'Checkley,' said Mr. Dering, on the appearance of the ancient clerk, 'I have got a letter that I don't understand at all. I told you that my memory was going. Now you see. Here is a letter about transfers and sales of stock. What transfers? I don't understand one word of it. My memory is not only going--it is gone.' 'Memory going? Nonsense,' the old man shook his head. 'No--no; your memory is all right. Mine is as clear as a bell. So's yours. You eat hearty. So do I. You sleep well. So do I. We're both as hale and hearty as ever.' 'No--no. My memory is not what it was. I've told you so a dozen times. I lose myself sometimes. Yesterday, when the clock struck twelve, I thought it was only ten. I had lost two hours. And sometimes when I walk home, I lose recollection of the walk afterwards.' 'Tut, tut; nobody of your age is such a young man as you. Why, you walk like five-and-twenty. And you eat hearty--you eat very hearty.' His words were encouraging, but he looked anxiously at his master. Truly, there was no apparent decay in Mr. Dering. He sat as upright: he looked as keen: he spoke as clearly, as ever. 'Well--about this letter. My friend Ellis, of Ellis & Northcote, writes to me about something or other, and speaks of my effecting great transfers and sales of stock lately. What does he mean?' 'You haven't bought or sold any stock lately, that I know of.' 'Well, you would have known.--Have we had to make any investments for clients of late? There was the Dalton-Smith estate.' 'That was eleven months ago.' 'I suppose he must mean that--he can't mean anything else. Yes, that is it. Well--I've got a Partner now, so that it matters less than it would have done--had my memory played me tricks with no other responsible man in the place.' 'You didn't want a partner,' said Checkley jealously. 'You had ME.' 'He must mean that,' Mr. Dering repeated. 'He can't mean anything else. However--has my Bank book been made up lately?' 'Here it is. Made up last Friday. Nothing been in or out since.' Mr. Dering had not looked at his book for three or four months. He was well served: his people took care of his Bank book. Now he opened it, and began to run his finger up and down the pages. 'Checkley,' he said, 'what has happened to Newcastle Corporation Stock? The dividends were due some weeks ago. They are not paid yet. Is the town gone bankrupt? And--eh? Where is Wolverhampton? And--and----' He turned over the paper quickly. 'Checkley, there is something wrong with the book. Not a single dividend of anything entered for the last four months. There ought to have been about six hundred pounds in that time.' 'Queer mistake,' said Checkley. 'I'll take the book round to the Bank, and have it corrected.' 'A very gross and careless mistake, I call it. Tell the manager I said so. Let it be set right at once, Checkley--at once--and while you wait. And bring it back to me.'