"Well, sir, now for some eight months I've been able to keep nothing in our house of a small kind, and valuable nature, such as spoons, napkin rings, all sorts of silver ware, jewelry, watches, ladies' dresses, and my own clothing, etc., in fact, anything; it is all mysteriously carried off. I say mysteriously, for we have kept watch, night after night, and things would disappear right before our eyes, as it were." "Well," said I, after a pause of some length, in which the old man seemed to be pondering whether he would go on with his story or not, looking bewildered, as if there was something he wished to tell me about, but did not quite dare to, or was ashamed to tell. "Well, tell me the whole story. How many persons are there in your family?" "My wife and myself, three unmarried daughters; two married ones spend much time there too; and two of my sons, unmarried. They are in business; but I like to have my family about me--" "Are these all?" "Yes, except the servants. I have four maid-servants in the house, besides my coachman and butler." "Do you suspect none of these servants?" "No; I've tested them in every way. They have all, with the exception of one girl, been with me for from ten to twenty-five years. I called the women maid-servants; two of them are widows, one has been a widow for twenty years, and has lived with us for all that time, and the butler has been with us longer. I would trust any of them as soon as I would my own children." "Of course, then, you suspect no one in your house?" "No, no; there's nobody there to do these things. We've all watched and watched, I tell you, and the servants are as much interested as we to know who is the guilty actor, for they have lost many things as well as the rest of us." "You speak of one girl who has not been there so long as the rest. How long has she been with you?" "About three years." "Has she a lover who visits the house?" "O, yes; and he's been coming there for two years." "Why don't he marry her and take her away?" "My wife wouldn't part with her--will keep her as long as she lives, if she can. She thinks she's the best servant she ever saw. We should suspect her least of all. She has lost nearly every keepsake her lover has given her, and some very valuable things which her mother gave her on leaving Ireland, and the poor girl has nearly cried her eyes out over her loss." "Well, her lover, what sort of a man is he?" "A hard working mechanic; works at the Novelty Works, and bears an excellent name." "Is he Irish, too? I suppose he is." "No; he is an Englishman--a Yorkshire man, I think." "Is he Protestant or Catholic?" "Protestant to be sure. She's Catholic, though." "Have you ever talked with him about your losses?" "Yes; and he and Mary, the girl, have watched several times, sitting up to keep my wife company, who was watching too; sitting up half the night, and things would disappear then."