"But I have no such letter!" cried Matilda.
"I might make it a thousand," conceded the detective. "And," he added, "the money might come in very handy for your sick sister there."
"But I tell you I have no such letter!"
"Say fifteen hundred, then."
"But I haven't got it!" cried Matilda.
"Perhaps you may have it without knowing what it is. Some of his letters he signed only with an initial. Here is a sample of the Duke's handwriting—one of his letters I found."
"I tell you I have—"
"Pardon me, Mr. Brown," interrupted the ineffectual-looking Mr. Pyecroft. "May I see the handwriting, please?"
Firmly holding it in his own hands, the detective displayed the letter to Mr. Pyecroft—an odd, foreign hand, the paper of superfine quality, but without crest or any other embossing. Mr. Pyecroft studied it closely; his look grew puzzled; then he turned to Matilda.
"I don't exactly remember, Matilda, but it seems to me that there was handwriting like this among the letters you sent to me to keep for you."