As We Forgive Them Part 21

"And he was well a.s.sisted by such men as your self," I said, rather impertinently, I fear.

"Perhaps, perhaps so," he said quickly, his face flushing. "I promised him secrecy and I've kept my promise, for I owe my present comfortable circ.u.mstances solely to his generosity."

"A millionaire can do anything, of course. His money secures him his friends."

"Friends, yes," replied the old man, gravely; "but not happiness. Poor Burton Blair was one of the unhappiest of men, that I am quite certain of."

He spoke the truth, I knew. The millionaire had himself many times declared to me in confidence that he had been far happier in his days of penury and careless adventure beyond the seas, than as possessor of that great West End mansion, and the first estate in Herefordshire.

"Look here," exclaimed Hales, suddenly, glancing keenly from Reggie to myself, "I give you warning," and he dropped his voice to almost a whisper. "You say that d.i.c.k Dawson has returned--beware of him. He means mischief, you may bet your hat on that! Be very careful of his girl, too, she knows more than you think."

"We have a faint suspicion that Blair did not die a natural death," I remarked.

"You have?" he exclaimed, starting. "What causes you to antic.i.p.ate that?"

"The circ.u.mstances were so remarkable," I replied, and continuing, I explained the tragic affair just as I have written it here.

"You don't suspect d.i.c.ky Dawson, I suppose?" the old fellow asked anxiously.

"Why? Had he any motive for getting rid of our friend?"

"Ah! I don't know. d.i.c.ky is a very funny customer. He always held Blair beneath his thumb. They were a truly remarkable pair; the one blossoming forth into a millionaire, and the other living strictly in secret somewhere abroad--in Italy, I think."

"Dawson must have had some very strong motive for remaining so quiet," I observed.

"Because he was compelled," answered Hales, with a mysterious shake of the head. "There were reasons why he shouldn't show his face. Myself, I wonder why he has dared to do so now."

"What!" I cried eagerly, "is he wanted by the police or something?"

"Well," answered the old man, after some hesitation, "I don't think he'd welcome a visit from any of those inquisitive gentlemen from Scotland Yard. Only remember I make no charges, none at all. If, however, he attempts any sharp practice, you may just casually mention that Harry Hales is still alive, and is thinking of coming up to London to pay him a morning call. Just watch what effect those words will have upon him,"

and the old man chuckled to himself, adding, "Ah! Mr. d.i.c.ky-bird Dawson, you've got to reckon with me yet, I fancy."

"Then you'll a.s.sist us?" I cried in eagerness. "You can save Mabel Blair if you will?"

"I'll do all I can," was Hales' outspoken reply, "for I recognise that there's some very ingenious conspiracy afoot somewhere." Then, after a long pause, during which he had re-filled his long clay, and his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon mine, the old man added, "You told me a little while ago that Blair had left you his secret, but you didn't explain to me the exact terms of his will. Was anything said about it?"

"In the clause which bequeaths it to me is a strange rhyme which runs--

"`King Henry the Eighth was a knave to his queens.

He'd one short of seven--and nine or ten scenes!'

"and he also urged me to preserve the secret from every man as he had done. But," I added bitterly, "the secret being in cipher I cannot obtain knowledge of it."

"And have you no key?" smiled the hard-faced old seafarer in the thick reefer.

"None--unless," and at that moment a strange thought flashed for the first time upon me, "unless the key is actually concealed within that rhyme!" I repeated the couplet aloud. Yes, all the cards of that piquet pack were mentioned in it--king, eight, knave, queen, seven, nine, ten!

My heart leapt within me. Could it be possible that by arranging the cards in the following order the record could be read?

If so, then Burton Blair's strange secret was mine at last!

I mentioned my sudden and startling theory, when the tall old fellow's grey face broadened into a triumphant grin and he said--

"Arrange the cards and try it."

CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE READING OF THE RECORD.

The envelope containing the thirty-two cards reposed in my pocket, together with the linen-mounted photograph, therefore, clearing the square old oak table, I opened them out eagerly, while Reggie and the old man watched me breathlessly.

"The first mentioned in the rhyme is king," I said. "Let us have all four kings together."

Having arranged them, I placed the four eights, the four knaves, the queens, aces, sevens, nines and tens, in the order given by the doggerel.

Reggie was quicker than I was in reading down the first column and declared it to be a hopeless jumble entirely unintelligible. I read for myself, and, deeply disappointed, was compelled to admit that the key was not, after all, to be found there.

Yet I recollected what my friend in Leicester had explained, how the record would be found in the first letter on each card being read consecutively from one to another through the whole pack, and tried over and over again to arrange them in intelligible order, but without any success. The cipher was just as tantalising and bewildering as it had ever been.

Whole nights I had spent with Reggie, trying in vain to make something of it, but failing always, unable to make out one single word.

I transcribed the letters backwards, but the result upon my piece of paper was the same.

"No," remarked old Hales, "you haven't got hold of it yet. I'm sure, however, you are near it. That rhyme gives the key--you mark me."

"I honestly believe it does if we could only discover the proper arrangement," I declared in breathless excitement.

"That's just it," remarked Reggie, in dismay. "That's just where the ingenuity of the cipher lies. It's so very simple, and yet so extraordinarily complicated that the possible combinations run into millions. Think of it!"

"But we have the rhyme which distinctly shows their arrangement:--

"`King Henry the Eighth was a knave to his queen, He'd one short of seven and nine or ten--'

"That's plain enough, and we ought, of course, to have seen it from the first," I said.

"Well, try the king of one suit, the eight of another, the knave of another--and so on," Hales suggested, bending with keen interest over the faces of the pigmy cards.

Without loss of time I took his advice, and carefully relaid the cards in the manner he suggested. But again the result was an unintelligible array of letters, puzzling, baffling and disappointing.

I recollected what my expert friend had told me, and my heart sank.

"Don't you really know now the means by which the problem can be solved?" I asked of old Mr. Hales, being seized with suspicion that he was well aware of it.

"I'm sure I can't tell you," was his quick response. "To me, however, it seems certain that the rhyme in some way forms the key. Try another a.s.sortment."

"Which? What other can I try?" I asked blankly, but he only shook his head.

Reggie, with paper and pencil, was trying to make the letters intelligible by the means I had several times tried--namely, by subst.i.tuting A for B, C for D, and so on. Then he tried two letters added, three letters added, and more still, in order to discover some key, but, like myself, he was utterly foiled.