“You come in authority,” she said faintly.

“We won’t speak about that now,” said Mr. Harrison.  “All we want you to do is to make a complete confession of your knowledge of the affair.”

“I haven’t any knowledge.”

“You have,” I said.  “You know everything.  I have papers here belonging to Woodward, Holtzmann, and Ferguson to prove it.  There is no use for you to deny it, and if you insist and make it necessary to call in the police—­”

“No, no!  Please don’t do that, I beg of you,” she cried.

“Then will you do as I wish?”

“But my reputation?  It will be gone forever,” she moaned.

“It will be gone anyway, if you have to go to prison,” observed Mr. Harrison, sagely.

“And if I make a clean confession you will not prosecute me?” she asked eagerly.

“I’ll promise you that,” I said.

“You are not fooling me?”

“No, ma’am.”

She sprang to her feet and paced the room several times.

“I’ll do it,” she cried.  “They have never treated me right, and I do not care what becomes of them so long as I go clear.  What do you wish me to do, gentlemen?”

I was nonplussed for an instant.  Mr. Harrison helped me out.

“I will write out your confession and you can sign it,” he said.  “Have you ink and paper handy?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Mitts brought forth the material, and we all sat down again.

“Remember to give us only the plain facts,” I said.

“I will,” she returned sharply.

In a rather roundabout way she made her confession, if it could be called such.  It filled several sheets of paper, and it took over half an hour.  It contained but little more than what my readers already know or suspect.  She knew positively that Mr. Aaron Woodward was the forger of the checks, Holtzmann had presented them, and Ferguson had so altered the daily reports that my father had unwittingly made a false showing on his books.  About Weaver she knew nothing.

When once explained the whole matter was as clear as day.

When he had finished the writing, Mr. Harrison read the paper out loud, and after some hesitation the woman signed it, and then we both witnessed it.

“I guess our business here is at an end,” said my Western friend.

“I think so,” I replied.  “But one thing more, Mrs. Mitts,” I continued, turning to her.  “If Mr. Woodward or Chris Holtzmann calls, I think you will find it advisable to keep this affair a secret.”

“I will not be at home to them,” she replied briefly.

“A good plan,” said Mr. Harrison.  “Now that you have done the right thing, the less you say about the matter the better for you.”

A few minutes later, with the paper tucked safely in my pocket, we left the house.  Mrs. Mitts watched us sharply from behind the half-closed blinds.

In half an hour we were down town and across the ferry once more.