The Danger Moment

For a day Sweetwater acknowledged himself to be mentally crushed, disillusioned and defeated. Then his spirits regained their poise. It would take a heavy weight indeed to keep them down permanently.

His opinion was not changed in regard to his neighbour’s secret guilt. A demeanour of this sort suggested bravado rather than bravery to the ever suspicious detective. But he saw, very plainly by this time, that he would have to employ more subtle methods yet ere his hand would touch the goal which so tantalisingly eluded him.

His work at the bench suffered that week; he made two mistakes. But by Saturday night he had satisfied himself that he had reached the point where he would be justified in making use of Miss Challoner’s letters. So he telephoned his wishes to New York, and awaited the promised developments with an anxiety we can only understand by realising how much greater were his chances of failure than of success. To ensure the latter, every factor in his scheme must work to perfection. The medium of communication (a young, untried girl) must do her part with all the skill of artist and author combined. Would she disappoint them? He did not think so. Women possess a marvellous adaptability for this kind of work and this one was French, which made the case still more hopeful.

But Brotherson! In what spirit would he meet the proposed advances? Would he even admit the girl, and, if he did, would the interview bear any such fruit as Sweetwater hoped for? The man who could mock the terrors of the night by a careless repetition of a strain instinct with the most sacred memories, was not to be depended upon to show much feeling at sight of a departed woman’s writing. But no other hope remained, and Sweetwater faced the attempt with heroic determination.

The day was Sunday, which ensured Brotherson’s being at home. Nothing would have lured Sweetwater out for a moment, though he had no reason to expect that the affair he was anticipating would come off till early evening.

But it did. Late in the afternoon he heard the expected steps go by his door — a woman’s steps. But they were not alone. A man’s accompanied them. What man? Sweetwater hastened to satisfy himself on this point by laying his ear to the partition.

Instantly the whole conversation became audible. “An errand? Oh, yes, I have an errand!” explained the evidently unwelcome intruder, in her broken English. “This is my brother Pierre. My name is Celeste; Celeste Ledru. I understand English ver well. I have worked much in families. But he understands nothing. He is all French. He accompanies me for — for the — what you call it? les convenances. He knows nothing of the beesiness.”

Sweetwater in the darkness of his closet laughed in his gleeful appreciation.

“Great!” was his comment. “Just great! She has thought of everything — or Mr. Gryce has.”

Meanwhile, the girl was proceeding with increased volubility.

“What is this beesiness, monsieur? I have something to sell — so you Americans speak. Something you will want much — ver sacred, ver precious. A souvenir from the tomb, monsieur. Will you give ten — no, that is too leetle — fifteen dollars for it? It is worth — Oh, more, much more to the true lover. Pierre, tu es bete. Teins-tu droit sur ta chaise. M. Brotherson est un monsieur comme il faut.”

This adjuration, uttered in sharp reprimand and with but little of the French grace, may or may not have been understood by the unsympathetic man they were meant to impress. But the name which accompanied them — his own name, never heard but once before in this house, undoubtedly caused the silence which almost reached the point of embarrassment, before he broke it with the harsh remark:

“Your French may be good, but it does not go with me. Yet is it more intelligible than your English. What do you want here? What have you in that bag you wish to open; and what do you mean by the sentimental trash with which you offer it?”

“Ah, monsieur has not memory of me,” came in the sweetest tones of a really seductive voice. “You astonish me, monsieur. I thought you knew — everybody else does — Oh, tout le monde, monsieur, that I was Miss Challoner’s maid — near her when other people were not — near her the very day she died.”

A pause; then an angry exclamation from some one. Sweetwater thought from the brother, who may have misinterpreted some look or gesture on Brotherson’s part. Brotherson himself would not be apt to show surprise in any such noisy way.

“I saw many things — Oh many things —” the girl proceeded with an admirable mixture of suggestion and reserve. “That day and other days too. She did not talk — Oh, no, she did not talk, but I saw — Oh, yes, I saw that she — that you — I’ll have to say it, monsieur, that you were tres bons amis after that week in Lenox.”

“Well?” His utterance of this word was vigorous, but not tender. “What are you coming to? What can you have to show me in this connection that I will believe in for a moment?”

“I have these — is monsieur certaine that no one can hear? I wouldn’t have anybody hear what I have to tell you, for the world — for all the world.”

“No one can overhear.”

For the first time that day Sweetwater breathed a full, deep breath. This assurance had sounded heartfelt. “Blessings on her cunning young head. She thinks of everything.”

“You are unhappy. You have thought Miss Challoner cold;— that she had no response for your ver ardent passion. But —” these words were uttered sotto voce and with telling pauses “— but — I— know — ver much better than that. She was ver proud. She had a right; she was no poor girl like me — but she spend hours — hours in writing letters she — nevaire send. I saw one, just once, for a leetle minute; while you could breathe so short as that; and began with Cheri, or your English for that, and ended with words — Oh, ver much like these: You may nevaire see these lines, which was ver interesting, veree so, and made one want to see what she did with letters she wrote and nevaire mail; so I watch and look, and one day I see them. She had a leetle ivory box — Oh, ver nice, ver pretty. I thought it was jewels she kept locked up so tight. But, non, non, non. It was letters — these letters. I heard them rattle, rattle, not once but many times. You believe me, monsieur?

“I believe you to have taken every advantage posible to spy upon your mistress. I believe that, yes.”

“From interest, monsieur, from great interest.”

“Self-interest.”

“As monsieur pleases. But it was strange, ver strange for a grande dame like that to write letters — sheets on sheets — and then not send them, nevaire. I dreamed of those letters — I could not help it, no; and when she died so quick — with no word for any one, no word at all, I thought of those writings so secret, so of the heart, and when no one noticed — or thought about this box, or — or the key she kept shut tight, oh, always tight in her leetle gold purse, I— Monsieur, do you want to see those letters?” asked the girl, with a gulp. Evidently his appearance frightened her — or had her acting reached this point of extreme finish? “I had nevaire the chance to put them back. And — and they belong to monsieur. They are his — all his — and so beautiful! Ah, just like poetry.”

“I don’t consider them mine. I haven’t a particle of confidence in you or in your story. You are a thief — self-convicted; or you’re an agent of the police whose motives I neither understand nor care to investigate. Take up your bag and go. I haven’t a cent’s worth of interest in its contents.”

She started to her feet. Sweetwater heard her chair grate on the painted floor, as she pushed it back in rising. The brother rose too, but more calmly. Brotherson did not stir. Sweetwater felt his hopes rapidly dying down — down into ashes, when suddenly her voice broke forth in pants:

“And Marie said — everybody said — that you loved our great lady; that you, of the people, common, common, working with the hands, living with men and women working with the hands, that you had soul, sentiment — what you will of the good and the great, and that you would give your eyes for her words, si fines, si spirituelles, so like des vers de poete. False! false! all false! She was an angel. You are — read that!” she vehemently broke in, opening her bag and whisking a paper down before him. “Read and understand my proud and lovely lady. She did right to die. You are hard — hard. You would have killed her if she had not —”

“Silence, woman! I will read nothing!” came hissing from the strong man’s teeth, set in almost ungovernable anger. “Take back this letter, as you call it, and leave my room.”

“Nevaire! You will not read? But you shall, you shall. Behold another! One, two, three, four!” Madly they flew from her hand. Madly she continued her vituperative attack. “Beast!............