‘If there is, you won’t find it out,’ replied the old man, ungraciously; ‘and it is none of your business, anyhow! What you have to do is to lend money on the key.’
Hagar hesitated. The article, notwithstanding its workmanship, its age, and its historical associations, was worth very little. Had its interest consisted of these merely, she would not have taken the key in pawn. But the row of mysterious figures decided her. Here was a secret, connected – as was probable from the remark of the old man – with a hidden treasure. Remembering her experience with the cryptogram of the Florentine Dante, Hagar determined to retain the key, and, if possible, to discover the secret.
‘If you are really in want of money, I will let you have a pound on it,’ she said, casting a glance at the threadbare clothes of her customer.
‘If I did not need money, I should not have blundered into your spider’s web,’ he retorted. ‘A pound will do; make out the ticket in the name of Luke Parsons, The Lodge, Danetree Hall, Buckton, Kent.’
In silence Hagar did as she was bid; in silence she gave him ticket and money; and in silence he walked out of the shop. When alone she took up the key, and began to examine the figures without loss of time. The learning of many secrets had created in her a burning desire to learn more. If ingenuity and perseverance could do it, Hagar was bent upon discovering the secret of the copper key.
This mysterious object was so covered with verdigris that she was unable to decipher the marks. With her usual promptness, Hagar got the necessary materials, and cleaned the key thoroughly. The figures – those, as Parsons had said, of Arabic numerals – then appeared clearer, and Hagar noted that they extended the whole length of the copper stem. Taking paper and pencil, she copied them out carefully, with the following result:
‘20211814115251256205255 – H – 38518212.’
‘An odd jumble of figures!’ said Hagar, staring at the result of her labours. ‘I wonder what they mean.’
Unversed in the science of unravelling cryptograms, she was unable to answer her own question; and after an hour of profitless investigation, which made her head ache, she numbered the key according to the numeral of the ticket, and put it away. But the oddity of the affair, the strange circumstance of the figures with the letter ‘H’ stranded among them, often made her reflective, and she was devoured by curiosity – that parent of all great discoveries – to know what key and figures meant. Nevertheless, for all her thought no explanation of the problem presented itself. To her the secret of the key was the secret of the Sphinx – as mysterious, as unguessable.
Then it occurred to her that there might be some story, or legend, or tradition attached to this queer key, which might throw some light on the mystery of the figures. If she learnt the story, it was not improbable that she might gain a hint therefrom. At all events, Parsons had spoken of concealed riches connected with the reading of the cypher. To attempt to unravel the problem without knowing the reason for which the figures were engraved was, vulgarly speaking, putting the cart before the horse. Hagar determined that the cart should be in its proper place, viz., at the tail of the animal. In other words, she resolved first to learn the legend of the key, and afterwards attempt a reading of the riddle. To get at the truth, it was necessary to see Parsons.
No sooner had Hagar made up her mind to this course than she resolved to carry out her plan. Leaving Bolker to mind the shop, she went off down to Kent – to the Lodge, Buckton, that address which Parsons had given to be written on the ticket. With her she took the key, in case it might be wanted, and shortly after midday she alighted at a little rural station.
Oh, it was sweet to be once more in the country, to wander through green lanes o’er-arched with bending hazels, to smell the perfume of Kentish orchards, to run across the springy turf of wide moors golden with gorse! Such a fair expanse was stretched out at the back of the station, and across it – as Hagar was informed by an obliging porter – Danetree Hall was to be found. At the gates thereof, in a pretty and quaint lodge, dwelt surly Mr Parsons, and thither went Hagar; but in truth she almost forgot her errand in the delights of the country.
Her gipsy blood sang in her veins as she ran across the green sward, and her heart leaped in her bosom for very lightness. She forgot the weary Lambeth pawn-shop; she thought not of Eustace Lorn; she did not let her mind dwell upon the return of Goliath and her subsequent disinheritance; all she knew was that she was a Romany lass, a child of the road, and had entered again into her kingdom. In such a happy vein she saw the red roofs of Danetree Hall rising above the trees of a great park; and almost immediately she arrived at the great iron gates, behind which, on one side of a stately avenue, she espied the lodge wherein dwelt Parsons.
He was sitting outside smoking a pipe, morose even in the golden sunlight, with the scent of flowers in his nostrils, the music of the birds in his ears. On seeing Hagar peering between the bars of the gate he started up, and literally rushed towards her.
‘Pawn-shop girl!’ he growled, like an angry bear. ‘What do you want?’
‘Civility in the first place; rest in the second!’ retorted Hagar, coolly. ‘Let me in, Mr Parsons. I have come to see you about that copper key.’
‘You’ve lost it?’ shouted the gruff creature.
‘Not I; it’s in my pocket. But I wish to know its story.’
‘Why?’ asked Parsons, opening the
