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 sil