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 a jilting letter!...  Mrs. De Peyster jilted!...  If that were ever to come out—­

For a moment she lay enfeebled and overwhelmed with horror.  Then convulsively she crushed the letter in her hands.

“See here—­wha’ d’ you mean?” cried the startled detective, springing forward; in a moment his powerful hands rescued the document.

“Both of my sisters think we ought to stand out for more money,” apologized Mr. Pyecroft.  “And I’m not so sure they’re not right.”

“We’ve made our bargain already,” quickly returned Mr. Brown.  “And that’s just how we’ll settle.”

He started to slip the letter into a pocket.  But Mr. Pyecroft caught hold of it.

“How about the money?”

“You mean you don’t trust me?”

“I’m not saying that,” apologized Mr. Pyecroft.  “But this means a lot to us.  We can’t afford to run any risks.”