No. 13 Washington Square Part 35

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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d!" 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 doc.u.ment.

"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."

"All right, then."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "SAME PAPER--SAME HANDWRITING!"]

Mr. Brown released the letter, drew a leather wallet from inside his vest, counted off six five-hundred-dollar bills, returned the wallet and held out the bills. The exchange was made. The detective carefully put the letter into a thick manila envelope, which he licked and sealed and put inside his vest to keep company with the wallet.

Mr. Pyecroft counted the bills, slowly, three or four times; then looked up.

"I bet my sisters were right; you would have paid more," he said regretfully, greedily.

"Never you mind what I would have paid!" retorted the detective, b.u.t.toning his coat over the letter.

"You'd have paid twice that!" Mr. Pyecroft exclaimed disappointedly.

The detective, triumphant, could not resist grinning confirmingly.

"We've been outwitted!" cried Mr. Pyecroft. He turned to the two woman contritely. "If I'd only heeded you--let you have managed the affair!"

"You people got a mighty good price," commented Detective Brown.

"Well--perhaps so," sighed Mr. Pyecroft. Chagrin gave way to curiosity in his face. "I wonder, now, how Mrs. Allistair is going to use the letter?"

"That's none of my business."

"She must think she can do a lot with it," mused Mr. Pyecroft. "If the letter, or its substance, were printed, say in 'Town Gossip,' I suppose it would mean the end of Mrs. De Peyster's social leadership, and Mrs. Allistair would then have things her own way."

"Can't say," said the detective. But he winked knowingly.

When he had gone Mr. Pyecroft stood listening until the descending tread had thinned into silence. Then he turned about to Mrs. De Peyster and Matilda, and his wide mouth twisted up and rightward into that pagan, delighted smile of his. He laughed without noise; but every cell of him was laughing.

"Well, sisters dear, we're cleaning up--eh! I had the devil's own time matching that letter-paper at Brentanos', and I ran a pretty big risk leaving the house--but, say, it was worth it!" For a moment he could only laugh. "First, let's split the pile. I told you I was always square with my pals. Here's a thousand for you, Angelica,"--slipping two bills under Mrs. De Peyster's pillow,--"and a thousand for you, Matilda,"--thrusting the amount into her hands,--"and a thousand for your dear brother Archibald,"--slipping his share into a vest pocket.

Neither of the two women dared refuse the money.

"But--but," Mrs. De Peyster gasped thickly, "it's an outrageous forgery!"

"A forgery, I grant you, my dear Angelica," Mr. Pyecroft said good-humoredly. "But if by outrageous you mean crude or obvious, I beg to correct you. Even if I must say it myself, that forgery was strictly first-cla.s.s."

"But it's a forgery!" repeated Mrs. De Peyster.

"My dears, don't you worry about that," he rea.s.sured them soothingly.

"There'll be no comeback. That detective and his agency, and Mrs.

Allistair behind them, first tried robbery, then tried bribery.

They're all in bad themselves. So stop worrying; you're in no danger at all from arrest for forgery or fraud. There'll never be a peep from any of them."

This seemed sound reasoning, but Mrs. De Peyster did not acknowledge herself comforted.