"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.
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