I ordered him to rise, and he obeyed me.
"Where are the letters?"
"When you have them," he implored, with the terror of a trapped beast in his abject face, "you will let me go away?"
"I swear it," I answered; and, as I saw doubt and dread in his quailing eyes, I added, "by the memory of my father. Where are the letters?"
"There."
He pointed to a valise in a corner of the room.
"Here is the money."
I flung him the note-case which contained it. Is there a sort of moral magnetism in the tone of certain words and in certain expressions of countenance? Was it the nature of the oath which I had just taken, so deeply impressive at that moment, or had this man sufficient strength of mind to say to himself that his single chance of safety resided in belief in my good faith? However that may be, he did not hesitate for a moment; he opened the ironbound valise, took out a yellow-leather box with a patent lock, and, having opened it, flung its contents—a large sealed envelope—to me, exactly as I had flung the bank-notes to him. I, too, for my part, had not a moment's fear that he would produce a weapon from the valise and attack me while I was verifying the contents of the envelope. These consisted of three letters only; the two first bore the double stamp of Paris and New York, the third those of New York and Liverpool, and all three bore the January or February postmarks of the year 1864.
"Is that all?" he asked.
"Not yet," I answered; "you must undertake to leave Paris this evening by the first train, without having seen your brother or written to him."