He groaned.
"Honey, hit wus fo' Marse Albert's sake. I tuk en kep' 'em so ez 'e couldn't fine 'em when 'is pa died." He looked at me imploringly. "Let 'em be, honey—let 'em be."
"Give them to me, Uncle Peter," I said gently, but firmly.
Tremblingly he lifted a loose stone from the hearth, and brought up a small black box, the same that I had seen under the hands of old Gaston D'Esterre, in that midnight vision. I did not heed Uncle Peter's moans and ejaculations, but, getting down on my knees, turned the key in the rusty lock. For half a century and more this faithful servant had hidden the evidence of his old master's wrong-doing. But I ruthlessly poured out letters and papers, some of them with seals unbroken—letters written by Euphemia and her lover, and intercepted by the crafty Daniel—papers bearing false witness to Herman Vandala's guilt, and last of all, a brief, remorseful confession from Gaston D'Esterre. They were all yellow and musty, and rustled in my shaking fingers, as I turned them over in the light of the pine-knot fire blazing on the hearth.
"Where did you get these, Uncle Peter?" I asked at last.
"De Lawd forgive me, chile, I stole 'em, en tuk en hid 'em while ole marse lay a-dyin' en a-tellin' Marse Albert whar to fine 'em. I 'feered to burn 'em, but I kep' 'em, kase dey might fall inter de wrong han's."
There were footsteps on the garden walk, the doorway framed my mother's black-draped figure and pale, frightened face.
"Phemie, child, what are you doing?"
"Unearthing old secrets," I said.
Beyond her I saw Herman Vandala, and, sweeping the papers together in my hands, rose up. I held them out to him, trembling, burning with shame, yet determined to right that old wrong at any cost.