It was the last sheet of what Charley had written, and had been accidentally brushed off on the floor.

It was in French, and, holding the candle close, he slowly deciphered the crabbed, characteristic handwriting.
His eyes dilated, his yellow cheeks took on spots of unhealthy red, his hand trembled.

Anger seized him, and he mumbled the words over and over again to himself.

Twice or thrice, as the paper lay in one hand, he struck it with the clinched fist of the other, muttering and distraught.
"This tailor here....

This stingy, hard, unhappy man....