To the ordinary observer the sum upon the scrap of paper would have
conveyed nothing.
Professor Griffin studied it carefully, however, and mentally submitted
it to certain tests.
What was written upon the paper was as follows:
The Professor begged leave to take it with him to London, whereupon the
assistant-librarian replied: “It seems very much as though our friend
the stranger is applying some numerical cipher to that fragment of
Deuteronomy, does it not? Of course, Professor, you may have it--and
welcome. I confess I cannot make head or tail of it.”
“Nor I either,” laughed Griffin, blinking through his spectacles. “Yet
it interests me, and I thank you very much for it. Apparently this
foreigner believes that he has made some discovery. Ah!” he added, “how
many cranks there are among Hebrew scholars--more especially the
cabalists!”
And in pretence of ignorance of the true meaning of that curious
arrangement of figures, the Professor placed the scrap of paper in his
breast-pocket, and returned to the Randolph Hotel, where he had tea,
afterwards sitting for a long time in the writing-room with the
stranger’s discarded calculation spread before him.
In the left-hand corner of the piece of paper was something which
puzzled him extremely. In a neat hand were written the figures,
255.19.7. And while awaiting his train, he lit his big briar pipe, and
seating himself before the fire, tried to think out what they could
mean.
But though he pondered for over an hour he failed to discern their
object. They were evidently the stranger’s signature.
He applied the Hebrew equivalents to them, and they were as follows:
“Bêth. He. He, A-leph-Teth. Za-yin.” But they conveyed to him
absolutely nothing.
Seated alone in the corner of the first-class carriage, he again took
out the scrap of paper, and held it before him. That there was a cipher
deciphered into the words “of the Temple that,” was apparent.
He started with the ordinary numerical values of the Hebrew alphabet.
They were 7.3.4.1.0.9. which meant: Za-yin, Gi-mel, Da-leth, A-leph, the
zero, and Teth. These were multiplied by He, which meant 5. Then
719220, meaning certain other letters, were added and multiplied by
yodh, or ten. From each number of the total 3, or Gi-mel, was
subtracted, and the English translation of the figures that remained
was: “of the Temple that--”
To such a man, versed in all the cabalistic ciphers of the ancients, the
truth was plain. Extremely involved and ingenious it was, without a
doubt, but by careful study of this he would, he saw, be able to find
the key being used by the aged man who had in such an uncanny way signed
himself “255.19.7.”
He replaced it carefully in his pocket, and lighting his pipe, set back
in the carriage to reflect.
Ah! if he could only come across that will-o’-the-wisp who was engaged
in the search after the truth. Probably he possessed the context of the
burnt document, and could supply the missing portion. But if so, how
had it fallen into his hands?
The affair was a problem which daily became more interesting and more
extraordinary.
At Westbourne Park Station, when the collector came for his ticket, he
fumbled for it in his pocket, but was unable for some time to find it.
Then at Paddington he took a taxi-cab home, arriving in time for a late
dinner.
Gwen bright and cheerful, sat at the head of the table as was her habit,
inquisitive as to her father’s movements and discoveries.
But to her carefully guarded inquiries he remained mute. He had been
down to the Bodleian, he said, but that was all. The old man longed to
get back to the restful silence of his own study to examine the scrap of
paper left by the stranger, and from it to determine the exact key to
that very ingenious numerical cipher.
The man who was in search of the same secret as himself was a weird
person, to say the least. Both in London and in Oxford, he had come
across the aged man’s trail. That he was unknown in England as a
scholar was apparent, and that he was a deeply read man and student of
Hebrew was equally plain.
He was not a Jew. Both the Library assistants at the British Museum and
at the Bodleian had agreed upon that point.
They had declared that he was from the north of Europe. Was he a Dane
from Copenhagen, like the dead man who had preferred to be known as
Jules Blanc?
Arminger Griffin ate his dinner in impatience carefully avoiding the
questions his pretty daughter put to him. Then he ascended to the
study, having bidden her good-night. She had received no news of Frank,
it seemed. For what reason had the young man so suddenly left for
Copenhagen? The question caused him constant apprehension. Could he
have discovered any clue to the existence of the context of the
document?
More than once during the day he had been half tempted to go himself to
Denmark, but the discovery of the aged stranger’s arithmetical
calculations induced him to remain in London and watch.
Having switched on the light he crossed the room, and seating himself at
the table felt in his pocket for the scribbled calculation. He failed
to find it. He was horrified. It had gone!
He must have pulled it from his pocket at Westbourne Park while
searching for his ticket. His loss was, indeed, a serious one. In
frantic haste he searched all his other pockets, but in vain. The
scraps of crumpled paper which contained the key to a portion of the
cipher upon which the stranger was working was gone!
He sank into his armchair in despair.
Before his vision rose those mystical figures 255.19.7. written in fire.
What was the hidden meaning therein contained?
One line of the sum he recollected: “7.3.4.1.0.9.” multiplied by 5.
Mental calculation resulted in the answer of 3670646. There was a sum
to add to it. But alas! he could not remember the figures of it.
Therefore the clue, so unexpectedly obtained, was lost.
So he sat alone, his head buried in his hands in deepest despair.
Gwen crept in in silence, but seeing her father’s attitude, crept out
again without disturbing him, and read in the drawing-room alone, until
it was time to return to her room.
“Shall I ever solve the mystery?” cried the Professor aloud to himself
as he paced the room presently. “Misfortune has befallen me! With that
fragment deciphered I could by careful study have learned the key and
then read what that mysterious searcher has undoubtedly read. Ah! if I
could only meet him. Then I would follow and watch his movements. But
alas! I am always too late--too late!”
As he sank again into a chair, plunged in the wildest despair, the dark
figure of a tall, thick-set, military-looking man of about forty, in a
long dark overcoat, passed and repassed the house in the rainy night.
For some time, he had been waiting at Notting Hill Gate Station, almost
opposite the end of Pembridge Gardens, glancing at the clock now and
then, as though impatiently watching for someone. Then, at last, as if
full of determination he had crossed the Bayswater Road, and strolled
slowly past Professor Griffin’s house, eyeing its lighted windows with
considerable curiosity as he went by.
He continued his walk as far as the end of the road which led into
Pembridge Square, and there halted for shelter for a full five minutes
beneath the portico of a house. Then he retraced his steps, re-passing
the house which had aroused so much interest within him, until he came
to the station where he again stood in patience.
The watcher was an active, rather good-looking man, though the reason of
his presence there was not at all apparent. To pass the time he bought
an evening paper, and stood in the corner reading it, yet in such a
position that he could watch everybody who entered or left the
Underground Railway Station. There was a slight foreign cast in his
features. His keen dark eyes were searching everywhere, while the
clothes he wore were the clothes of a man of refined taste.
From time to time there played about his dark face a sinister smile--a
smile of triumph. He was evidently not a man to be trifled with, and it
seemed very much as though he held the owner of that comfortable house
in resentment.
The words he muttered as he stood there pretending to read were, in
themselves, sufficient indication of this:
“They thought to trick him--to trick me--but by Jove, they’ll find
themselves mistaken!” and his claw-like hand gripped the newspaper until
it trembled in his grasp.
He lit a cigarette, and twice crossed the road. Standing at the corner
of Pembridge Gardens, he again looked up the street, dark, misty, and
deserted on that winter’s night.
“They laugh at us without a doubt,” he muttered to himself. “They
laugh, because they think he’s fool enough to give away the secret.
Yes, they take him for a blind idiot. Frank Farquhar has gone upon a
fool’s errand to Denmark, intending to ‘freeze us out’ of what is justly
ours. When he returns, he will find that I have checkmated both him and
his friend Griffin, in a manner in which he little expects.”
His countenance was full of craft and cunning; his smile was sufficient
index to his character.
Soon after ten o’clock, while standing at the corner of Pembridge
Gardens, he suddenly drew back into the shadow, turned upon his heel and
crossed the road to the station, in order to avoid notice.
Having gained the opposite pavement, he drew back again into the shadow,
and saw a female figure in a short dark skirt, and wearing a handsome
white fox boa, hurrying across the road in his direction.
She passed him, and he for the first time caught sight of her pretty
face. It was Gwen Griffin.
Apparently she was in a frantic hurry, for she rushed into the
booking-office and in her haste to get a ticket, dropped her purse.
Then, when she had run down the stairs to the platform, the silent
watcher followed leisurely, obtained a ticket for Earl’s Court, but was
careful not to gain the platform until the girl had already left.
“I thought the story would alarm her,” he laughed to himself as he stood
awaiting the next “Circle” train. “Ah, my fine young fellow, you’ve
made a great and a most fatal error!” he added with a dry laugh, as he
paced the platform.