'It is the same as last time,' said Checkley. 'That forgery was done in the office, if ever a thing was done here. Same with this—same with this. Well—time will show. Same with this.' He glared from under his great eyebrows at the young partner, as if he suspected that the young gentleman could throw some light upon that mystery if he wished.

'We have given Time long enough to discover the author of the last business,' said Mr. Dering; 'but he has not chosen to do so as yet. The loss of property,' he groaned—'the loss of close on forty thousand pounds.'

'I don't believe it is lost,' said George. 'It can't be lost. It is a bit of a railway—part of a reservoir—a corner of the gas-works—you can't lose these things—unless, indeed, the difficulty suggested by Mr. Ellis occurs.'

Here Mr. Dering pushed back his chair and began again to walk about the room in restless agitation. He was no longer the grave and serious lawyer; he became one of his own clients, lamenting, as they had so often lamented in that room, the greatness of his misfortune. He uttered the actual commonplaces of men in distress—there is a dreadful sameness about the Lamentations of Ill Luck. We all know them—the hardness of the thing: the injustice of it: the impossibility of warding it off: his own sagacity in taking every precaution: the dreadfulness of being singled out of a whole generation for exceptional misfortune. Mr. Dering himself, the grave, calm, reserved old lawyer, who seemed made of granite, broke down under the blow and became an ordinary human creature. In the lower walks, they weep. Checkley would have wept. Mr. Dering became eloquent, wrathful, sarcastic. No retired General who has ruined himself by gambling in stocks could so bemoan his luck. George listened, saying nothing. It was an experience. No man so strong but has his weak point. No man is completely armoured against the arrows of fate.

Presently he grew a little more calm, and sat down. 'Forgive me, George,' he said gently—'forgive this outbreak. There is more in the business than you know of. I feel as if I know something about it, but can't bring it out. I am growing so forgetful—I forget whole days—I am filled with the feeling that I ought to know about it. As for the loss, what I have said is true. You do not yet feel as I do about Property. You are too young: you have not got any Property yet. Wait a few years—then you will be able to agree with me that there is nothing in the world so hard as to lose your Property—the Property that you have made—by your own exertions—for yourself.'

'Now you talk like yourself,' said Checkley. 'That's sense. Nothing so dreadful as to lose Property. It's enough to kill people, it has killed many people.'

'Property means everything. You understand that the more the older you get.'

'You do,' echoed Checkley. 'There's nothing in the world worth considering except Property.'

'It means—remember—all the virtues—prudence—courage—quick sight—self-restraint—tenacity—all the fighting qualities. We do well to honour rich men. I hoped to receive honour myself as a rich man. When you have put together a few thousands—by the exercise of these finer qualities, so that the thought of this gives you dignity——'

'Ah!' cried Checkley, straightening himself.