“Is this an official consultation?”

“Certainly,” replied Miller.  “I was authorized to consult you respecting the translation, but nothing was said about the original.  Still, if you want it for further study, I will get it for you.”

“No, thank you,” said Thorndyke.  “I have finished with it.  My theory turned out to be correct.”

“Your theory!” exclaimed the superintendent, eagerly.  “Do you mean to say—?”

“And, as you are consulting me officially, I may as well give you this.”

He held out a sheet of paper, which the detective took from him and began to read.

“What is this?” he asked, looking up at Thorndyke with a puzzled frown.  “Where did it come from?”

“It is the solution of the cryptogram,” replied Thorndyke.

The detective re-read the contents of the paper, and, with the frown of perplexity deepening, once more gazed at my colleague.

“This is a joke, sir; you are fooling me,” he said sulkily.

“Nothing of the kind,” answered Thorndyke.  “That is the genuine solution.”

“But it’s impossible!” exclaimed Miller.  “Just look at it, Dr. Jervis.”

I took the paper from his hand, and, as I glanced at it, I had no difficulty in understanding his surprise.  It bore a short inscription in printed Roman capitals, thus: 

“THE PICKERDILLEY STUF IS UP THE CHIMBLY 416 WARDOUR ST 2ND FLOUR BACK IT WAS HID BECOS OF OLD MOAKEYS JOOD MOAKEY IS A BLITER.”

“Then that fellow wasn’t an anarchist at all?” I exclaimed.

“No,” said Miller.  “He was one of Moakey’s gang.  We suspected Moakey of being mixed up with that job, but we couldn’t fix it on him.  By Jove!” he added, slapping his thigh, “if this is right, and I can lay my hands on the loot!  Can you lend me a bag, doctor?  I’m off to Wardour Street this very moment.”

We furnished him with an empty suit-case, and, from the window, watched him making for Mitre Court at a smart double.

“I wonder if he will find the booty,” said Thorndyke.  “It just depends on whether the hiding-place was known to more than one of the gang.  Well, it has been a quaint case, and instructive, too.  I suspect our friend Barton and the evasive Schoenberg were the collaborators who produced that curiosity of literature.”

“May I ask how you deciphered the thing?” I said.  “It didn’t appear to take long.”

“It didn’t.  It was merely a matter of testing a hypothesis; and you ought not to have to ask that question,” he added, with mock severity, “seeing that you had what turn out to have been all the necessary facts, two days ago.  But I will prepare a document and demonstrate to you to-morrow morning.”

* * * * *

“So Miller was successful in his quest,” said Thorndyke, as we smoked our morning pipes after breakfast.  “The ‘entire swag,’ as he calls it, was ‘up the chimbly,’ undisturbed.”