“Can you tell me who the thief is?” says he, more pettish than ever.
“Yes, sir,” says I, “I think I can.”
He put down the newspaper, and began to look rather anxious and frightened.
“Not my shopman?” says he. “I hope, for the man’s own sake, it’s not my shopman.”
“Guess again, sir,” says I.
“That idle slut, the maid?” says he.
“She is idle, sir,” says I, “and she is also a slut; my first inquiries about her proved as much as that. But she’s not the thief.”
“Then, in the name of Heaven, who is?” says he.
“Will you please to prepare yourself for a very disagreeable surprise, sir?” says I. “And, in case you lose your temper, will you excuse my remarking that I am the stronger man of the two, and that if you allow yourself to lay hands on me, I may unintentionally hurt you, in pure self-defense.”
He turned as pale as ashes, and pushed his chair two or three feet away from me.