"You people got a mighty good price," commented Detective Brown. "Well--perhaps so," sighed Mr. Pyecroft. Chagrin gave way to curiosity in his face. "I wonder, now, how Mrs. Allistair is going to use the letter?" "That's none of my business." "She must think she can do a lot with it," mused Mr. Pyecroft. "If the letter, or its substance, were printed, say in 'Town Gossip,' I suppose it would mean the end of Mrs. De Peyster's social leadership, and Mrs. Allistair would then have things her own way." "Can't say," said the detective. But he winked knowingly. When he had gone Mr. Pyecroft stood listening until the descending tread had thinned into silence. Then he turned about to Mrs. De Peyster and Matilda, and his wide mouth twisted up and rightward into that pagan, delighted smile of his. He laughed without noise; but every cell of him was laughing. "Well, sisters dear, we're cleaning up--eh! I had the devil's own time matching that letter-paper at Brentanos', and I ran a pretty big risk leaving the house--but, say, it was worth it!" For a moment he could only laugh. "First, let's split the pile. I told you I was always square with my pals. Here's a thousand for you, Angelica,"--slipping two bills under Mrs. De Peyster's pillow,--"and a thousand for you, Matilda,"--thrusting the amount into her hands,--"and a thousand for your dear brother Archibald,"--slipping his share into a vest pocket. Neither of the two women dared refuse the money. "But--but," Mrs. De Peyster gasped thickly, "it's an outrageous forgery!" "A forgery, I grant you, my dear Angelica," Mr. Pyecroft said good-humoredly. "But if by outrageous you mean crude or obvious, I beg to correct you. Even if I must say it myself, that forgery was strictly first-class." "But it's a forgery!" repeated Mrs. De Peyster. "My dears, don't you worry about that," he reassured them soothingly. "There'll be no comeback. That detective and his agency, and Mrs. Allistair behind them, first tried robbery, then tried bribery. They're all in bad themselves. So stop worrying; you're in no danger at all from arrest for forgery or fraud. There'll never be a peep from any of them." This seemed sound reasoning, but Mrs. De Peyster did not acknowledge herself comforted. "Besides," Mr. Pyecroft went on, with a sudden flash of wrathful contempt, "if there's anybody under God's sun I like to slip something over on it's those damned vermin of private detectives! And the swells that employ them! I hope that Mrs. Allistair gets stung good and plenty!" "But Mrs. De Peyster!" wailed that lady--she couldn't help it, though she tried to keep inarticulate her sense of complete annihilation. "When they publish that letter the damage will have been done. It's a forgery, but nobody will believe her when she says so, and she can't prove it! She'll be ruined!"