"I like your way of doing things," she said. "That's business. You ought to stop here, Mr. Brent, and take up your cousin's work."
"It would be a fitting tribute to his memory, wouldn't it?" answered Brent. "Well, I don't know. But this letter business is the thing to do now. I'll be back in ten minutes, Mrs. Saumarez."
"Let yourself in, and come straight here," she said. "I'll wait for you."
Wallingford's old rooms were close at hand—only round the corner, in fact—and Brent went straight to them and into the bedroom. He found the cedar cabinet at once; he had, in fact, seen it the day before, but finding it locked had made no attempt to open it. He carried it back to Mrs. Saumarez, set it on her desk, and laid beside it a bunch of keys.
"I suppose you'll find this key amongst those," he said. "They're all the private keys of his that I have anyway."
"Perhaps you will find it?" she suggested. "I'm a bad hand at that sort of thing."
Brent had little difficulty in finding the right key. Unthinkingly, he raised the lid of the cabinet—and quickly closed it again. In that momentary glimpse of the contents it seemed to him that he had unearthed a dead man's secret. For in addition to a pile of letters he had seen a woman's glove; a knot of ribbon; some faded flowers.
"That's it," he said hurriedly, shutting down the lid and affecting to have seen nothing. "I'll take the key off the bunch."
Mrs. Saumarez took the key from him in silence, relocked the cabinet, and carried it over to a safe let in to the wall of the room.
"Thank you, Mr. Brent," she said. "I'm glad to have those letters."