Then the pig-faced beak fired up, and threatened to fine him for blaspheming.

He deigned no reply, but paid the guinea, and Clara swept out of the court, with a train a yard long, and leaning on the arm of a scarlet soldier who avenged Dr. Staines with military promptitude.

Christopher went home raging internally, for hitherto he had never seen so gross a case of injustice.

One of his humble patients followed him, and said, “I wish I had known, sir; you shouldn’t have come here to be insulted.  Why, no gentleman can ever get justice against a servant girl when he is sitting.  It is notorious, and that makes these hussies so bold.  I’ve seen that jade here with the same story twice afore.”

Staines reached home more discomposed than he could have himself believed.  The reason was that barefaced injustice in a court of justice shook his whole faith in man.  He opened the street door with his latch-key, and found two men standing in the passage.  He inquired what they wanted.

“Well, sir,” said one of them, civilly enough, “we only want our due.”

“For what?”

“For goods delivered at this house, sir.  Balance of account.”  And he handed him a butcher’s bill, L88, 11s. 5 1/2d.

“You must be mistaken; we run no bills here.  We pay ready money for everything.”

“Well, sir,” said the butcher, “there have been payments; but the balance has always been gaining; and we have been put off so often, we determined to see the master.  Show you the books, sir, and welcome.”

“This instant, if you please.”  He took the butcher’s address, who then retired, and the other tradesman, a grocer, told him a similar tale; balance, sixty pounds odd.

He went to the butcher’s, sick at heart, inspected the books, and saw that, right or wrong, they were incontrovertible; that debt had been gaining slowly, but surely, almost from the time he confided the accounts to his wife.  She had kept faith with him about five weeks, no more.

The grocer’s books told a similar tale.

The debtor put his hand to his heart, and stood a moment.  The very grocer pitied him, and said, “There’s no harry, doctor; a trifle on account, if settlement in full not convenient just now.  I see you have been kept in the dark.”

“No, no,” said Christopher; “I’ll pay every shilling.”  He gave one gulp, and hurried away.

At the fishmonger’s, the same story, only for a smaller amount.

A bill of nineteen pounds at the very pastrycook’s; a place she had promised him, as her physician, never to enter.

At the draper’s, thirty-seven pounds odd.

In short, wherever she had dealt, the same system:  partial payments, and ever-growing debt.

Remembering Madame Cie, he drove in a cab to Regent Street, and asked for Mrs. Staines’s account.

“Shall I send it, sir?”

“No; I will take it with me.”