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toward good, and in the strong influence of a husband's
unfaltering love. Mrs. Billinos, sir, is here -- in that

room -- the lawyer's long arm pointed to the door.
"I will call her in at once; and our united pleadings -- "

Lawyer Gooch paused, for client number three had
leaped from his chair as if propelled by steel springs, and

clutched his satchel.
"What the devil," he exclaimed, harshly, "do vou

mean? That woman in there! I thought I shook her
off forty miles back."

He ran to the open window, looked out below, and threw
one leg over the sill.

"Stop!" cried Lawyer Gooch, in amazement. "What
would you do? Come, Mr. Billings, and face your

erring but innocent wife. Our combined entreaties cannot
fail to -- "

"Billings!" shouted the now thoroughly moved client.
"I'll Billings you, you old idiot!"

Turning, he hurled his satchel with fury at the lawyer's
head. It struck that astounded peacemaker between

the eyes, causing him to staggerbackward a pace or two.
When Lawyer Gooch recovered his wits he saw that his

client had disappeared. Rushing to the window, he
leaned out, and saw the recreant gathering himself up from

the top of a shed upon which he had dropped from the
second-story window. Without stopping to collect his

hat he then plunged downward the remaining ten feet
to the alley, up which he flew with prodigious celerity

until the surrounding building swallowed him up from
view.

Lawyer Gooch passed his hand tremblingly across his
brow. It was a habitual act with him, serving to clear

his thoughts. Perhaps also it now seemed to soothe the
spot where a very hard alligator-hide satchel had struck.

The satchel lay upon the floor, wide open, with its con-
tents spilled about. Mechanically, Lawyer Gooch stooped

to gather up the articles. The first was a collar; and
the omniscient eye of the man of law perceived, wonder-

ingly, the initials H.K.J. marked upon it. Then came
a comb, a brush, a folded map, and a piece of soap.

lastly, a handful of old business letters, addressed --
every one of them -- to "Henry K. Jessup, Esq."

Lawyer Gooch closed the satchel, and set it upon the
table. He hesitated for a moment, and then put on his hat

and walked into the office boy's anteroom.
"Archibald," he said mildly, as he opened the hall door,

"I am going around to the Supreme Court rooms. In five
minutes you may step into the inner office, and inform the

lady who is waiting there that" -- here Lawyer Gooch
made use of the vernacular -- "that there's nothing

doing."
CALLOWAY'S CODE

The New York Enterprise sent H. B. Calloway as
special correspondent to the Russo-Japanese-Portsmouth

war.
For two months Calloway hung about Yokohama

and Tokio, shaking dice with the other correspondents
for drinks of 'rickshaws -- oh, no, that's something to

ride in; anyhow, he wasn't earning the salary that his
paper was paying him. But that was not Calloway's

fault. The little brown men who held the strings of
Fate between their fingers were not ready for the readers

of the Enterprise to season their breakfast bacon and
eggs with the battles of the descendants of the gods.

But soon the column of correspondents that were to
go out with the First Army tightened their field-glass

belts and went down to the Yalu with Kuroki. Calloway
was one of these.

Now, this is no history of the battle of the Yalu River.
That has been told in detail by the correspondents who

gazed at the shrapnel smoke rings from a distance of
three miles. But, for justice's sake, let it be understood

that the Japanese commander prohibited a nearer view.
Calloway's feat was accomplished before the battle.

What he did was to furnish the Enterprise with the
biggest beat of the war. That paper published exclu-

sively and in detail the news of the attack on the lines of
the Russian General on the same day that it

was made. No other paper printed a word about it for
two days afterward, except a London paper, whose

account was absolutelyincorrect and untrue.
Calloway did this in face of the fact that General Kuroki

was making, his moves and living his plans with the pro-
foundest secrecy, as far as the world outside his camps was

concerned. The correspondents were forbidden to send out
any news whatever of his plans; and every message that

was allowed on the wires was censored -- with rigid severity.
The correspondent for the London paper handed in

a cablegram describing, Kuroki's plans; but as it was
wrong from beginning to end the censor grinned and let

it go through.
So, there they were -- Kuroki on one side of the Yalu

with forty-two thousand infantry, five thousand cavalry,
and one hundred and twenty-four guns. On the other

side, Zassulitch waited for him with only twenty-three
thousand men, and with a long stretch of river to guard.

And Calloway had got hold of some important inside
information that he knew would bring the Enterprise

staff around a cablegram as thick as flies around a Park
Row lemonade stand. If he could only get that message

past the censor -- the new censor who had arrived and
taken his post that day!

Calloway did the obviously proper thing. He lit his pipe
and sat down on a gun carriage to think it over. And

there we must leave him; for the rest of the story belongs
to Vesey, a sixteen-dollar-a-week reporter on the Enterprise.

Calloway's cablegram was handed to the managing editor
at four o'clock in the afternoon. He read it three times; and

then drew a pocket mirror from a pigeon-hole in his desk,
and looked at his reflection carefully. Then he went over to

the desk of Boyd, his assistant (he usually called Boyd when
he wanted him), and laid the cablegram before him.

"It's from Calloway," he said. "See what you make
of it."

The message was dated at Wi-ju, and these were the
words of it:

Foregone preconcerted rash witching goes muffled
rumour mine dark silent unfortunate richmond existing

great hotly brute select mooted parlous beggars ye angel
incontrovertible.

Boyd read it twice.
"It's either a cipher or a sunstroke," said he.

"Ever hear of anything like a code in the office -- a
secret code?" asked the m. e., who had held his desk

for only two years. Managing editors come and go.
"None except the vernacular that the lady specials write

in," said Boyd. "Couldn't be an acrostic, could it?"
"I thought of that," said the m. e., "but the beginning

letters contain only four vowels. It must be a code of
some sort."

"Try em in groups," suggested Boyd. "Let's see
-- 'Rash witching goes' -- not with me it doesn't. 'Muf-

fled rumour mine' -- must have an underground wire.
'Dark silent unfortunate richmond' -- no reason why he

should knock that town so hard. 'Existing great hotly'
-- no it doesn't pan out I'll call Scott."

The city editor came in a hurry, and tried his luck.
A city editor must know something about everything;

so Scott knew a little about cipher-writing.
"It may be what is called an inverted alphabet cipher,"

said he. "I'll try that. 'R' seems to be the oftenest
used initial letter, with the exception of 'm.' Assuming

'r' to mean 'e', the most frequently used vowel, we
transpose the letters -- so."

Scott worked rapidly with his pencil for two minutes;
and then showed the first word according to his reading

-- the word "Scejtzez."
"Great!" cried Boyd. "It's a charade. My first

is a Russian general. Go on, Scott."
"No, that won't work," said the city editor. "It's

undoubtedly a code. It's impossible to read it without
the key. Has the office ever used a cipher code?"

"Just what I was asking," said the m.e. "Hustle
everybody up that ought to know. We must get at it

some way. Calloway has evidently got hold of some-
thing big, and the censor has put the screws on, or he

wouldn't have cabled in a lot of chop suey like this."
Throughout the office of the Enterprise a dragnet

was sent, hauling in such members of the staff as would
be likely to know of a code, past or present, by reason

of their wisdom, information, natural intelligence, or
length of servitude. They got together in a group in

the city room, with the m. e. in the centre. No one had
heard of a code. All began to explain to the head investi-

gator that newspapers never use a code, anyhow -- that
is, a cipher code. Of course the Associated Press stuff

is a sort of code -- an abbreviation, rather -- but --
The m. e. knew all that, and said so. He asked each man

how long he had worked on the paper. Not one of them
had drawn pay from an Enterprise envelope for longer than

six years. Calloway had been on the paper twelve years.
"Try old Heffelbauer," said the m. e. "He was here

when Park Row was a potato patch."
Heffelbauer was an institution. He was half janitor,

half handy-man about the office, and half watchman --
thus becoming the peer of thirteen and one-half tailors.

Sent for, he came, radiating his nationality.
"Heffelbauer," said the m. e., "did you ever hear of a

code belonging to the office a long time ago - a private
code? You know what a code is, don't you?"

"Yah," said Heffelbauer. "Sure I know vat a code is.
Yah, apout dwelf or fifteen year ago der office had a code.

Der reborters in der city-room haf it here."
"Ah!" said the m. e. "We're getting on the trail now.

Where was it kept, Heffelbauer? What do you know
about it?"

"Somedimes," said the retainer, "dey keep it in der
little room behind der library room."

"Can you find it asked the m. e. eagerly. "Do you
know where it is?"

"Mein Gott!" said Heffelbauer. "How long you
dink a code live? Der reborters call him a maskeet.

But von day he butt mit his head der editor,
und -- "

"Oh, he's talking about a goat," said Boyd. "Get
out, Heffelbauer."

Again discomfited, the concerted wit and resource of
the Enterprise huddled around Calloway's puzzle, con-

sidering its mysterious words in vain.
Then Vesey came in.

Vesey was the youngest reporter. He had a thirty-


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