“Going to bed, Peter? Ah, good boy.”
Peter stopped, hesitating, by the door.
“Oh, I wonder—” he said and stopped.
“Yes?” said Mr. Zanti, looking at him.
“Oh—well—it's nothing—” Then he blurted out—“I saw a letter—I couldn't help it—a letter from Stephen this afternoon. They came when Herr Gottfried was out—and I wanted—I want dreadfully—to hear about him—if you could tell me—”
For an instant Mr. Zanti's large eyes closed until they seemed to be no larger than pin-points—then they opened again.
“Stephen—Stephen? Stephen what? What is it that the boy talks of?”
“You know—Stephen Brant—the man who first brought me to see you when I was quite a kid. I was—I always have been very fond of him. I should be so very glad—”
“Surely the boy is mad—what has come to you? Stephen Brant—yes I remember the man—but I have heard nothing for years and years—no, nothing. See, here are my afternoon's letters.”
He took a bundle of letters out of his pocket and showed them to Peter. The boy found the one in Stephen's handwriting.