ray you, give way to mental indolence. You have these
few facts that I have mentioned. Consider them separately and
collectively, and in their relation to the circumstances. Don't attempt
to suck my brain when you have an excellent brain of your own to suck."

On the following morning the papers fully justified my colleague's
opinion of Mr. James. All the events which had occurred, as well as a
number that had not, were given in the fullest and most vivid detail, a
lengthy reference being made to the paper "found on the person of the
dead anarchist," and "written in a private shorthand or cryptogram."

The report concluded with the gratifying--though untrue--statement that
"in this intricate and important case, the police have wisely secured
the assistance of Dr. John Thorndyke, to whose acute intellect and vast
experience the portentous cryptogram will doubtless soon deliver up its
secret."

"Very flattering," laughed Thorndyke, to whom I read the extract on his
return from the hospital, "but a little awkward if it should induce our
friends to deposit a few trifling mementoes in the form of
nitro-compounds on our main staircase or in the cellars. By the way, I
met Superintendent Miller on London Bridge. The 'cryptogram,' as Mr.
James calls it, has set Scotland Yard in a mighty ferment."

"Naturally. What have they done in the matter?"

"They adopted my suggestion, after all, finding that they could make
nothing of it themselves, and took it to the British Museum. The Museum
people referred them to Professor Poppelbaum, the great palaeographer, to
whom they accordingly submitted it."

"Did he express any opinion about it?"

"Yes, provisionally. After a brief examination, he found it to consist
of a number of Hebrew words sandwiched between apparently meaningless
groups of letters. He furnished the Superintendent off-hand with a
translation of the words, and Miller forthwith struck off a number of
hectograph copies of it, which he has distributed among the senior
officials of his department; so that at present"--here Thorndyke gave
vent to a soft chuckle--"Scotland Yard is engaged in a sort of missing
word--or, rather, missing sense--competition. Miller invited me to join
in the sport, and to that end presented me with one of the hectograph
copies on which to exercise my wits, together with a photograph of the
document."

"And shall you?" I asked.

"Not I," he replied, laughing. "In the first place, I have not