I nodded my
head.
"And confidential?" says the wife. I nodded again.
"Do you see any objection, dear, to obliging the sergeant with a
sight of the books?" says the husband.
"None in the world, love, if you approve of it," says the wife.
All this while poor Mr. Yatman sat looking the picture of
astonishment and distress, q uite out of place at our polite
conference. The books were brought, and one minute's look at the
pages in which Mrs. Yatman's name figured was enough, and more
than enough, to prove the truth of every word that I had spoken.
There, in one book, was the husband's account which Mr. Yatman
had settled; and there, in the other, was the private account,
crossed off also, the date of settlement being the very day after
the loss of the cash-box. This said private account amounted to
the sum of a hundred and seventy-five pounds, odd shillings, and
it extended over a period of three years. Not a single
installment had been paid on it. Under the last line was an entry
to this effect: "Written to for the third time, June 23d." I
pointed to it, and asked the milliner if that meant "last June."
Yes, it did mean last June; and she now deeply regretted to say
that it had been accompanied by a threat of legal proceedings.
"I thought you gave good customers more than three years'
credit?" says I.
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