuary,
turned the handle, and walked in, carefully closing the door behind him.
There was a young girl seated at a desk by an open window; she looked up
quietly as he entered, then rose leisurely.
"Miss Inwood?"
"Yes."
She was slender, dark-eyed, dark-haired--a lovely, wholesome young
creature; gracious and graceful. And that was all--for the Tracer of
Lost Persons could not see through the eyes of Captain Harren, and
perhaps that is why he was not able to discern a miracle of beauty in
the pretty girl who confronted him--no magic and matchless marvel of
transcendent loveliness--only a quiet, sweet-faced, dark-eyed young girl
whose features and figure were attractive in the manner that youth is
always attractive. But then it is a gift of the gods to see through eyes
anointed by the gods.
The Tracer touched his gray mustache and bowed; the girl bowed very
sweetly.
"You are Mr. Keen," she said; "you have an inscription for me to
translate."
"A mystery for young eyes to interpret," he said, smiling. "May I sit
here--and tell my story before I show you my inscription?"
"Please do," she said, seating herself at her desk and facing him, one
slender white hand supporting the oval of her face.
The Tracer drew his chair a little forward. "It is a curious matter," he
said. "May I give you a brief outline of the details?"
"By all means, Mr. Keen."
"Then let me begin by saying that the inscription of which I have a copy
was probably scratched upon a window pane by means of a diamond."
"Oh! Then--then it is not an ancient inscription, Mr. Keen."
"The theme is ancient--the oldest theme in the world--love! The cipher
is old--as old as King Solomon." She looked up quickly. The Tracer,
apparently engrossed in his own story, went on with it. "Three years ago
the young girl who wrote this inscription upon the window pane of
her--her bedroom, I think it was--fell in love. Do you follow me, Miss
Inwood?"
Miss Inwood sat very still--wide, dark eyes fixed on him.
"Fell in love," repeated the Tracer musingly, "not in the ordinary way.
That is the point, you see. No, she fell in love at first sight; fell
in love with a young man whom she never before had seen, never again
beheld--and never forgot. Do you still follow me, Miss Inwood?"
She made the slightest motion with her lips.
"No," mused the Tracer of Lost Persons, "she never forgot him. I am not
sure, but I think she sometimes dreamed of him. She dreamed of him
awake, too. Once she inscribed a message to him, cutting it with the
diamond in her ring on the window pane--"
A slight sound escaped from Miss Inwood's lips. "I beg your pardon,"
said the Tracer, "did you say something?"
The girl had risen, pale, astounded, incredulous.
"Who are you?" she faltered. "What has this--this story to do with me?"
"Child," said the Tracer of Lost Persons, "the Seal of Solomon is a
splendid mystery. All of heaven and earth are included within its
symbol. And more, more than you dream of, more than I dare fathom; and I
am an old man, my child--old, alone, with nobody to fear for, nothing to
dread, not even the end of all--because I am ready for that, too. Yet I,
having nothing on earth to dread, dare not fathom what that symbol may
mean, nor what vast powers it may exert on life. God knows. It may be
the very signet of Fate itself; the sign manual of Destiny."
He drew the paper from his pocket, unrolled it, and spread it out under
her frightened eyes.
"_That!_" she whispered, steadying herself blindly against the arm he
offered. She stood a moment so, then, shuddering, covered her eyes with
both hands. The Tracer of Lost Persons looked at her, turned and opened
the door.
"Captain Harren!" he called quietly. Harren, pacing the anteroom, turned
and came forward. As he entered the door he caught sight of the girl
crouching by the window, her face hidden in her hands, and at the same
moment she dropped her hands and looked straight at him.
"_You!_" she gasped.
The Tracer of Lost Persons stepped out, closing the door. For a moment
he stood there, tall, gaunt, gray, staring vacantly into space.
"She _was_ beautiful--when she looked at him," he muttered.
For another minute he stood there, hesitating, glancing backward at the
closed door. Then he went away, stooping slightly, his top hat held
close against the breast of his tightly buttoned frock coat.