Yatman all alone, reading the newspaper.
"About this matter of the robbery, sir," says I.
He cut me short, peevishly enough, being naturally a poor, weak,
womanish sort of man.
"Yes, yes, I know," says he. "You have come to tell me that your
wonderfully clever man, who has bored holes in my second floor
partition, has made a mistake, and is off the scent of the
scoundrel who has stolen my money."
"Yes, sir," says I. "That _is_ one of the things I came to tell
you. But I have got something else to say besides that."
"Can you tell me who the thief is?" says he, more pettish than
ever.
"Yes, sir," says I, "I think I can."
He put down the newspaper, and began to look rather anxious and
frightened.
"Not my shopman?" says he. "I hope, for the man's own sake, it's
not my shopman."
"Guess again, sir," says I.
"That idle slut, the maid?" says he.
"She is idle, sir," says I, "and she is also a slut; my first
inquiries about her proved as much as that. But she's not the
thief."
"Then, in the name of Heaven, who is?" says he.
"Will you please to prepare yourself for a very disagreeable
surprise, sir?" says I. "And, in case you lose your temper, will
you excuse my remarking that I am the stronger man of the two,
and that if you allow yourself to lay hands on me, I may
unintentionally hurt you, in pure self-defense.
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