“All right, then.”

[Illustration:  “SAME PAPER—­SAME HANDWRITING!”]

Mr. Brown released the letter, drew a leather wallet from inside his vest, counted off six five-hundred-dollar bills, returned the wallet and held out the bills.  The exchange was made.  The detective carefully put the letter into a thick manila envelope, which he licked and sealed and put inside his vest to keep company with the wallet.

Mr. Pyecroft counted the bills, slowly, three or four times; then looked up.

“I bet my sisters were right; you would have paid more,” he said regretfully, greedily.

“Never you mind what I would have paid!” retorted the detective, buttoning his coat over the letter.

“You’d have paid twice that!” Mr. Pyecroft exclaimed disappointedly.

The detective, triumphant, could not resist grinning confirmingly.

“We’ve been outwitted!” cried Mr. Pyecroft.  He turned to the two woman contritely.  “If I’d only heeded you—­let you have managed the affair!”

“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.