. But I don't know that I
should call what was written on the paper nonsense; it is bizarre
certainly, but I expect it has a meaning for somebody. Just repeat it
again, will you, and I will write it down. Perhaps we might find a
cipher of some sort, though I hardly think we shall.'

Again had the reluctant lips of Salisbury slowly to stammer out the
rubbish that he abhorred, while Dyson jotted it down on a slip of paper.

'Look over it, will you?' he said, when it was done; 'it may be
important that I should have every word in its place. Is that all
right?'

'Yes; that is an accurate copy. But I don't think you will get much out
of it. Depend upon it, it is mere nonsense, a wanton scribble. I must be
going now, Dyson. No, no more; that stuff of yours is pretty strong.
Good-night.'

'I suppose you would like to hear from me, if I did find out anything?'

'No, not I; I don't want to hear about the thing again. You may regard
the discovery, if it is one, as your own.'

'Very well. Good-night.'

IV

A good many hours after Salisbury had returned to the company of the
green rep chairs, Dyson still sat at his desk, itself a Japanese
romance, smoking many pipes, and meditating over his friend's story. The
bizarre quality of the inscription which had annoyed Salisbury was to
him an attraction, and now and again he took it up and scanned
thoughtfully what he had written, especially the quaint jingle at the
end. It was a token, a symbol, he decided, and not a cipher, and the
woman who had flung it away was in all probability entirely ignorant of
its meaning; she was but the agent of the 'Sam' she had abused and
discarded, and he too was again the agent of some one unknown, possibly
of the individual styled Q, who had been forced to visit his French
friends. But what to make of 'Traverse Handle S.' Here was the root and
source of the enigma, and not all the tobacco of Virginia seemed likely
to suggest any clue here. It seemed almost hopeless, but Dyson regarded
himself as the Wellington of mysteries, and went to bed feeling assured
that sooner or later he would hit upon the right track For the next few
days he was deeply engaged in his literary labours, labours which were a
profound mystery even to the most intimate of his friends, who searched
the railway bookstalls in vain for the result of so many hours spent at
the Japanese bureau in company with strong tobacco and black tea. On
this occasion Dyson confined himself