James Bellbridge had his moments of good-humor, and was on those rare occasions easily amused.  He eyed the child with condescending curiosity.  “Looks half starved,” he said—­as if he were considering the case of a stray cat.  “Hollo, there!  Buy a bit of bread.”  He tossed a penny to Syd as she left the room; and took the opportunity of binding his bargain with Syd’s mother.  “Mind! if I take you to New York, I’m not going to be burdened with both your children.  Is that girl the one you leave behind you?”

Mrs. Westerfield smiled sweetly, and answered:  “Yes, dear.”

7.—­The Cipher.

An advertisement in the newspapers, addressed to persons skilled in the interpretation of ciphers, now represented Mrs. Westerfield’s only chance of discovering where the diamonds were hidden.  The first answer that she received made some amends for previous disappointment.  It offered references to gentlemen, whose names were in themselves a sufficient guarantee.  She verified the references nevertheless, and paid a visit to her correspondent on the same day.

His personal appearance was not in his favor—­he was old and dirty, infirm and poor.  His mean room was littered with shabby books.  None of the ordinary courtesies of life seemed to be known to him; he neither wished Mrs. Westerfield good-morning nor asked her to take a seat.  When she attempted to enter into explanations relating to her errand, he rudely interrupted her.

“Show me your cipher,” he said; “I don’t promise to study it unless I find it worth my while.”

Mrs. Westerfield was alarmed.

“Do you mean that you want a large sum of money?” she asked.

“I mean that I don’t waste my time on easy ciphers invented by fools.”

She laid the slip of paper on his desk.

“Waste your time on that,” she said satirically, “and see how you like it!”

He examined it—­first with his bleared red-rimmed eyes; then with a magnifying-glass.  The only expression of opinion that escaped him was indicated by his actions.  He shut up his book, and gloated over the signs and characters before him.  On a sudden he looked at Mrs. Westerfield.  “How did you come by this?” he asked.

“That’s no business of yours.”

“In other words, you have reasons of your own for not answering my question?”

“Yes.”

Drawing his own inferences from that reply, he showed his three last-left yellow teeth in a horrid grin.  “I understand!” he said, speaking to himself.  He looked at the cipher once more, and put another question:  “Have you got a copy of this?”

It had not occurred to her to take a copy.  He rose and pointed to his empty chair.  His opinion of the cipher was, to all appearance, forced to express itself by the discovery that there was no copy.

“Do you know what might happen?” he asked.  “The only cipher that has puzzled me for the last ten years might be lost—­or stolen—­or burned if there was a fire in the house.  You deserve to be punished for your carelessness.  Make the copy yourself.”