e 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 possible 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