“It’d be worth money fur him to git safe hold of them letters. Thar was two on ’em. I didn’t let on to Tom. I wasn’t gwine to let on to him till I found out he’d go in with me. Them as knowed the man they was writ by ’ud be able to see a heap in ’em. They’d give him away. Ye’d better get hold of ’em. They’re worth five hundred. They’re yourn—ye wrote ’em yourself. Ye ain’t jest like him—ye’re him—I’ll sw’ar to ye!”
Latimer suddenly saw his mother’s mild New England countenance, with its faded blue eyes. He remembered the hours he had spent telling her the details of the sunny days in Italy, where Margery had lain smiling in the sunset. He looked down the long wet street, the lamps gleaming on its shining surface. He thought of Baird, who would not return until the day on which he was to deliver a farewell lecture before leaving Washington. He recalled his promptness of resource and readiness for action. If Baird were but in the room above in which the light burned he would tell him! His mind seemed to vault over all else at this instant—to realise the thing which it had not reached at the first shock. He turned on Stamps.
“You say there were letters?” he exclaimed, forgetting his previous unresponsiveness.
“Two. Not long ’uns, an’ wrote keerful—without no name. But they say a heap. They was wrote when he had to leave her.”
Latimer’s heart seemed physically to turn over in his side. He had never known she had had a line of handwriting in her possession. This must be some scrap of paper, some last, last words she clung to with such anguish of desperation that she could not tear herself from them, and so had died leaving them in their secret hiding-place. The thought was a shock. The effort it cost him to regain his self-control was gigantic. But he recovered his outward calm.
“You had better go home and change your clothing,” he said, as coldly as he had spoken before. “You are not a young man or a strong one, and you may kill yourself. You are making a mistake about me; but if you will give me your address I will see you again.”
“I thort ye would—mebbe,” said Stamps. “I thort mebbe ye would. They’re worth it.”
And he scribbled a few words on a scrap of paper with a stump of a pencil—producing both rapidly from his pocket—and thrusting it into Latimer’s hand, trotted away contentedly down the long wet street.