THE DRY-FLY FISHERMAN
"Now let us have the little note-book," said Sir Walter.
It took us a good hour to work through it. I explained the cypher, and he was jolly quick at picking it up. He amended my reading of it on several points, but I had been fairly correct, on the whole. His face was very grave before he had finished, and he sat silent for a while.
"I don't know what to make of it," he said at last. "He is right about one thing—what is going to happen the day after to-morrow. How the devil can it have got known? That is ugly enough in itself. But all this about war and the Black Stone—it reads like some wild melodrama. If only I had more confidence in Scudder's judgment. The trouble about him was that he was too romantic. He had the artistic temperament, and wanted a story to be better than God meant it to be. He had a lot of odd biases, too, Jews, for example, made him see red. Jews and the high finance."
"The Black Stone," he repeated. "Der
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