“I suppose the circumstances of my brother’s death are still fresh in your mind.”
Arthur put on an intelligent expression, and inwardly deplored his ignorance. Yet—Peixada?
Peixada? the name did have a familiar ring, of a truth. But where and in what connection had he heard it?
“Let me see,” he ventured, “that was in—?”
“In July, ’seventy-nine—recollect?”
Ah, yes; to be sure; he recollected. So this man was a brother of the Peixada who, rather less than half a dozen years ago, had been murdered, and whose murder had set New York agog. In a general way Arthur recalled the glaring accounts of the matter that had appeared in the newspapers at the time. “Yes,” he said, feeling that it behooved him to say something, “it was very sad.”
“Fearful!” put in Mr. Mendel.
“Of course,” Peixada resumed, in his pompous style, “of course you followed the trial as it was reported in the public prints; but perhaps you have forgotten the particulars. Had I better refresh your memory?”
“That would be a good idea,” said Arthur.—To what was the way being paved?
With the air of performing a ceremony, Peixada rose, unbuttoned his coat, extracted a bulky envelope from the inner pocket, re-seated himself, and handed the envelope to Arthur. It proved to contain newspaper clippings. “Please glance them through,” said Peixada.