'Dods! man, you shall!' the old clerk cried generously; and turned the pages. 'You shall see it for what you have paid. Here you are. "_Fourteenth of September, William Fishwick, aged eighty-one, barber, West Quay, died the eleventh of the month_." No, man, you are looking too low. Higher on the page! Here 'tis, do you see? Eh--what is it? What's the matter with you?' 'Nothing,' Mr. Fishwick muttered. But he continued to stare at the page with a face struck suddenly sallow, while the hand that rested on the corner of the book shook as with the ague. 'Nothing?' the old man said, staring suspiciously at him. 'I do believe it is something. I do believe it is money. Well, it is five shillings to extract. So there!' That seemed to change Mr. Fishwick's view. 'It might be money,' he confessed, still speaking thickly, and as if his tongue were too large for his mouth. 'It might be,' he repeated. 'But--I am not very well this morning. Do you think you could get me a glass of water?' 'None of that!' the old man retorted sharply, with a sudden look of alarm. 'I would not leave you alone with that book at this moment for all the shillings I have taken! So if you want water you've got to get it.' 'I am better now,' Mr. Fishwick answered. But the sweat that stood on his brow went far to belie his words. 'I--yes, I think I'll take an extract. Sixty-one, was he?' 'Eighty-one, eighty-one, it says. There's pen and ink, but you'll please to give me five shillings before you write. Thank you kindly. Lord save us, but that is not the one. You're taking out the one above it.' 'I'll have 'em all--for identification,' Mr. Fishwick replied, wiping his forehead nervously. 'Sho! You have no need.' 'I think I will.' 'What, all?' 'Well, the one before and the one after.' 'Dods! man, but that will be fifteen shillings!' the clerk cried, aghast at such extravagance. 'You'll only charge for the entry I want?' the lawyer said with an effort. 'Well--we'll say five shillings for the other two.' Mr. Fishwick closed with the offer, and with a hand which was still unsteady paid the money and extracted the entries. Then he took his hat, and hurriedly, his eyes averted, turned to go. 'If it's money,' the old clerk said, staring at him as if he could never satisfy his inquisitiveness, 'you'll not forget me?' 'If it's money,' Mr. Fishwick said with a ghastly smile, 'it shall be some in your pocket.' 'Thank you kindly. Thank you kindly, sir! Now who would ha' thought when you stepped in here you were stepping into fortune, so to speak?' 'Just so,' Mr. Fishwick answered, a spasm distorting his face. 'Who'd have thought it? Good morning!' 'And good-luck!' the clerk bawled after him. 'Good-luck!'