"I don't mind; these don't tell much." And the detective handed over one letter.
"It may be an hour or two before I can get back; the letters are packed away and I've got to go through them and compare them."
He slipped out. Mr. Brown, as he watched him, could hardly conceal his contempt.
The detective sat heavily down. Mrs. De Peyster was sick with apprehension as to what that incomprehensible Mr. Pyecroft was about to do. She wanted to talk to Matilda. But the two dared not speak with this confident, omniscient, detectorial presence between them. Mr. Brown condescendingly tried to make conversation by complimenting Matilda on her shrewdness; he'd helped a lot of clever servants like her to snug little fortunes.
But Matilda proved a poor conversationalist.
Close upon two hours passed before Mr. Pyecroft returned. He drew a letter from his pocket, firmly gripped its edges with both hands, and held it out to Mr. Brown.
"Is this the one?"
"Didn't I tell you not to be afraid; no one's going to steal it from you."
He took the letter from Mr. Pyecroft's unwilling and untrustful hands and glanced it through. The next moment it was as though an arc light of excitement had been switched on within his ample person. With swift, expert fingers he compared the texture of the paper of the new letter and the earlier ones.