True enough, after dinner a note was brought. It was from Monica.
“I have just heard from Dr. O’Neill. He raises his previous offer by £150.”
“The nephew must be a man of means,” said Tommy thoughtfully. “And I tell you what, Tuppence, the prize he’s after must be well worth while.”
“Oh! Oh! Oh! if only we could find it!”
“Well, let’s get on with the spade work.”
They were sorting through the big box of papers, a wearisome affair, as they were all jumbled up pell mell without any kind of order or method. Every few minutes they compared notes.
“What’s the latest, Tuppence?”
“Two old receipted bills, three unimportant letters, a recipe for preserving new potatoes and one for making lemon cheesecake. What’s yours?”
“One bill, poem on Spring, two newspaper cuttings: ‘Why Women buy Pearls-a sound investment’ and ‘Man with Four Wives’-Extraordinary Story,’ and a recipe for Jugged Hare.”
“It’s heart breaking,” said Tuppence, and they fell to once more. At last the box was empty. They looked at each other.
“I put this aside,” said Tommy, picking up a half sheet of notepaper, “because it struck me as peculiar. But I don’t suppose it’s got anything to do with what we’re looking for.”
“Let’s see it. Oh! it’s one of those funny things, what do they call them? Anagrams, charades or something.” She read it:
“My first you put on glowing coal
And into it you put my whole
My second really is the first
My third mislikes the winter blast.”
“H’m,” said Tommy critically. “I don’t think much of the poet’s rhymes.”
“I don’t see what you find peculiar about it, though,” said Tuppence. “Everybody used to have a collection of these sort of things about fifty years ago. You saved them up for winter evenings round the fire.”
“I wasn’t referring to the verse. It’s the words written below it that strike me as peculiar.
“St. Luke XI. 9,” she read. “It’s a text.”
“Yes. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? Would an old lady of a religious persuasion write a text just under a charade?”
“It is rather odd,” agreed Tuppence thoughtfully.
“I presume that you, being a clergyman’s daughter, have got your Bible with you?”
“As a matter of fact I have. Aha, you didn’t expect that. Wait a sec.”
Tuppence ran to her suit case, extracted a small red volume and returned to the table. She turned the leaves rapidly. “Here we are. Luke, Chapter XI, Verse 9. Oh! Tommy, look.”
Tommy bent over and looked where Tuppence’s small finger pointed to a portion of the verse in question.
“Seek, and ye shall find.”
“That’s it,” cried Tuppence. “We’ve got it! Solve the cryptogram and the treasure is ours-or rather Monica’s.”
“Well, let’s get to work on the cryptogram, as you call it. ‘My first you put on glowing coal.’ What does that mean, I wonder? Then-‘My second really is the first.’ That’s pure gibberish.”
“It’s quite simple really,” said Tuppence kindly. “It’s just a sort of knack. Let me have it.”
Tommy surrendered it willingly. Tuppence ensconed herself in an arm chair, and began muttering to herself with bent brows.
“It’s quite simple really,” murmured Tommy when half an hour had elapsed.
“Don’t crow! We’re the wrong generation for this. I’ve a good mind to go back to town tomorrow and call on some old pussy who would probably read it as easy as winking. It’s a knack, that’s all.”
“Well, let’s have one more try.”
“There aren’t many things you can put on glowing coal,” said Tuppence thoughtfully. “There’s water, to put it out, or wood, or a kettle.”
“It must be one syllable, I suppose? What about wood, then?”
“You couldn’t put anything into wood, though.”
“There’s no one syllable word instead of water, but there must be one syllable things you can put on a fire in the kettle line.”
“Saucepans,” mused Tuppence. “Frying pans. How about pan? Or pot? What’s a word beginning pan or pot that is something you cook?”
“Pottery,” suggested Tommy. “You bake that in the fire. Wouldn’t that be near enough?”
“The rest of it doesn’t fit. Pancakes? No. Oh! bother.”
They were interrupted by the little serving maid, who told them that dinner would be ready in a few minutes.