"I just happened to remember; you said the letter might not be signed.
Hadn't you better let me have one of the Duke de Crecy's letters, so I
can verify the handwriting?"

"I don't mind; these don't tell much." And the detective handed over
one letter.

"It may be an hour or two before I can get back; the letters are
packed away and I've got to go through them and compare them."

He slipped out. Mr. Brown, as he watched him, could hardly conceal his
contempt.

The detective sat heavily down. Mrs. De Peyster was sick with
apprehension as to what that incomprehensible Mr. Pyecroft was about
to do. She wanted to talk to Matilda. But the two dared not speak with
this confident, omniscient, detectorial presence between them. Mr.
Brown condescendingly tried to make conversation by complimenting
Matilda on her shrewdness; he'd helped a lot of clever servants like
her to snug little fortunes.

But Matilda proved a poor conversationalist.

Close upon two hours passed before Mr. Pyecroft returned. He drew a
letter from his pocket, firmly gripped its edges with both hands, and
held it out to Mr. Brown.

"Is this the one?"

"Didn't I tell you not to be afraid; no one's going to steal it from
you."

He took the letter from Mr. Pyecroft's unwilling and untrustful hands
and glanced it through. The next moment it was as though an arc light
of excitement had been switched on within his ample person. With
swift, expert fingers he compared the texture of the paper of the new
letter and the earlier ones.

"Great God!" he exulted. "Same paper--same handwriting--and it says
just what I expected--and signed 'De Crecy'!"

He held out the letter to Matilda.

"Of course, you identify this as the letter you found?"

But Matilda shrank away as though the letter was deadly poison.

"I never saw the thing before!"

"What's that?" cried the detective.

"She's trying to hold out for more money," explained Mr. Pyecroft.
From behind the detective's broad back he gave Matilda a warning look;
then said softly: "Of course, it's the letter, isn't it, sister?"

Matilda thought only of saving the hour. The day would have to save
itself.

"Yes," she said.

"Might--might I see it?" huskily inquired Mrs. De Peyster.

"Sure. The more that corroborates it the better."

Her face to the wall, the faint light slanting across her shoulder,
she glanced at the letter. The Duke's own handwriting! And a jilting
letter!--politely worded--but