In Secret | Page 5

left, but which was now merely
half full. Then, with another lingering look at the cheerful fire, he
sighed, buttoned his fur coat, placed his hat firmly upon his carefully
parted hair, and walked out to perish bravely for his native land.
On the sidewalk a raccoon-furred chauffeur stepped up with all the
abandon of a Kadiak bear:
"Mr. Vaux, sir?"
"Yes."
"Miss Erith's car."
"Thanks," grunted Vaux, climbing into the pretty coupe and cuddling
his shanks under a big mink robe, where, presently, he discovered a
foot-warmer, and embraced it vigorously between his patent-leather
shoes.
It had now become the coldest night on record in New York City.
Fortunately he didn't know that; he merely sat there and hated Fate.
Up the street and into Fifth Avenue glided the car and sped northward
through the cold, silvery lustre of the arc-lights hanging like globes of
moonlit ice from their frozen stalks of bronze.
The noble avenue was almost deserted; nobody cared to face such
terrible cold. Few motors were abroad, few omnibuses, and scarcely a
wayfarer. Every sound rang metallic in the black and bitter air; the
windows of the coupe clouded from his breath; the panels creaked.
At the Plaza he peered fearfully out upon the deserted Circle, where the
bronze lady of the fountain, who is supposed to represent Plenty,
loomed high in the electric glow, with her magic basket piled high with
icicles.
"Yes, plenty of ice," sneered Vaux. "I wish she'd bring us a hod or two

of coal."
The wintry landscape of the Park discouraged him profoundly.
"A man's an ass to linger anywhere north of the equator," he grumbled.
"Dickybirds have more sense." And again he thought of the wood fire
in the club and the partly empty but steaming glass, and the aroma it
had wafted toward him; and the temperature it must have imparted to
"Bill."
He was immersed in arctic gloom when at length the car stopped. A
butler admitted him to a brown-stone house, the steps of which had
been thoughtfully strewn with furnace cinders.
"Miss Erith?"
"Yes, sir."
"Announce Mr. Vaux, partly frozen."
"The library, if you please, sir," murmured the butler, taking hat and
coat.
So Vaux went up stairs with the liveliness of a crippled spider, and
Miss Erith came from a glowing fireside to welcome him, giving him a
firm and slender hand.
"You ARE cold," she said. "I'm so sorry to have disturbed you this
evening."
He said:
"Hum--hum--very kind--m'sure--hum--hum!"
There were two deep armchairs before the blaze; Miss Erith took one,
Vaux collapsed upon the other.
She was disturbingly pretty in her evening gown. There were cigarettes
on a little table at his elbow, and he lighted one at her suggestion and

puffed feebly.
"Which?" she inquired smilingly.
He understood: "Irish, please."
"Hot?"
"Thank you, yes,"
When the butler had brought it, the young man began to regret the
Racquet Club less violently.
"It's horribly cold out," he said. "There's scarcely a soul on the streets."
She nodded brightly:
"It's a wonderful night for what we have to do. And I don't mind the
cold very much."
"Are you proposing to go OUT?" he asked, alarmed.
"Why, yes. You don't mind, do you?"
"Am I to go, too?"
"Certainly. You gave me only twenty-four hours, and I can't do it alone
in that time."
He said nothing, but his thoughts concentrated upon a single
unprintable word.
"What have you done with the original Lauffer letter, Mr. Vaux?" she
inquired rather nervously.
"The usual. No invisible ink had been used; nothing microscopic. There
was nothing on the letter or envelope, either, except what we saw."
The girl nodded. On a large table behind her chair lay a portfolio. She

turned, drew it toward her, and lifted it into her lap.
"What have you discovered?" he inquired politely, basking in the
grateful warmth of the fire.
"Nothing. The cipher is, as I feared, purely arbitrary. It's exasperating,
isn't it?"
He nodded, toasting his shins.
"You see," she continued, opening the portfolio, "here is my copy of
this wretched cipher letter. I have transferred it to one sheet. It's nothing
but a string of Arabic numbers interspersed with meaningless words.
These numbers most probably represent, in the order in which they are
written, first the number of the page of some book, then the line on
which the word is to be found--say, the tenth line from the top, or
maybe from the bottom--and then the position of the word--second
from the left or perhaps from the right."
"It's utterly impossible to solve that unless you have the book," he
remarked; "therefore, why speculate, Miss Erith?"
"I'm going to try to find the book."
"How?"
"By breaking into the shop of Herman Lauffer."
"House-breaking? Robbery?"
"Yes."
Vaux smiled incredulously: