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 instalment 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.

The milliner looks at Mr. Yatman, and whispers to me,—­“Not when a lady’s husband gets into difficulties.”

She pointed to the account as she spoke.  The entries after the time when Mr. Yatman’s circumstances became involved were just as extravagant, for a person in his wife’s situation, as the entries for the year before that period.  If the lady had economized in other things, she had certainly not economized in the matter of dress.

There was nothing left now but to examine the cash-book, for form’s sake.  The money had been paid in notes, the amounts and numbers of which exactly tallied with the figures set down in my list.

After that, I thought it best to get Mr. Yatman out of the house immediately.  He was in such a pitiable condition, that I called a cab and accompanied him home in it.  At first, he cried and raved like a child; but I soon quieted him,—­and I must add, to his credit, that he made me a most handsome apology for his language, as the cab drew up at his house-door.  In return, I tried to give him some advice about how to set matters right, for the future, with his wife.  He paid very little attention to me, and went up stairs muttering to himself about a separation.  Whether Mrs. Yatman will come cleverly out of the scrape or not seems doubtful.  I should say, myself, that she will go into screeching hysterics, and so frighten the poor man into forgiving her.  But this is no business of ours.  So far as we are concerned, the case is now at an end; and the present report may come to a conclusion along with it.

I remain, accordingly, yours to command,

Thomas Bulmer.

P.S.—­I have to add, that, on leaving Rutherford Street, I met Mr. Matthew Sharpin coming back to pack up his things.

“Only think!” says he, rubbing his hands in great spirits, “I’ve been to the genteel villa-residence; and the moment I mentioned my business, they kicked me out directly.  There were two witnesses of the assault; and it’s worth a hundred pounds to me, if it’s worth a farthing.”

“I wish you joy of your luck,” says I.

“Thank you,” says he.  “When may I pay you the same compliment on finding the thief?”