“So much,” I said, gaily, “for what brings me to Frizinghall!  Now, Mr. Candy, it’s your turn.  You sent me a message by Gabriel Betteredge——­”

He left off picking at his fingers, and suddenly brightened up.

“Yes! yes! yes!” he exclaimed eagerly.  “That’s it!  I sent you a message!”

“And Betteredge duly communicated it by letter,” I went on.  “You had something to say to me, the next time I was in your neighbourhood.  Well, Mr. Candy, here I am!”

“Here you are!” echoed the doctor.  “And Betteredge was quite right.  I had something to say to you.  That was my message.  Betteredge is a wonderful man.  What a memory!  At his age, what a memory!”

He dropped back into silence, and began picking at his fingers again.  Recollecting what I had heard from Betteredge about the effect of the fever on his memory, I went on with the conversation, in the hope that I might help him at starting.

“It’s a long time since we met,” I said.  “We last saw each other at the last birthday dinner my poor aunt was ever to give.”

“That’s it!” cried Mr. Candy.  “The birthday dinner!” He started impulsively to his feet, and looked at me.  A deep flush suddenly overspread his faded face, and he abruptly sat down again, as if conscious of having betrayed a weakness which he would fain have concealed.  It was plain, pitiably plain, that he was aware of his own defect of memory, and that he was bent on hiding it from the observation of his friends.

Thus far he had appealed to my compassion only.  But the words he had just said—­few as they were—­roused my curiosity instantly to the highest pitch.  The birthday dinner had already become the one event in the past, at which I looked back with strangely-mixed feelings of hope and distrust.  And here was the birthday dinner unmistakably proclaiming itself as the subject on which Mr. Candy had something important to say to me!

I attempted to help him out once more.  But, this time, my own interests were at the bottom of my compassionate motive, and they hurried me on a little too abruptly, to the end I had in view.

“It’s nearly a year now,” I said, “since we sat at that pleasant table.  Have you made any memorandum—­in your diary, or otherwise—­of what you wanted to say to me?”

Mr. Candy understood the suggestion, and showed me that he understood it, as an insult.

“I require no memorandum, Mr. Blake,” he said, stiffly enough.  “I am not such a very old man, yet—­and my memory (thank God) is to be thoroughly depended on!”

It is needless to say that I declined to understand that he was offended with me.

“I wish I could say the same of my memory,” I answered.  “When I try to think of matters that are a year old, I seldom find my remembrance as vivid as I could wish it to be.  Take the dinner at Lady Verinder’s, for instance——­”

Mr. Candy brightened up again, the moment the allusion passed my lips.