'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.'