According
to our usual experience, these installments are mostly squeezed
out of the housekeeping money. In your case, I suspect, no
installments have been paid; proceedings have been threatened;
Mrs. Yatman, knowing your altered circumstances, has felt herself
driven into a corner, and she has paid her private account out of
your cash-box."
"I won't believe it," says he. "Every word you speak is an
abominable insult to me and to my wife."
"Are you man enough, sir," says I, taking him up short, in order
to save time and words, "to get that receipted bill you spoke of
just now off the file, and come with me at once to the milliner's
shop where Mrs. Yatman deals?"
He turned red in the face at that, got the bill directly, and put
on his hat. I took out of my pocket-book the list containing the
numbers of the lost notes, and we left the house together
immediately.
Arrived at the milliner's (one of the expensive West-End houses,
as I expected), I asked for a private interview, on important
business, with the mistress of the concern. It was not the first
time that she and I had met over the same delicate investigation.
The moment she set eyes on me she sent for her husband. I
mentioned who Mr. Yatman was, and what we wanted.
"This is strictly private?" inquires the husband.
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