Let's
try the next key-word in the book."
They tried it, and the next, and all the rest. None of them translated
the letter.
It took more than an hour; at the end, as a full measure of good faith
and because it was of no further use to him--he having preserved a
copy--Marston insisted that Carpenter retain the original of the French
code-book and have a copy made, after which the book could be returned
to him at the Chateau. During this hour and more his hand was in and out
in his side coat-pocket. When he left the room there went with him, in
that pocket, a copy of the original letter--roughly made by the sense of
touch alone, yet none the less a copy and sufficiently distinct to be
decipherable. For years Marston had practised writing in the dark and
under all sorts of handicaps. In his pocket, a number of small slips of
paper and a pencil were concealed. He would write a line, then take his
hand from his pocket; after a time he would shift the page of paper,
write another line, and then another, and so on until the copy was made.
And all the while he was so frankly communicative, with apparently not
the slightest intent to obtaining a copy--even tearing up the paper on
which were the various trial translations--that he completely deceived
Carpenter.
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