"So you'll hand over the stock-books to the lawyer, will you, without a leaf missing, or an erasure, or an item marked off as sold that never was sold, or any little dodges of that kind, eh, Mr.Tulliver ?" "Of course," answered the shopman, looking defiantly at the questioner, who was leaning across the counter with folded arms, staring at Luke Tulliver with an ironical grin upon his countenance.
"Then you are a very remarkable man.

I should have thought such a chance as a death as unexpected as my--as old Mr.Nowell's would have made the fortune of a confidential clerk like you." "I'm not a thief," answered Mr.Tulliver with an air of virtuous indignation; "and you can't know much about old Jacob Nowell if you think that anybody could cheat him, living or dead.

There's not an entry in the book that isn't signed with his initials, in his own hand.

When a thing was sold and crossed off the book, he put his initials to the entry of the sale.

He went through the books every night till a week ago, and he'd as soon have cut his own head off as omit to do it, so long as he could see the figures in the book or hold his pen." Mr.Medler the lawyer came in while Percival Nowell and the shopman were talking.