Now only the young lady remembered M. Folgat’s presence, and, blushing deeply, she said,-- “Latterly Jacques and I had been discussing the various methods to which people resort who wish to carry on a secret correspondence: this led him to teach me one of the ways. Two correspondents choose any book they like, and each takes a copy of the same edition. The writer looks in his volume for the words he wants, and numbers them; his correspondent finds them by the aid of these numbers. Thus, in Jacques’s letters, the numbers followed by a colon refer to the pages, and the others to the order in which the words come.” “Ah, ah!” said Grandpapa Chandore, “I might have looked a long time.” “It is a very simple method,” replied Dionysia, “very well known, and still quite safe. How could an outsider guess what book the correspondents have chosen? Then there are other means to mislead indiscreet people. It may be agreed upon, for instance, that the numbers shall never have their apparent value, or that they shall vary according to the day of the month or the week. Thus, to-day is Monday, the second day of the week. Well, I have to deduct one from each number of a page, and add one to each number of a word.” “And you will be able to make it all out?” asked M. de Chandore. “Certainly, dear grandpapa. Ever since Jacques explained it to me, I have tried to learn it as a matter of course. We have chose a book which I am very fond of, Cooper’s ‘Spy;’ and we amused ourselves by writing endless letters. Oh! it is very amusing, and it takes time, because one does not always find the words that are needed, and then they have to be spelled letter by letter.” “And M. de Boiscoran has a copy of Cooper’s novels in his prison?” asked M. Folgat. “Yes, sir. M. Mechinet told me so. As soon as Jacques found he was to be kept in close confinement, he asked for some of Cooper’s novels, and M. Galpin, who is so cunning, so smart, and so suspicious, went himself and got them for him. Jacques was counting upon me.” “Then, dear child, go and read your letter, and solve the riddle,” said M. de Chandore. When she had left, he said to his companion,-- “How she loves him! How she loves this man Jacques! Sir, if any thing should happen to him, she would die.” M. Folgat made no reply; and nearly an hour passed, before Dionysia, shut up in her room, had succeeded in finding all the words of which Jacques’s letter was composed. But when she had finished, and came back to her grandfather’s study, her youthful face expressed the most profound despair. “This is horrible!” she said. The same idea crossed, like a sharp arrow, the minds of M. de Chandore and M. Folgat. Had Jacques confessed? “Look, read yourself!” said Dionysia, handing them the translation. Jacques wrote,-- “Thanks for your letter, my darling. A presentiment had warned me, and I had asked for a copy of Cooper.