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.”