“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 possible to spy upon your mistress.  I believe that, yes.”

“From interest, monsieur, from great interest.”

“Self-interest.”