This desirable suggestion (uncivilly as it was expressed) had its effect upon Mrs. Westerfield.  Her marriage depended on that precious slip of paper.  She was confirmed in her opinion that this very disagreeable man might nevertheless be a man to be trusted.

“Shall you be long in finding out what it means?” she asked when her task was completed.

He carefully compared the copy with the original—­and then he replied: 

“Days may pass before I can find the clew; I won’t attempt it unless you give me a week.”

She pleaded for a shorter interval.  He coolly handed back her papers; the original and the copy.

“Try somebody else,” he suggested—­and opened his book again.  Mrs. Westerfield yielded with the worst possible grace.  In granting him the week of delay, she approached the subject of his fee for the second time.  “How much will it cost me?” she inquired.

“I’ll tell you when I’ve done.”

“That won’t do!  I must know the amount first.”

He handed her back her papers for the second time.  Mrs. Westerfield’s experience of poverty had never been the experience of such independence as this.  In sheer bewilderment, she yielded again.  He took back the original cipher, and locked it up in his desk.  “Call here this day week,” he said—­and returned to his book.

“You are not very polite,” she told him, on leaving the room.

“At any rate,” he answered, “I don’t interrupt people when they are reading.”

The week passed.

Repeating her visit, Mrs. Westerfield found him still seated at his desk, still surrounded by his books, still careless of the polite attentions that he owed to a lady.

“Well?” she asked, “have you earned your money?”

“I have found the clew.”

“What is it?” she burst out.  “Tell me the substance.  I can’t wait to read.”

He went on impenetrably with what he had to say.  “But there are some minor combinations, which I have still to discover to my own satisfaction.  I want a few days more.”

She positively refused to comply with this request.  “Write down the substance of it,” she repeated, “and tell me what I owe you.”

He handed her back her cipher for the third time.

The woman who could have kept her temper, under such provocation as this, may be found when the mathematician is found who can square the circle, or the inventor who can discover perpetual motion.  With a furious look, Mrs. Westerfield expressed her opinion of the philosopher in two words:  “You brute!” She failed to produce the slightest impression on him.

“My work,” he proceeded, “must be well done or not done at all.  This is Saturday, eleventh of the month.  We will say the evening of Wednesday next.”

Mrs. Westerfield sufficiently controlled herself to be able to review her engagements for the coming week.  On Thursday, the delay exacted by the marriage license would expire, and the wedding might take place.  On Friday, the express train conveyed passengers to Liverpool, to be in time for the departure of the steamer for New York on Saturday morning.  Having made these calculations, she asked, with sulky submission, if she was expected to call again on the Wednesday evening.