In the afternoon Genevieve and I repaired to the old Page place. She was so confident that she could find the originals of the designs on the cipher, that I was anxious to give her the chance. Besides, she was afraid to go alone, and I simply had to accompany her. Belle could not without Maillot tagging along, and--well, we didn't want anybody else.

First of all, Genevieve had to be shown the dent made by the candlestick in the railing of the bal.u.s.trade. She placed the tip of one little finger in the depression, and drew back with a shudder.

"Let's go," she said, in a hushed voice. "I never expect to come up these stairs again. Let's find the daisies, and go."

She understood as well as I did that Felix Page must have subst.i.tuted the stones somewhere between the library table and the hidden safe in his bedroom. She proposed to start at the table and examine every object, if necessary, between the two points mentioned.

Our progress was slow until we reached the bedroom. Genevieve drew to an abrupt halt on the threshold.

"There was a table there, by the head of the bed," she said; "where is it?"

"Lying on its side in that corner"--I pointed. "It was hurled there last Friday night, when the dwarf surprised Burke here."

She went over to it, while I raised the blinds. Instantly she recoiled with a cry, and then in a flash was fairly wild with excitement.

"Knowles, Knowles!" she screamed. "Here they are!"

And sure enough, there they were--the bra.s.s tacks with which the artificial leather cover had been fastened on. Their heads were ornamental, with just such crenellated edges as might have prompted the circular figures at each end of the cipher.

I stared at them in stupefied silence. The row of gleaming tacks staggered me. How many times had I lingered by that very table while I racked my brain to remember where I had seen the peculiar figure! Why, once I even had paused and drawn the design in the dust on the leather cover! What a dunce--how blind I had been!

The cipher was not difficult to read now. At once I recalled Burke's shadow on the blind; he had been bending over this table, and the agile movements of his hands were no longer mysterious. He, too, had some knowledge of the cipher, and he had been rapidly running over the tack-heads, hunting for the combination that would reveal a concealed compartment.

After a while we grew rational again. I got out the cipher, and once more Genevieve and I put our heads together over it. Here it is; you may follow us while we dig it out:

[Ill.u.s.tration: Cipher]

"If you remember," I said presently, "I told you that very likely it would have to be interpreted in connection with something not on the paper. Count the tacks along the front edge."

There were nineteen of them.

"Counting from either end," I went on, "the centre tack will be ten.

It 's as simple as A-B-C. That's our starting-point from which to find the others. Find the fourth one to the right of the centre tack--number ten."

She placed the tip of one forefinger upon it--a bit gingerly, I smiled to see.

"Why, it gives!" she announced in surprise.

"I 'd be terribly cut up if it did n't," said I. "Now, then, the eleventh to the right."

This carried her to the third one around the side; number thirteen was the fifth on the left side, number seventeen the ninth on the right side, while number five was on the front edge, of course, close to the centre. Each of them yielded a trifle beneath her pressure--until she came to number five. Here she drew back and clasped her hands tightly together.

"Oh, I can't!" she cried excitedly. "I'm just so nervous that I can't put my finger upon it. You do it."

"Nonsense!" said I. "If you don't find the ruby, it will never be found. That's the last one."

At last, with shining eyes and parted lips, the little finger went slowly down upon the fateful tack-head. She screwed up her eyes and closed her lips tightly, as if she feared something would explode, then pushed with all her might. The tack gave; but nothing else happened.

We stared at the table, our faces long with disappointment; then we looked at each other in unspoken questioning. Genevieve's expression was so woe-begone that I laughed. The nerve-racking suspense was broken.

"How silly!" she exclaimed. "There!"

With a quick movement, she bore down upon the centre tack--number ten--and lo! a section of the table edge flew outward, disclosing an aperture perhaps six inches long and a quarter of an inch wide. It was very much like a slit in a door for letters.

But there was no ruby yet, nor any aperture large enough to accommodate the one for which we were looking. I leaned over with a puzzled scowl and peered into the slit.

"There 's a folded paper in there," I announced. My fingers were too large to force into the opening, and Genevieve promptly produced a hat-pin. Next moment we had the paper out--or papers, for there were three sheets folded together.

Across the back, written in Felix Page's small cramped hand, was this inscription:

_Memorandum of Agreement between_ _Felix Page_ _and_ _Cristofano Paternostro, Michele Paternostro_ _and Filippo Paternostro._

"Well, we 're hot on the scent, at any rate," was my comment, as I unfolded the papers. Then I quickly folded them again, without a glance inside.

"Wait!" said I. "This is a solemn occasion, and it should be recognized with some fitting observance."

"Oh, don't tease!" cried Genevieve, dancing up and down with impatience, and trying to pluck the papers from my hand.

"I 'm not teasing, my dear," said I; "I 'm terribly serious. We are pretty near the end of the trail, little girl; after we have read this imposing doc.u.ment we will have reached the end. I 'm halfway sorry, too, notwithstanding the grim tragedy that has hung over us. We must celebrate the last event with an appropriate rite--a fire upon the library hearth."

She flushed with delight, and consented to wait until I had the fire going properly. It was a most successful fire. We dragged the library table up close; I jumped Genevieve to a seat upon it, and then seated myself beside her. She placed a hand upon my shoulder, and our heads were again very close together.

"Now, then!" I shook the papers open.

The more imposing one--the agreement--I placed beneath; its dry legal phraseology was not at all inviting. The other sheets were, however.

They too were written all over in Felix Page's hand, but bore the blunt, direct phrases of a man used to expressing himself without any rhetorical embellishment or nonsense.

And this is what we read:

This explanation is written to clear up any misunderstanding or doubt, that may arise after my death, over the stone called the Paternoster Ruby.

In June, 1884, I learned that Alfred Fluette was trying to buy it from the Paternostros. I at once determined that he should not have the stone if money could prevent it. So I too became a bidder.

The first figure set by the dealers was almost prohibitive, but as Fluette seemed willing to meet it, I was ready to go him one better.

But the wily Italians hedged. They set us to bidding against each other, and as the price rose my resolution to get the stone grew more set.

While the bids mounted, I was given ample satisfaction for the weight of whatever financial obligations I was incurring by Fluette's increasing worry and chagrin. He was like a pup that does n't know whether the bone is going into the soup-kettle or the garbage-can. I swore to have that bit of red gla.s.s if it took every cent that I could rake and sc.r.a.pe together--and I had a few of them.

Finally Fluette drew out, cursing me. I brought the Italians to a showdown.

Still they hesitated. I became suspicious.

One night Cristofano Paternostro, the head of the firm, called at my hotel. He was nervous and ill at ease. He informed me, with many hems and haws, that the ruby Fluette and I had been snarling over was lying at the bottom of the English Channel, and that they would be unable to deliver the goods. He had a good deal to say about the prestige the ruby gave the firm, and much more to the same effect, until I cut him off short. I told him that the ruby was nearer to making him ridiculous.

It seems that after they recovered the stone in Paris, the expert who accompanied them could n't resist the temptation to steal it. Besides being a gem expert and an expert thief, this fellow was accounted an expert swimmer. When the boat was near land he tried to get away with the prize by jumping overboard, under cover of night, and swimming ash.o.r.e. He did succeed in reaching the nearest land--which is to say, straight down. And that was the last of him, the ruby, and pretty nearly of the three Italians.

Since the ruby could n't be recovered, they agreed to make the best of it. They agreed to keep the matter among themselves, and to continue to reap all the advertising benefits which the supposed possession of such a costly trinket gave them.