THE LAWYER'S STORY
OF
A STOLEN LETTER.
I served my time--never mind in whose office--and I started in
business for myself in one of our English country towns, I
decline stating which. I hadn't a farthing of capital, and my
friends in the neighborhood were poor and useless enough, with
one exception. That exception was Mr. Frank Gatliffe, son of Mr.
Gatliffe, member for the county, the richest man and the proudest
for many a mile round about our parts. Stop a bit, Mr. Artist,
you needn't perk up and look knowing. You won't trace any
particulars by the name of Gatliffe. I'm not bound to commit
myself or anybody else by mentioning names. I have given you the
first that came into my head.
Well, Mr. Frank was a stanch friend of mine, and ready to
recommend me whenever he got the chance. I had contrived to get
him a little timely help--for a consideration, of course--in
borrowing money at a fair rate of interest; in fact, I had saved
him from the Jews. The money was borrowed while Mr. Frank was at
college. He came back from college, and stopped at home a little
while, and then there got spread about all our neighborhood a
report that he had fallen in love, as the saying is, with his
young sister's governess, and that his mind was made up to marry
her. What! you're at it again, Mr. Artist! You want to know her
name, don't you? What do you think of Smith?
Speaking as a lawyer, I consider report, in a general way, to be
a fool and a liar.
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