His keen
old eyes ran down the columns. His face, always cloudy now, grew darker
with perplexity.
"A message," he declared slowly. "I think a serious message." He sat
down on a pile of sacks, and spread the paper on his knee. "But the
characters are so elaborate--I can't make head or tail."
He beckoned Heywood, and together they scowled at the intricate and
meaningless symbols.
"All alike," complained the younger man. "Maddening." Then his face
lighted. "No, see here--lower left hand."
The last stroke of the brush, down in the corner, formed a loose "O. W."
"From Wutzler. Must mean something."
For all that, the painted lines remained a stubborn puzzle.
"Something, yes. But what?" The padre pulled out a cigar, and smoking
at top speed, spaced off each character with his thumb. "They are all
alike, and yet"--He clutched his white hair with big knuckles, and
tugged; replaced his mushroom helmet; held the paper at a new focus.
"Ah!" he said doubtfully; and at last, "Yes." For some time he read to
himself, nodding. "A Triad cipher."
"Well?" resumed Heywood, patiently.
The reader pointed with his cigar.
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