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.
"Great God!" he exulted.

"Same paper--same handwriting--and it says just what I expected--and signed 'De Crecy'!" He held out the letter to Matilda.
"Of course, you identify this as the letter you found ?" But Matilda shrank away as though the letter was deadly poison.
"I never saw the thing before!" "What's that ?" cried the detective.
"She's trying to hold out for more money," explained Mr.Pyecroft.
From behind the detective's broad back he gave Matilda a warning look; then said softly: "Of course, it's the letter, isn't it, sister ?" Matilda thought only of saving the hour.