"Oh, well,—if you've got the letter, we won't scrap about the price. I'll come across."
"Cash?" shrewdly queried the doltish brother.
"Sure. I don't run no risks with checks."
"I—we—wouldn't let the letter go out of our hands until it's paid for. And we won't go to any office. You yourself can say whether it's what you want or not? And you can pay right here?"
"Sure. I'm the judge of what I want. And when I go for a big thing, I go prepared." Mr. Brown opened his coat, and significantly patted a bulge on the right side of his vest.
"Well, then, I'll go to my room and see if I have it. But you'll have to wait here, for"—again with the shrewd look of the ineffectual man—"you might follow me, and with some more detectives you might take the letter from me."
"Soon wait here as anywhere else. Anyhow, I'll want your sister's word," nodding at Matilda, "that the letter is the same. But don't worry—nobody's going to take anything from you."
Mr. Pyecroft started out, then paused.
"I just happened to remember; you said the letter might not be signed. Hadn't you better let me have one of the Duke de Crécy's letters, so I can verify the handwriting?"