



Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by
Google Books (Princeton University)












Transcriber's Notes:
   1. Page scan source:
      https://books.google.com/books?id=K8IsAAAAYAAJ
      (Princeton University)






[Front cover]





_The Crimson_
CRYPTOGRAM

A Detective Story


By FERGUS HUME
_Author of "The Mystery of a Hansom
Cab," "The Dwarf's Chamber," Etc_.




New Amsterdam Book Company
156 Fifth Avenue: New York: 1902


CONTENTS

CHAP.
I.     A Midnight Surprise.
II.    The Writing in Blood.
III.   An Open Verdict.
IV.    The Reading of the Blood Signs.
V.     Mrs. Moxton seeks Counsel.
VI.    A Fresh Discovery.
VII.   What the Cabman knew.
VIII.  A Music-Hall Star.
IX.    The Austrian.
X.     A Strange Denial.
XI.    A Half Confession.
XII.   Mr. Busham, Solicitor.
XIII.  Mrs. Moxton's Surrender.
XIV.   The Pimlico House.
XV.    What Mrs. Amber knew.
XVI.   Another Mystery.
XVII.  A Life History.
XVIII. What Really Happened.
XIX.   The Red Pocket-Book.
XX.    Busham at Bay.
XXI.   The Blind Girl.
XXII.  Janet's Discovery.
XXIII. The Beginning of the End.
XXIV.  The Truth.
XXV.   A Confession,
XXVI.  The End of the Story..


The Crimson Cryptogram




CHAPTER I
A MIDNIGHT SURPRISE


"Poverty, naked and unconcealed! One can endure that, with some
patience, as a beaten soldier in the battle of life. But genteel
pauperism--the semi-poverty of the middle-class, that lives a
necessary lie at the cost of incessant worry and constant
defeat--there you have the true misery of life. Believe me, Cass,
there is no torture like that of an ambition which cannot be attained
for lack of money."

"I did not know you were ambitious, Ellis."

"Not of setting the Thames on fire. My desires are limited to a good
practice, a moderate income, a home, and a wife to love me. These
wishes are reasonable enough, Heaven knows, yet some cursed Fate
prevents their realisation. And I have to sit down and wait; a doctor
can do nothing else. I must listen with such philosophy as I have for
the ring of the door bell to announce my first patient, and the ring
never comes. The heart grows sick, the brain rusty, the money goes,
the temper sours, and so I pass the best days of my life."

"All things come to him who knows how to wait," said Cass, knocking
the ashes out of a well-smoked briar.

"And the horse is the noblest of all animals," retorted Ellis. "I
never _did_ find consolation in proverbs of that class."

The two men sat in their dingy sitting-room talking as usual of a
problematical future. Every night they discussed the subject, and
every discussion ended without any definite conclusion being arrived
at. Indeed, only Fortune could have terminated the arguments in a
satisfactory manner, but as yet the fickle deity showed no disposition
to make a third in the conversation. Therefore, Robert Ellis, M.D.,
and Harry Cass, journalist, talked, and talked, and talked. They also
hoped for the best, a state of mind sufficiently eloquent of their
penniless position. Unless they or their relatives are sick, rich
people have no need to hope for the best. The second virtue dwells
almost exclusively with the poor and ambitious, as do her two sisters.

Supper was just over, but even cold beef, pickles and bottled beer,
with the after comfort of a pipe, could not make Ellis happy. The more
philosophical Cass lay on the ragged sofa and digested his meal, while
the doctor walked up and down the room railing at Fate. He was a tall
young man, clean-limbed, and sufficiently good-looking. Poverty and
former opulence showed themselves in the threadbare velveteen smoking
suit he wore; and the past recurred