Stiffening himself, he turned and for the first time looked down on his handiwork....

Bullard had not meant to kill, though his heart had been murderous when he struck. It was without hope that he knelt to examine his victim. Flitch's time for repentance had been short indeed. He lay sprawled on his side, his hands clenched, yet his countenance was not so repulsive. Well, he had escaped human judgement, and worse men have lived longer.

Bullard got upon his feet. His mental energies were working once more. He must act at once. The simplest way out was simply to 'phone for the police and give himself in charge for killing a man in self defence. But that would mean, among other things, a trial! ... Out of the question! There must be another and safer if less simple way out. He thought hard, and it was not so long before he found it. The fog!—if it were still there.

He shut off the lights and passed to the window. The sill was low; the sash opened inwards. Outside was a narrow balcony, with a foot-high stone balustrade. Presently he was peering out into the bitter, filthy night. The fog was denser than ever; he had never seen it so thick. The presence of lamps in the deserted street below was betrayed by a mere glow. Across the way the dark buildings could scarce be distinguished. The sounds of human life seemed to come from a great distance.

Leaving the window open, he gropingly moved back to his desk, struck a vesta and kneeling, went carefully through the dead man's pockets. A scrap or two of paper he took possession of. With the aid of another vesta he found his way to the cabinet for more brandy. Physically he required stimulant. Flitch had been a big heavy man ... he was no smaller nor lighter now.

* * * * *

And so, at long last, the ponderous, inert, uncanny thing lay balanced across the balustrade and sill, the legs sticking into the room. Breathing hard, Bullard grasped the ankles. A heave, a jerk, a twist, a push.... Hands pressed hard over his ears, Bullard waited for an age of thirty seconds. Then action once more. He closed the window, switched on the lights, and inspected the floor. Finally he rang up the police station.

"I'm Bullard, Aasvogel Syndicate, Manchester House. A man attempting to enter by the window has fallen to the street. I'll remain here till you come."



CHAPTER XXIII

The spiritual glow in which Alan left Earl's Gate had cooled considerably by the time he reached the Midland Hotel. It was not that he actually regretted his actions of an hour ago; rather was it as though an inward voice kept repeating, "Why aren't you happier, now that you have lifted a crushing load from an exhausted fellow-creature? Why aren't you in the seventh heaven since you are going to marry that most desirable girl?" There was never yet human exaltation without its reaction, but in Alan's case the latter had followed cruelly fast.

In the smoke-room, almost empty at so early an hour, he dropped into a chair and lit a cigarette. "What the deuce is wrong with me?" By the time the cigarette was finished he could, with a little more courage, have answered the question. For he could not deny that his thoughts had gone straying, not back to the brightly lighted drawing-room and the beautiful hostess, but to a dark garden and a terrified girl with a little revolver in her hand. Ordering himself not to be a cad as well as a fool, he removed to one of the writing-tables. There he set himself to compose a nicely worded note of invitation to Mrs. Lancaster. After that was done he drew a couple of cheques for the same amount and wrote the following letter to Mr. Bullard:

"Dear Mr. Bullard:

"You will no doubt be surprised to see my writing again, and I take this way of announcing my return home lest you should hear of it before I can find time to call upon you, which, however, I hope to do before long. To-night, on my arrival here, I called upon Mr. Lancaster, and was sorry to learn that he was too ill to receive me. But I do not wish to delay an hour longer than necessary the settlement of my debt to you both, and so I ask you kindly to receive on his behalf and your own, the enclosed two cheques in payment of the amounts of, and interests on, the advances which you and he so generously made to me in April of last year. I daresay you have almost forgotten the incident which meant so much to me, and still does. Until we meet,

"Faithfully yours,

"Alan Craig."

"A bit stiff and formal," was his comment after rereading it several times, "but I don't think it gives much away."

The two hours that followed were perhaps the dreariest he had ever spent in civilised circumstances. London had given him enough to think about in all conscience, but his mind would not be controlled; as surely as a disturbed compass needle it kept moving back to the north.

Teddy's arrival, half an hour after midnight, he hailed as a great relief. Teddy wore a tired and soiled aspect, but his eyes glinted with repressed excitement.

"Let's go up to my room, Alan," he said at once; "I've got something to shew you."

The moment they were there, with the door bolted, Teddy's fingers went to his waistcoat pocket.

"Recognise it?" he asked, holding up an inch of fine gold chain bearing a small nugget.

"No I don't. Stay! it's not unfamiliar—but no; I can't place it. Whose is it?"

"Bullard's."

"Oh! Where did you pick it up, Teddy?"

Teddy sat down on the edge of the bed. In a voice not wholly under control he replied—

"I took it from the hand of a dead man, a couple of hours ago."

"A dead man! Good—"

"He seemed to fall out of the fog, but it was actually from the window of Bullard's office, in New Broad Street. I was watching from the other side of the street when he fell. I—I was the first person to reach him. He was quite dead—awfully smashed, poor chap. There was a lamp near. One of his fists was slightly open. I noticed a glitter in it. It was this thing. I took it.—I must have a smoke."

"Better ring for something to drink."

"No. I want all my wits to make a clear story of it. Look here, Alan! The long and short of it is: Bullard committed murder to-night—"

"Oh, I say!"

Teddy ignored the interruption. "Of course I went with the crowd to the police station, and, though not as a witness, managed to get in. Bullard with an inspector turned up before long, but I kept out of his way. He had called the police himself. The man, he stated, had been trying the window of his private room while he was in another part of the premises; on entering his private room and switching on the lights, he had caught a glimpse of a face and hands falling backwards. That was all a lie. The lights had been out for some time when the man fell. The fog was horribly thick, but I can be sure of that much. And then—this!" he dangled the nugget.

Alan broke the silence. "It looks bad, certainly, but still, you know, Bullard might not—and quite naturally, too—have liked to admit that after a struggle he pushed the man from the window—if that's what you mean."

"No, that's not what I mean. About twenty minutes earlier, I saw the man enter Bullard's office by the usual way—"

"Ah!"

"And note this, Alan! At the police station, I saw his fingers go to the nugget—he has a habit of playing with the thing when he is talking—and when he realised that it wasn't there, I thought he was going to faint. He soon pulled himself together, but—"

"The police didn't suspect him, did they?"

"Bless you, no! They were all sympathy! Oh, he's safe enough—for the present. The poor chap he murdered was certainly rough looking enough to be a burglar."

"What was he like?"

"A big strong man, with an ugly red-bearded face, and—it's queer how one notices trifles—his ears were pierced for—"

"Good Heavens, it was Flitch!"

Teddy jumped. "The man who shot you—"

"The same—I'm sure of it, even from your slight description. And—and Bullard has killed him!"

"Your revenge, Alan."

"No, no, old man, I never wanted his life. It was only his employer I was after."

"You've got his employer now—if you want him."

Alan stared at his friend. "Why do you say if I want him? Don't you imagine I want him?"—he cried—"not for anything he may have done or tried to do to me, but for what might have happened had Mar—Miss Handyside opened that infernal Green Box—"

"The telegram may have been a hoax. The box may or may not contain an infernal contrivance, but even if it does, you can't convict Bullard any more than you can arrest the soul of the man who is dead."

"I don't understand you," said Alan. "Tell me why you used those words, 'if I want him,' meaning Bullard."

"Simply because," answered Teddy, "I'm pretty sure you don't want him. Think a moment!"

The other sprang to his feet. "Come along, Teddy! There's no thought required. That nugget has got to be handed to the police before we're an hour older."

Teddy rose slowly and slipped the nugget into his pocket. "Alan, my son," he said gently, "that nugget does not leave my possession—no, not for all your uncle's genuine diamonds. Think again!"

"Oh, rot! If you're afraid of the police, Teddy—"

"Perhaps I am—"

"Well, give the thing to me, and I'll—"

"One moment." Teddy's face went ruddy. "I'd like you to answer a question, though it may strike you as abominably impertinent. Are you—are you as fond as ever of Doris Lancaster?"

Alan was also flushed as he replied: "Doris and I settled that to-night, Teddy. But what has it to do with Bullard's nugget? I'm aware it has something to do with Bullard—"

"Hold on!" said Teddy, pale again. "I think I can put it so plainly that you'll wonder why you didn't see it for yourself right away. Listen! Put this nugget into police hands, and Bullard goes into the dock. If Bullard goes into the dock, ugly things, not all connected with this murder, will surely come out. Lancaster will be involved; Doris—"

Alan threw up a hand. "God forgive me, Teddy," he cried, "and thank God it wasn't I who found the nugget!"

* * * * *

"Besides," said Teddy a good deal later, "your Uncle Christopher was most desirous that nothing should happen to Bullard before the clock stopped. And now, old chap, I think we had better turn in."

Left to himself, Teddy sighed. "He's going to marry Doris, and, whether he knows it or not, he's in love with that Handyside girl. Surely I have the devil's own luck!"



CHAPTER XXIV

Never a heavy sleeper, Mrs. Lancaster was fully aware of her daughter's entrance before Doris reached her bedside. She affected neither drowsiness nor ignorance of the latter's quest.

"You ought not to have got up so early, Doris," she said. "Why, it's not eight yet. Not that light—the far away one, if you insist. Are you feeling better?"

"Yes, I think so. I've had a long sleep." The girl's eyes were shining strangely, and the shadows beneath them were deep; but she did not look ill. "Father is awake now," she said.

"Indeed! I suppose you have come for that packet." Mrs. Lancaster raised herself a little on the pillows. "I suppose, also, you are aware what the packet contains, Doris."

"Yes, mother."

"Is it a gift or a loan to your father?"

"A loan—I hope. Please let me have it—"

"One moment, my dear. Am I right in further supposing that your father intends to pay a particular debt with all this money?"

Doris's head drooped in assent.

"Has it not occurred to you that your father would be treating me very badly if he used all this money for such a purpose?"

"Mother!"

"You fancy I have said something very dreadful, but—listen! Things have gone wrong at Johannesburg. There has been rioting. Mines have been wrecked and ruined. For a long time to come—years, perhaps—your father's income may be next to nothing. What is to become of me? You, of course, have your Mr. Bullard—not so rich as he was; but he is not the sort of man to remain long poor. You had better sit down, Doris. I have kept the newspapers of the last few days from your father."

The girl was clutching the brass rail of the bed. "Do you mean that father is ruined?" she whispered, aghast.

"Not far from it, I'm afraid. Now don't make a fuss. I rely on you to break the news of the mines to him before Mr. Bullard arrives this morning. Mr. Bullard will give him the details, no doubt. Another thing; you must persuade Mr. Bullard to get rid of that debt we have mentioned. He has his own difficulties at present, I should imagine, but he is not the man to be beaten by a sum like twenty-five thousand pounds. We cannot have scandal—disgrace. You have done much for your father already—that I freely admit—but at this crisis you must do more.—My smelling salts are behind you."

Doris had swayed, but she recovered herself, though her face was white and desperate.

"Mother, that money you have—"

"I'm afraid you are going to be shocked, Doris, but I had better tell you at once that the money is mine."

"Yours!" It was a shock, a dreadful shock, and yet Doris had come to her mother's room full of ghastly apprehensions. "Oh, but you can't mean it!"

"My dear girl, can I be franker? Call it anything you like, theft, if you fancy the word; but the money is mine. I decline to go into the gutter for any one."

"But—dear God!—don't you realise what your keeping it will mean to father? Yes, you do! You know too well—"

"I have shown you a way out of that difficulty. Mr. Bullard will do anything you ask—"

"And what am I to say to father?"

"Nothing!—unless you wish to kill him. For Heaven's sake, take a reasonable view of the matter. A year hence your father will probably bless me for what I have done. A thousand a year is always something. As for Mr. Craig, he will have helped even more practically than he thought. Of course, your taste in accepting money from one man while engaged to another is open to question."

With a soft heart-broken cry Doris let go her hold and fell on her knees at the bedside.

"Mother, in the name of all that is right and good, give me back the money. I don't want to—hate you."

Mrs. Lancaster touched a wisp of lace to her eyes, "Really, Doris, you are making it very painful for me, but some day you will see that I was wise. For the present, I would rather die than give up the money. I have no more to say."

In some respects Mrs. Lancaster was a stranger to her daughter, but Doris always knew when her mind was immovable. She knew it now. She rose up from her knees. Out of her deathly face her eyes blazed. Had she spoken then, it would have been to utter an awful thing for any daughter to say to the one who bore her.

"Doris!" exclaimed the woman, shrinking under her scented, exquisitely pure coverings.

The girl threw up her head. "If father goes down," she said bravely, "I go down with him. And I don't think the money will make you forget, mother. There are two sorts of gutters." She turned and went quickly out.

But in the privacy of her own room she fell on the bed, a crushed and broken thing, a creature of despair, writhing, groping in the darkness of an unspeakable horror. If there was a sin unpardonable, surely her own mother had committed it. If there was a bitterness beyond that of death itself, surely she herself was drinking thereof.

Well was it for the mind of Doris Lancaster that she was not left long to herself. A maid tapped and said that Mr. Lancaster was asking for her. She arose immediately and removed the outward signs of misery, telling herself that whatever happened, he must be spared until the last moment; also, the divulging of the disaster on the Rand must be postponed, whether Mr. Bullard liked it or no. For the present she had to give her father his breakfast and tell him of Alan's visit. She prayed Heaven for a cheerful countenance.

Mr. Lancaster had rested well and was looking better, but anxious.

"You didn't come in to see me last night, after all," he said.

"Mother told me you were asleep, so I didn't disturb you—and I was unusually tired, dear."

"But he came?"

"Oh, yes. Alan came, and he's coming again this evening, when he hopes to see you."

"Aren't you well, Doris? You shivered just now. ... What did he say?"

"Nothing that wasn't kind, father. He wants you to go to Grey House for a change the moment you feel able for the journey. He wants us all to go. What better news can I give you than that, dear?"

Lancaster's eyes grew moist. "God bless the boy for shewing that he bears me no ill-will," he said. "What did he talk about?"

"It was a very short visit last night," she replied, "but, as I told you, he is coming again to-night. You think you will be able to see him?"

"I shall have no peace till I can thank him for his big heart.... Doris, I wish you had not promised Bullard—"

"Oh, hush! We agreed not to speak of that."

He sighed heavily. "What a woeful mess I've made of my life; and I've had so many chances, my dear, that I dare not hope for one more. And I don't blame anybody but myself—"

"Dear, don't think of it that way. You have simply been deceived in people, or, at least, in one person."

"Your mother made me believe in him, and certainly he knew how to make money. No, I don't blame your mother, Doris. I've been a disappointment to her—"

"Father, I can't bear your talking so, for I believe in you with all my heart. And think of Alan Craig, and Teddy France, too—oh, they would do anything for you!"

He shook his head, smiling very faintly. Then, suddenly, he became grave and a strange look—strange because unfamiliar—dawned.

"Doris, give me your hand. Will you say again that you believe in me?"

"I believe in you with all my heart," she answered, striving for control.

"Then—then you are not going to marry Bullard."

"Oh, please—"

"You and I," he went on, "are both longing, dying for freedom, and I know of a way out. Doris, will you believe in me, continue to desire me for your father, though I bring ruin and shame on you? Answer me!"

"Nothing could change me, dear."

"Then I will take the way out wherever it may lead, for prison itself would be freedom to me, and marriage with Bullard would be worse than prison to you. Doris, Lord Caradale, the chairman of the Syndicate, arrives from America on Tuesday. I will tell him the truth—"

She caught him in her arms. "No—no—not that," she sobbed. "He is a hard, cruel man; he—"

"It is the one way to freedom for us both. For my own poor sake, my girl, don't seek to weaken my resolve. I would like to do the right thing once before I die." He kissed her. "Now leave me, and don't fret. Don't let any one come to me for an hour or two."

Lest she should break down utterly, Doris obeyed. The thing had got beyond her strength physical and mental. She could have cried aloud for help. And in a sense she did, for she went to the telephone and rang up Teddy France at the Midland Hotel.

"Can you meet me at the Queen's Road Tube in half an hour?" she asked.

"Certainly. I'll start now," said Teddy, who had not breakfasted. Alan was not yet downstairs. "Something wrong, Doris?"

"Just come, please. Good-bye."

He was there before her, his heart aching.

What had happened that she could not tell to Alan? Before long he knew. She told him all as they walked in Kensington Gardens, in the brilliant sunshine. It seemed to Teddy far more horrible than the gruesome business in the fog of twelve hours ago.

"And you feel there is no hope of inducing Mrs. Lancaster to—to change?" he said at last. Knowing Mrs. Lancaster as he did, he recognised the futility of the question.

"If you don't mind, Teddy," she answered, "we won't speak about that again. The shame of it sickens me. But what about—Alan? He and father will meet tonight. I don't for a moment imagine that Alan will mention the money, but naturally he will think it very strange if father doesn't. And, oh! how can I explain to Alan? It's too dreadful!"

"Alan," he said, "would only be sorry—as sorry as I am. But, Doris, it isn't to-night yet."

"You mean that I have time to—to see Mr. Bullard? He is coming to the house this morning—may be there now—and I don't want him to get near father. Yes," she said, in a lifeless voice, "I will speak to him—plead with him, if necessary—"

"No, you shan't!" said Teddy, who doubted very much whether Mr. Bullard would reach Earl's Gate that morning. The inquest was at noon.

"It's the only way out. Father must not be allowed to trust himself to the tender mercies of Lord Caradale next week. I know Lord Caradale. He doesn't mind how money is made; but he does mind how it is lost. Oh, Teddy, don't you think father has suffered enough?"

"More than enough—and so has his daughter." Teddy gritted his teeth. Every moment this girl grew dearer; every moment she seemed further away. "Doris," he went on, "I want your promise that you will do nothing at all till I see you again. Should Bullard come to the house, keep him from Mr. Lancaster, but tell him nothing. Meet me here again at three o'clock." Gently he stopped her questions. "And forgive my leaving you at once. Don't hope too much, dear, but don't altogether despair. There's just a chance that there may be another way out."

The hour that followed was the most thronged of this young man's life. Fortunately he had left a note for Alan, explaining his sudden departure on the score of some forgotten business which had to be overtaken before the inquest, so he was free to go direct to a certain legal office in the city. As for Doris, she went home in that numb condition of mind and spirit which comes upon some of us while we wait for a great surgeon's verdict. Her mother informed her that Mr. Bullard had telephoned, postponing his call till the afternoon, also that she had received and accepted Mr. Craig's invitation to Grey House.

"We shall travel on Tuesday, Doris, so you must see that your father has no relapse."

Doris turned away without answering. Tuesday! That was a long, long way off—in another life, it seemed.



CHAPTER XXV

The inquest was over. A suggestion for an adjournment, half-heartedly expressed by one juryman, had been briefly discussed and withdrawn. Bullard had come through his ordeal without a spot of discredit. He looked pale and fagged, but what was more natural in the circumstances? A horrid experience it must have been, those present agreed, to behold a face and clutching hands fall away from a fourth-story window! And he was going to pay for a decent funeral for the abandoned wretch who might have murdered him! There was a gentleman for you!

Nevertheless, more than once Bullard's nerve had been at breaking point. What was young France doing at the inquest? He was to know soon enough.

Teddy was waiting for him just outside the door.

"I have a taxi here, Mr. Bullard," he said, "so we can go to your office together. I have a little business to discuss—financial, I should say."

"I'm afraid it must keep, Mr. France," Bullard managed to reply fairly coolly. "This is Saturday, you know, and after business hours."

"You will see for yourself presently, Mr. Bullard, that it won't keep. In fact, if you don't step into that cab at once—"

Bullard got in, Teddy followed, and the cab started.

"Wow," began Bullard, "what the—"

"Hope you don't mind my smoking," said Teddy, lighting a cigarette. "Rather an uncomfy corner you've just come out of, Mr. Bullard."

"Kindly choose your words more carefully—'corner' does not apply to my recent unpleasant experience—and name your business."

"We shall be in your office in a very few minutes, and I prefer to name it there."

"Very well." Bullard restrained himself and fell to thinking hard. What had brought France to the inquest? The question repeated itself maddeningly. The tragedy had not been mentioned in the morning papers—their early editions, at any rate.

Teddy gave him a minute's grace, then casually remarked—

"You heard from my friend, Alan Craig, this morning, I believe. Miraculous escape, wasn't it?"

"Very.... Yes, I have a letter from Mr. Craig—to which I shall reply—direct."

"Alan is an odd chap," Teddy pursued. "No sooner is he home and in safety than he makes his will. Did it at his lawyer's in Glasgow, the day before yesterday."

After an almost imperceptible pause—"Indeed!" said Bullard, a little thickly. "Only I'm afraid I don't happen to be interested in Mr. Alan Craig's affairs."

"Sorry," Teddy murmured, and gave him another minute's grace. Then—

"Awful end that for poor old Flitch, Mr. Bullard."

The man's face, nay, his whole body, contracted for an instant; yet he was still master of himself.

"Who?"

"Flitch—the dead man, you know."

"The man's name was Dunning, as you must have heard, and as the police discovered for themselves."

"Really, I must go to an aurist! I've got it into my head as Flitch."

"Confound you!" said Bullard, on the verge of a furious, crazy outbreak, "will you hold your tongue? I've business to think of. Lost a whole morning with that cursed inquest."

"All right, Mr. Bullard. Don't apologise."

There was no more talk till they reached the office. The clerks had gone.

Bullard led the way, not to his own private room, but to Lancaster's.

"Say what you've got to say quickly," he snapped.

"This," said Teddy, looking leisurely about him, "is surely not the room where it happened.—What's the matter, Mr. Bullard?"

Again Bullard caught and held himself on the verge. "I can give you five minutes, if you will talk sense," he said, taking the chair at Lancaster's desk, which had been left open. "Either you are drunk or you fondly imagine you have got hold of something. Now, go on! Come to the point!"

"I will," said Teddy. "How much exactly does Mr. Lancaster owe the Syndicate?"

Bullard started, but not without relief. The relief would have been fuller, however, but for the questioner's presence at the inquest.

"What business is that of yours, Mr. France?"

"Simply that I'm going to see it paid."

"May I ask when?"

"Within the next few minutes."

Bullard saw light. Alan Craig's money!

"Really?" he said. "But would it not be better if Mr. Lancaster were to make the payment personally?"

"Does it matter to the Syndicate who pays the money?"

"Of course not."

"Thanks." Teddy brought forth a couple of bundles of bonds and share certificates. "How much is the debt?"

"Twenty-four thousand and seventy-five pounds."

"Wish I had that much," said Teddy, "but I can only give what I've got." He rose, placed the bundles on the desk, and sat down again. "There's a trifle over five thousand pounds in my little lot," he went on, "and with each certificate you'll find a signed transfer in your favour, Mr. Bullard. To save time"—he glanced at his watch—"I'll ask you to take my word for that."

Bullard put out his hand and touched the bundles. "Your securities, you say, are worth a little over five thousand pounds?"

"Right!"

"Well?"

"Well, Mr. Bullard?"

"What about the balance of twenty—or say nineteen—thousand?"

Teddy smiled. "That's your affair, Mr. Bullard."

"I should be obliged," said Bullard slowly, "if you would talk sense."

"I've written it down," Teddy said, and passed him a sheet of paper bearing these words:

"I, Francis Bullard, London Managing Director of the Aasvogel Syndicate, hereby acknowledge that I have this day received the sum of ... being the full amount due to the Syndicate by Mr. Robert Lancaster, whose debt is hereby discharged."

"What the devil is this?"

"Now don't frown and crumple it up and throw it away, as if you were on the stage, Mr. Bullard," said Teddy. "You were never more in real life than you are now. Take your pen, fill in the blank, sign at foot, and return to me. And listen! The man you lied so well about at the inquest, entered your office by the door, at ten-seventeen last night."

Bullard's countenance took on a curious shade. Almost in his heart the young man pitied him.

"If the man entered by the door, you know more about his movements than I do," came the retort. "Why didn't you say so at the inquest?"

"Mr. Bullard, I give you two minutes by my watch to complete and sign that receipt."

"You cursed young fool, do you think to blackmail me?"

"If you like to call it that—well, I'm afraid I must accept the word," said Teddy, watch in hand. "But somehow one doesn't mind so much blackmailing a blackguard.—Sit still! You can't afford two inquests in a week-end."

"What do you imagine it proves if the man did enter by the door, you prying, sneaking puppy?"

"Thirty seconds gone."

"Oh, get out of this! I'm not afraid of you. I've a good mind—"

"There was no light in your window when the man fell. At the inquest you said you had just switched on the lights."

Bullard's clenched fists relaxed; his face became moist and shiny.

"Do you want to hear any more?" said Teddy. "One minute left."

Bullard writhed. "Suppose I haven't got the money," he said at last.

"You can find it."

"And what guarantees do you give in return?"

"I promise silence so long as you keep clear of crime and make no attempt to communicate, by word or letter, with Mr. Lancaster or his daughter—"

"Hah! I see! ... But, by God, I'll destroy the lot of you yet!"

"Thirty seconds left, Mr. Bullard.... Twenty.... Ten...." Teddy stood up.

Two minutes later he stepped, almost jauntily, from the room. His little private income had disappeared, but he had a document worth all the world to him in his pocket. As he opened the door Bullard's face was that of a fiend; his hand went back to a drawer ere he remembered that he was not at his own desk.

* * * * *

Teddy was a little behind time in reaching Kensington Gardens, and he looked so haggard that the girl's heart failed her.

"Everything's all right, Doris," he said, rather huskily. "Let's sit down here for a minute."

"Teddy, you're ill!"

He shook his head, and gave her the paper, saying, "Take care of it. I don't think Bullard will trouble you or Mr. Lancaster again, Doris."

She read and began to tremble. With a sob she whispered, "Teddy, Teddy, is it true?"

He did not answer. He had a queer sleepy, ghastly look.

"Teddy dear! What is it?"

He appeared to pull himself up. "Upon my word," he said, with a feeble laugh, "I was nearly off that time. I wonder where I could find some breakfast."

* * * * *

In the nearest tea-room he revived considerably.

"Perhaps I may tell you all about it years hence, Doris," he said. "Not now. Just make your father happy and be happy yourself. And remember that, so far as your father is concerned, it was Alan's money. So that makes everything nice and tidy, doesn't it?"

"But father ought to know that it was you who—"

"Now, don't go and spoil everything! I assure you that I did nothing worth mentioning except miss my breakfast—which is, perhaps, a good deal for an Englishman to do."

"But, Teddy, what am I to say to you?"

"Nothing. Just smile, and say I made you."

She smiled.

"Ah!" he said softly, "you haven't smiled like that, Doris, for months! I'm a great man, after all! Now, what about moving along to Earl's Gate? I mustn't keep you longer from giving him the good news. Have you got it safe?"

She touched her breast. "Oh, Teddy, you wonderful, wonderful man!—to alter the world in a few hours!"

"Pretty smart, wasn't it? By the way, I may not see you for a while. I think Alan wants me to go back with him to-morrow night."

"We are all going to Grey House on Tuesday."

"Oh!" said Teddy of the torn heart. "Do you happen to remember how many buns I've eaten?"

* * * * *

On reaching home Doris learned that her mother had gone out. She was not sorry. She was not to know that the hour in which she gave her father his freedom witnessed a consultation between her mother and Mr. Bullard. For Bullard was not yet beaten, and Mrs. Lancaster had still to learn that her husband was safe.



CHAPTER XXVI

So the two friends returned north, Teddy with a new secret in his heavy heart, Alan in a thoroughly unsettled state of mind.

Alan's second meeting with Doris had certainly not been helpful to either. Doris, while almost assured as to her father's freedom, was at least dubious about her own, so much so that she gently but firmly refused to consider herself in any way engaged to Alan, and Alan, as any other honourable young man would have done in the circumstances, pleaded and argued.

"You will never marry Bullard," said he, for the tenth time.

"He has my promise. He might yet find another way of injuring father," she answered; "and you too," she added to herself.

Alan was handicapped: he could not think to shock her with the ugly truth about the man, unless that were necessary in order to save her from him at the last moment. He and Teddy had agreed that for the present, at least, no one—not even Caw—should be told.

"Doris, don't you really care for me?" he asked presently.

"Alan!—after all you have done!—"

"That's not the point, dear."

Quickly she turned the questioning on him. "Alan, are you quite sure you want to marry me?"

"What did I come home for? What am I here for now?"

And so forth. The phrase is not to be taken flippantly, but when two young people talk with the primary object of concealing their respective thoughts, the conversation is apt to partake of futility. In this case, at all events, it led to nothing satisfactory.

"It's too absurd, Doris," he cried at last. "It means practically a year—"

"Till the clock stops." She smiled ruefully. "I have to redeem my promise then—if necessary."

"Did Bullard put it that way?"

"I didn't understand what he meant till father explained," she said, and continued in a lighter tone: "I'm very curious about that strange clock of yours. I expect I'll spend all my time at Grey House watching it."

"I've a good mind to smash up the wretched thing the moment I get home! ... Doris, once more, you are not going to marry that man!"

In the end they had parted kindly, even tenderly, feeling that each owed the other something.

* * * * *

As well as an unsettled mind Alan brought with him from London a letter from Bullard, which he had received by registered post on the Saturday night. Although it must have been indited on the top of that disturbing interview with Teddy, it was frank in manner and pleasantly congratulatory in tone; moreover, it covered the will which Alan had signed about nineteen months ago. The writer concluded with regrets for the necessity which would involve his departure for South Africa within the next few days.

"Do you think he's running away, Teddy?" Alan asked his friend after showing him the letter.

"I've no doubt he's jolly glad to go, but the journey was planned, I'm sure, before the Flitch affair. Those Rand riots, you know. Poor Lancaster, did he say anything about their effect on his income?"

"Disastrous, I'm afraid. But he seems resigned to anything now that the Syndicate matter is out of the way. I wish to goodness we could lay hands quickly on those diamonds—if they exist. I want some money."

"They—or their equivalent—must exist," said Teddy. "Your uncle, situated as he was, could not have spent half a million in five years, you know."

Alan shook his head. He was depressed and disposed to be pessimistic about everything.

"Changed your theory about the clock?" the other mildly enquired.

Alan laughed shortly. "We're always doing that, aren't we?"

They reached Grey House about noon to learn that nothing of moment had happened in their absence. Possibly Caw did not consider it worthy of mention that, under agreeable compulsion, he had been giving Miss Handyside instruction in revolver shooting.

Caw was told of his arch-enemy's impending voyage.

"A good job that, sir," he remarked. "Now we'll maybe get a few months of peace."

"Oh, Bullard has ceased from troubling for good," said Teddy rather cockily.

"Indeed, sir!" returned Caw very respectfully.

His thoughts were speedily diverted, however, by Alan's intimation of the Lancasters' approaching visit.

"And you'll just forget, Caw, that you ever saw Mr. Lancaster in an invidious position here. He has suffered enough."

"I can well believe it, sir; and for Miss Lancaster's sake alone it will be a pleasure for me to make the gentleman feel at home."

"What about Mrs. Lancaster?" put in Teddy.

"If I may say so to Mr. Alan, I hope I know my place in the most trying circumstances."

"Oh, get out, Caw!" laughed Alan. "You needn't suspect everybody!"

"Very good, sir. Only, my master did not admire her, and he was a judge of female character, if ever there was one," said Caw, and with an inclination withdrew.

"Caw is right," said Teddy. "You know I've warned you all along about the lady."

"Rather horrid to be discussing a coming guest in such a fashion," Alan returned. "I think I know Mrs. Lancaster by this time, Teddy. She wants a lot of chestnuts, but she'd never risk burning her own fingers.... Well, I had better go round and pay my thanks to Handyside for keeping Caw company those nights. Will you come?"

Teddy excused himself on the score of correspondence neglected in London. "By the way," he added, "are your guests to know of the passage?"

"I think not," Alan replied, with a slight flush. "As a matter of fact, I'm not going to use it again except in an emergency."

Left to himself, Teddy sighed and murmured, "A private passage with a pretty enough girl at the other end—I wonder what Doris would think about it, even in an emergency."

Arriving next door Alan found that the doctor had gone out in his car. Miss Handyside, the servant mentioned, was at home. Under an effort of will he was turning away when she appeared.

Presently they were seated in the study, and he was telling her of his expected visitors.

"I wonder," he said with some diffidence, "if you could forget that you saw Lancaster in my uncle's room that night."

There was a trace of a frown on Marjorie's brow.

"Of course I will do my best, Mr. Craig. I'm not very good at heaping coals of fire myself, but—"

"You think it strange that I should have invited him, that he should have accepted my invitation? Well, I suppose it's a natural thought. But the man has suffered terribly, and not only for his own mistakes, and I don't know that the acceptance was such an easy thing for him. Please remember that Bullard had a cruel power over him."

"And does that power no longer exist?"

"It is broken. You may be interested to know that Bullard is leaving for South Africa this week."

"I hope that is true," she said so solemnly that he smiled. "But," she went on quickly, "I'll try to be nice to Mr. Lancaster. He did look out of his element that night, and after all, I'm not the sort to kick a man when he's down. But I must say you're a good, kind man, Mr. Craig—"

"Please!" he protested miserably.

"Tell me about Mrs. Lancaster," she went on. "Is she very charming?"

"She is very handsome. I'm afraid she will find Grey House deplorably dull. She finds her pleasures in crowded places. But whether you admire her or not, I'm sure you will like her daughter."

"What is her name? Is she pretty?"

"Doris is her name and—yes, she's very pretty indeed."

"Please describe her, Mr. Craig."

"Oh, no," he objected, with a poor attempt at lightness. "I'm no hand at descriptions, Miss Handyside; besides, you will see her for yourself, I hope, within the next few days. And I—I think she wants a girl friend rather badly." Thereupon he made haste to change the subject.

Conversation was inclined, however, to drag a little on both sides, and there was developed a tension just perceptible, which lasted till the arrival of the doctor.

When Alan had gone, ten minutes later, Handyside observed that the young man did not seem so bright as before his trip to London.

"I can't say I noticed any difference," said Marjorie, whose whole glad world had become gloomy within the space of half an hour; and she went away to her own room, wherein she gave herself the following excellent advice:

"Don't be silly! ... You don't really care! ... And now you know he's going to marry that thingammy girl! ... And he said she was very pretty, and Doris is certainly ever so much prettier a name than—no, I'm not going to cry—I'm not—I'm not! ... at least, not much."



CHAPTER XXVII

"I think that's everything, Caw. We shan't be much later than eleven. Don't forget that Mr. Harvie wants to catch the first steamer in the morning." Alan, in evening dress, was smoking a cigarette in the study pending the assembling of his guests in the drawing-room, all of whom had been bidden to dinner that evening by the hospitable Handyside.

"Mr. Harvie shall be looked after, sir." Caw retired to the door, closed it and came back to the hearth. "May I ask you to cast your eye over this list, Mr. Alan?" he said, presenting a sheet of notepaper.

"Why," exclaimed Alan, "this is my uncle's writing ... and it's a list of the people who are now in the house—"

"With one exception, sir. Mr. Bullard."

"That's so. Where did this come from?"

"That, sir, is one of the instructions left me by my master. Those are the names of all the people who are to be present on the night when the clock stops. I ventured to bring it to your notice now merely because it struck me as a little curious, sir, especially since Mr. Harvie, the lawyer, had not intended to stay the night."

Alan smiled. "And so we want only Mr. Bullard to make the party complete! Pity he sailed to-day for South Africa!"

"If I may say so, I should like very much to have seen him off, sir."

"Good heavens, man! Didn't that telegram of an hour ago convince you?"

"It struck me afterwards that your agent might have watched his—well, his double go on board. You will remember that wire from Paris—"

"Oh, really, Caw, your imagination carries you too far! Bullard, as you well know, is bound for South Africa on serious business: his fortune is at stake. Doesn't that satisfy you? Is it this list that has upset you?"

"Well, to tell the truth, sir, it did give me a bit of a turn, and I'm not superstitious every evening."

"You've got your big dog."

Caw smiled apologetically. "I didn't say I was afraid, sir. Perhaps you are right to laugh at me, sir; still, Mr. Bullard has always done the unexpected thing in the past, and—"

Teddy came in.

"Teddy," said Alan, "shut the door, and in the fewest words possible tell Caw what Bullard did to Flitch in the fog."

Three minutes later Caw went out, with his list, easier in his mind than he had ever been since that midnight hour when he set the clock going.

And now Alan glanced at the clock. "Time's about up. We had better go downstairs."

In the drawing-room they found Lancaster and Mr. Harvie. Three days of the free and friendly atmosphere of Grey House had worked wonders on the former: a rather painful diffidence was still in evidence now and then, but the man was beginning to hold up his head, his nervousness was becoming less noticeable, and his old kindly manner was once more asserting itself. Once Caw had caught him watching Alan unawares, and had forgiven him much because of the gratitude in his gaze.

The lawyer had run down from Glasgow to see Alan respecting that young man's recent and serious onslaught on his capital, and had allowed himself to be persuaded to remain over night. He and Lancaster appeared to take kindly to each other, much to the host's gratification. Thus far Alan could congratulate himself on the success of his little house-party. Doris seemed to have found the friend he had hoped for her in Marjorie Handyside. As for Mrs. Lancaster, she had been a cheering surprise in her graciousness to every one and her open appreciations of her surroundings, while she had quite captivated the doctor.

It was therefore something of a blow when Doris, lovely in a wild-rose pink, but a little pale and anxious looking, appeared with the news that her mother had been stricken with a headache so severe as to necessitate her going to bed.

"I never knew your mother to have a headache before," said Lancaster, perturbed. "I hope it is nothing serious."

"She wants us not to bother about her," said the girl. "She has not been sleeping so well lately, she says, but hopes to get to sleep now, and she will ring if she requires anything. No, father; she would rather you didn't go up."

Alan expressed his regrets. "It doesn't seem right to go out and leave her—"

"I'm afraid it would just upset her if we made any difference," said Doris, "and she certainly does not look alarmingly ill."

"I will leave orders with Caw to communicate at once should she want you, Doris," Alan said at last, and presently the party went forth into the starry, moonless night.

Alan, as host, escorted Doris. As he drew her hand through his arm he felt it tremble.

"Are you troubled about your mother?" he asked.

"Just a little, Alan," she replied, after a moment. "But I'm not going to let it make me a skeleton at the feast," she added with a small laugh. She would have given much then to have been walking with Teddy; her answer to a similar question from him would have been somewhat different, for her mind was full of vague fears.

And just then Alan spoke of Teddy. "Is there anything wrong between you and Teddy, Doris? I may be mistaken, but these last few days I have been fancying you were avoiding each other. No quarrel, surely."

"Oh, nonsense! Teddy is my oldest friend, and neither of us is quarrelsome. On the other hand, we are interested in people besides each other." Her lighter tone was very well assumed.

"That's all right then," he said, and there was a pause. Then, suddenly, he put another question: "Doris, must I go on waiting till—till the clock stops?"

Her reply was, to say the least of it, unexpected. "No, I don't think it's necessary, Alan."

"Doris!" He may have imagined his voice sounded eager as he proceeded: "Then I may speak now!"

"Please, no," she gently forbade. "I meant that you must never speak at all—to me—of marriage. For you don't really love me, dear Alan, and I—I'm really awfully glad! Now don't say another word, my friend. Who could be dishonest under such a sky?"

And having nothing to say, he held his peace till they reached the gates of the doctor's garden where the others awaited them.

* * * * *

To Mrs. Lancaster, as a matter of course, the chief guest-chamber had been allotted. Its door faced that of the study across the spacious landing; viewed from outside, its bay-window balanced that of the study and suggested an equally large apartment. It lacked, however, the depth of the opposite room, and further differed from the latter in having a window of ordinary size in the side wall, looking north. Elegance and comfort it possessed to satisfy the most fastidious senses. White walls and furniture, rose velvet carpet, and hangings, silver electric fittings and a silver bedstead. The warmed atmosphere would have been pleasant to the body without the fire, yet those glowing and flaming logs made cheerfulness for the imagination—or would have done so for the imagination of any person save Mrs. Lancaster. At intervals she shivered. She was half sitting, half reclining on the couch drawn near to the hearth. She was wearing an elaborate tea-gown which had cost her, or, to be precise, had added to her debts, more guineas than some of us earn in a year.

Her hands and neck blazed with gems, but her eyes would have made you forget the jewels, so intensely they gleamed. The finger of feverishness had touched her dusky cheeks to a rare flush. Waiting there in the soft light of a single lamp of the cluster in the ceiling, Carlotta Lancaster had never looked so splendid. And she had never felt so afraid.

Afraid of what? Ruin for her husband, misery for her daughter? Oh, dear, no! Afraid of being herself caught in a most dishonourable and traitorous act? A little, perhaps. But the fear that now made her shiver and burn was the fear lest Bullard should fail in his latest and last, as he had said it should be, plan to obtain the diamonds. Failure on his part spelled ruin for her—not just social ruin, though that were terrible enough, but financial ruin, hideous, complete.

Debts, debts, debts! The night before leaving London, and for the first time in her life there, she had sat down with paper and pencil and made up a statement—rough, of course—of all she owed, and added it up.... Appalling! Thousands and thousands of pounds! Why, great Heavens! if she used her recent windfall to pay her debts, she would have nothing left worth mentioning. And Bullard was going to give her a hundred thousand—if—if ... Oh, but he must not fail! It was her final chance, her final hope, of averting downfall into sordid obscurity.

An hour ago another hope had glimmered, but briefly.

"Doris," she said, "you seem happy here. Will you give me a straight answer to a straight question? Suppose your father's affairs came right; suppose, also, I gave you back that money; would you—would you marry Alan Craig?"

But Doris, who had made a discovery since coming to Grey House, answered shortly yet cheerfully—

"No!"

Mrs. Lancaster did not press the matter. She was too well aware that the twenty-five thousand pounds had been the price of the remnants of her daughter's faith in her. Doris had ceased to call her "mother" except in company, and then as seldom as possible; in times of unavoidable privacy she treated her with extreme but distant courtesy.

So the glimmer had gone out, and now there was no way of salvation but Bullard's way.

The silver carriage-clock on the mantel tingled eight. Mrs. Lancaster rose and went to the door, which she opened an inch. Awhile she listened intently, then closed it and turned the key. She had heard nothing. Twenty minutes earlier she had heard Caw moving about the study, mending the fire and putting things in order; then he had gone downstairs—to his supper, she presumed. He would not likely be up again within the next two hours—unless she summoned him. With another shudder she moved away from the door.

Presently she unlocked one of her trunks and took out a little white package with a red cross scored on it. Undoing the sealed waxed paper she uncovered several neatly cut strips of meat. She regarded them with disgust. It was by no means the first little white package she had opened since her arrival at Grey House, but none of the previous ones had been crossed with red.

She switched off the light and went towards the side window, slipped between the curtains and drew them close behind her. When her eyes were grown accustomed to the darkness, she raised the sash. Like the others in the house it worked easily, noiselessly. A bitter air from the snow-capped Argyll hills made her wish she had donned furs.

Crouching, she reached out and peered downwards. The darkness baffled her, but something had to be left to chance. She let fall a strip of meat, and closed the window—for about five minutes. Then she peered down again. A live thing was moving on the gravel. She let fall the rest of the meat, and a snuffling sound came up to her ears. Caw's Great Dane had lately been finding frequent tit-bits in that particular spot, and now he was making another tasty meal—his last.

Mrs. Lancaster closed the window and after washing her hands went back to the fire. It supplied all the light she required for the present. There was nothing that needed to be done for an hour. But she grew more and more restless, and before half the time had passed she was opening another of her trunks. From it she took that which in the doubtful light seemed a mere mass of silk, but which was later to resolve itself into a sort of ladder carefully rolled up and fitted with a steel clamp at the top. She placed the bundle behind the curtains of the side window, and returned to the trunk.

From a nest of soft materials she drew a wooden box about eight inches square. Gingerly she carried it to the couch, seated herself, and took off the lid. The removal of a quantity of cotton wool revealed a glass sphere of the size of an average orange, filled with a clear, colourless fluid. She let the sphere stay where it was, and after gazing at it awhile placed the box very cautiously on the mantel.

Feeling faintish, she got her smelling-salts and cologne and lay down on the couch. The half hour that followed was the longest she had ever spent, and yet she was not relieved when the clock tinkled nine. The fire had burned low, but she let it die....

Once more she lurked at the window—fearing one moment, hoping the next, that her message had not reached him in time, that he would not come—till another night, though she was aware that it must be now or never.... And at last, down below, a mere spark of light moved in the mirk.

Mrs. Lancaster was no weakling. The spark roused as though it had touched and scorched her. She cleared her mind for action. No useless hampering thoughts littered it now. Her intelligence reckoned nothing save the work on hand; its details she had by heart. She acted.

* * * * *

Bullard came from between the curtains white and breathing hard, but smiling. He had no head for climbing—and a loosely hung ladder of silken loops in the darkness is poor support to the nerves—but he had the will for anything that meant great gain.

"You will excuse me," he gasped, taking a sip from a tiny gold flask. "I've come out of one darkness to go into another. Is all clear? You managed the dog, I noticed. Yes, yes, very disagreeable, but necessary.... Well?"

"So far as I know," she whispered, "your way is clear, unless"—she glanced at the box on the mantel—"I fail, or that thing there does. Have you found out about the clock?"

"Not much. Nothing, in fact. The Frenchman would not take my order for a clock exactly similar to my dear old friend's, and he was not talkative. But I'm very much mistaken if Christopher's diamonds are not there."

"Tell me," she said, her hand to her heart, "how you are going to escape—detection. I must know that before we go further, for, if they catch you, they will never, with such a fortune involved, spare you for my husband's sake."

He seated himself beside her on the couch and lit a cigarette.

"There is no time for full details, dear lady. Be satisfied with these. First, I sailed this afternoon from London—by deputy, you understand. To-night I shall travel a certain distance south by car, afterwards by rail. At a certain port, a Mr. So-and-So will board and occupy his reserved cabin on a swift steamer bound for Madeira. At Madeira Mr. So-and-So and Mr. Deputy will meet—just meet and no more. Then Mr. Deputy will disappear as such, Mr. So-and-So will disappear as such, and Mr. Bullard will continue his journey to Cape Town."

"Oh, you are horribly clever! ... Your deputy is like you in appearance?"

"Very; and as I've had occasion to use him before, he knows my little ways.... But now, Mrs. Lancaster, I must ask you to get busy." He rose, took the box from the mantel and extracted the sphere. "Don't be afraid," he said, as she rose, also, with a shiver. "Only be careful." He laid it in her hand.

"Will it hurt much?" she whispered.

"No—not much. Disagreeable of course, but not deadly."

"You're sure it won't—kill?"

"I give you my word. Now, please,—at once." He went over to the door and unlocked it. "Come!"

She joined him. "Oh, yes, I know exactly what to do," she said, answering a question.

"Very well." He returned to the hearth. "Now I'm going to ring for Mr. Caw.... There!"

She opened the door and slipped out. At the rail directly over the foot of the stair she took her stand.

Ere long she heard a door in the distance open and shut. Then she heard Caw coming along the passage leading from the kitchen premises....

As Caw placed his foot on the first step, something bright flashed down within a yard of his eyes and burst on the stair with a slight report.

When Bullard looked over, a moment later, he nodded and said: "That's all right. He won't stir for fifteen minutes, anyway, and I hope I shan't need five."

It then appeared necessary to conduct Mrs. Lancaster back to her room and administer to her what remained in the tiny gold flask.



CHAPTER XXVIII

"Curse that green stuff!" said Bullard under his breath. "I'd sooner handle a bunch of live wires."

He was standing in front of the clock, in the glow of an overhanging lamp, the only one he had switched on on entering the firelit room.

The pendulum in its callous swing fairly blazed. There was no sound save a half-stifled, irritating ticking.

Bullard presented rather a curious, if not uncanny, spectacle then. His countenance was covered by a glass mask such as the chemist dons while preparing or studying some highly unstable and dangerous substance. Even more than death he feared pain and disfigurement. His method of dealing with Christopher's clock had been carefully thought out. In the rainproof coat which he wore was a respirator, oxygenated, as well as sundry little tools. For it was the green fluid that had engaged his wits most seriously: it must be got rid of; its powers, whatever they were, dispersed, before he dared tackle the clock itself; and the dispersal must be effected from the greatest distance possible.

Well, he had conceived a way which promised but moderate risk to his own person. Having finished his brief outward examination of the clock, he produced a disk of white paper, an inch and a half in diameter, gummed on one side. Raising the mask slightly, he moistened the disk, and applied it to the clock's case, almost at the bottom of the reservoir. Against the green background the mark showed very distinctly. For a moment or two he regarded it critically, then went to the door and turned the key. He stepped briskly up the room, halting at the heavy brown curtains drawn across the bay-window.

From inside his coat he brought a gleaming weapon with a long barrel and an unusually large butt—an air pistol of great power and reliability. In the old South African times Bullard had been a notable shot with rifle and revolver, and practice during the last few days had shown him that his hand and eye still retained a good deal of their cunning. Moreover, it was an easy mark he had before him now. The chief risk lay in an extremely violent explosion of the green fluid, but he hardly believed in such a result. Christopher was sure to have thought of something more subtle than mere widespread destruction, which might involve friends, not to mention property, no less than enemies. Something that burned, something that asphyxiated—something undoubtedly cruel and treacherous and horrible—existed in that green fluid; but when its time came, it would attack its victim with little sound, if not in absolute silence. So Bullard had imagined it, though he was prepared to find himself wrong.

The pistol was already loaded, its charge of compressed air awaiting but the touch of release. Bullard undid the safety-catch, took a glance round, and passed between the curtains, re-drawing them till they almost touched. With his left hand he grasped the edges at a level with his chin, leaving a narrow aperture above that level through which he could aim. If an explosion did take place, he was fairly secure from flying fragments; if the atmosphere became too perilous, the window was at hand.

He raised the weapon to the aperture and protruded the barrel. An easy shot, indeed! He would soon know what ... Damn! what was that? Footsteps on the gravel beneath the window? Withdrawing the pistol, he moved to the window and listened. The fastenings of the mask encumbered his hearing; he could not be sure. But, next moment, peering through the misty pane on the right he saw a man's figure, too small for either Craig or France, move from the steps into the ruddily lighted doorway. And far away, as it seemed, an electric bell purred.

Wrath at the interruption rather than fear of discovery and capture possessed Bullard. Caw was helpless for the present, and it was not the old housekeeper's business to answer the bell. The visitor would have to wait awhile. Anyway, there was plenty of time for escape.... But was he going to flee empty-handed, leaving that cursed clock unexplored?

He turned quickly back to the curtains, and again protruded the pistol—and all but dropped it.

Between him and the clock a girl was standing—a girl in an apple-green evening frock. She had nut-brown hair and a beautiful neck, and she was inclined to plumpness. Apparently she was watching the pendulum. Soon, however, she moved and looked around her. There was a slight flush on the delicate tan of her cheeks, and she smiled faintly as at some foolish thought. Then, glancing at something in her hand, she shook her head while a tiny frown superseded the smile.

She stepped to the door and turned the handle—and gave a little gasp. Bullard saw her colour go out, saw her shoulder seek the support of the door. In that instant he might have over-awed her, stunned her with alarm, but in the next she straightened up and did an unexpected thing. She drew the key from the locked door and walked deliberately to the writing table. For a moment she seemed to require the support of its ledge, yet steadily enough she passed back to the clock.

There she wheeled about. Up went her right hand holding a little revolver. She spoke softly, not unwaveringly, but quite clearly.

"Whoever you are, I think you had better come out. They will be here immediately. I've rung for them. You can't escape!"

There was no response. Bullard was thinking hard. Ought he to overpower her or risk the long drop from the window?

"I will count three," she said, "and if you don't come out, I will shoot! One ... two ... th—"

"Do not forget," said a muffled voice, "that I can shoot also."

"You horrid pig!" she cried. "Take that!" Crack went the revolver—crash went the bulb and shade above the writing-table.

Bullard stepped forth. There was a greyish shade on his face, but his lips smiled stiffly behind the glass mask.

"Stand away from the clock, and be good enough to return the key to the door," he said.

The sight of him daunted her, yet not for long. She fired again—blindly, one may suppose. The bullet passed over his head, between the curtains, and through the window. A sound of vigorous knocking came from below.

"You little devil!" snarled Bullard, and ran at her.

Then her nerve weakened and she darted toward the door of the passage. Ere she could reach it, it flew open, and, dropping the revolver, she fell into the arms of the panting Alan.

"Good God! what's this?" he cried at the extraordinary appearance of Bullard and the smoke wreaths in the atmosphere. "Are you all right?" he whispered to the girl.

Teddy dashed in, gave a shout and made for Bullard, only to be brought up short by a shining muzzle almost in his face.

From downstairs a female voice rose in shrieks; from the stairs came a man's, shouting in a foreign tongue. Next moment there fell a frantic beating on the door.

Marjorie darted from her refuge, thrust home the key and turned it. Monsieur Guidet almost fell in, crying—

"Quick! Look after Mr. Caw! He was hurt—on the stair!"

As he spoke, Lancaster, Doris, Mr. Harvie and the doctor appeared from the passage.

"Doctor, will you go to Caw?" said Alan rapidly. "He's hurt—downstairs."

Handyside ran out, and Guidet banged the door after him. "Guard it!" he shouted to Teddy. "Let not the pig-hog escape!"

The little Frenchman was beside himself. "So I suspect you right!" he almost screamed. "You think I was greater fool than you look when you ask me to make clock the same for five hundred pounds! Bah! What idiot you was! For I think a little after you go, and I take not many chances. How to get here most quick, I ask myself. The train to Greenock, the ferry to cross the water, and the legs to run three miles. I do so! I arrive!—behold, I arrive in time!" He laughed wildly. "And so you would try to kill him—my clock!" he yelled, and with that, like a furious bantam, ignoring the pistol, he flew at Bullard, tore away the mask and tossed it against the wall.

"Monsieur Guidet!" cried Alan, running forward and catching his arm. "Leave him to us."

Guidet shook off the clasp. "Pig-hog," he went on, "behold, I pull your nose! There! Also, I flap your face! One! two! I do not waste a good clean card on you, but I will give you satisfaction when you like—after you come out of the jail!"

Alan had grabbed Bullard's right wrist. "Teddy, take the madman away," he cried, and Teddy removed Guidet, who went obediently, but blowing like a porpoise, to a seat by the wall.

Lancaster, looking ill, had sunk into an easy-chair by the fire. His daughter, pale but composed, stood beside him, her hand on his shoulder. She still feared Bullard: even now she was ready for sacrifice. Mr. Harvie, lost in amazement, had not got beyond the threshold.

As for Bullard, he had gone white to the lips at the Frenchman's affront; his expression was diabolical. Wrenching his wrist from Alan's grasp, he stepped back until he stood framed in the curtains. His black eyes stared straight in front of him, at the clock, perhaps; perhaps into the future.

Alan went back to the door, and whispered to Marjorie: "Go beside Doris, please." Then he turned to Bullard.

"I may as well tell you," he said, "that unless my servant Caw is another of your victims, like Flitch, we shall neither attempt to injure you nor give you in charge; the reason for that is our affair."

At this Teddy found it necessary to restrain Monsieur Guidet.

"But, on the other hand," Alan continued, "you are not going to walk out of this house as easily as you seem to have entered. In fact, you are not going to leave this house until many things have been settled."

Bullard gave him a glance. "Indeed!" he said quietly. "And what does Mr. Lancaster say to that?"

"Mr. Lancaster is not going to be troubled over this matter," Alan replied calmly, "and you will have no opportunities for troubling him on any other matter. We happen to have a nice, dry cellar, and—well, in short, you are our prisoner, Mr. Bullard—"

Mr. Harvie took a step forward. This was too much for his legal mind. "My dear Mr. Craig," he began, "pray consider carefully—"

"Oh, please, for goodness' sake, keep quiet, Mr. Harvie," Marjorie impulsively interposed, and he collapsed, partly, it may have been, from astonishment.

"For how long, may I ask," sneered Bullard, "am I to have the felicity of your hospitality?"

"Till the clock stops."

A short silence was broken by Monsieur Guidet's clapping his hands and exclaiming: "How you like that, pig-hog? Bravo, Mr. Craik! That was a good bean to give him!"

Marjorie and Teddy laughed, and the others, excepting Lancaster, smiled. And just then the doctor entered supporting Caw, who looked dazed and wretched. Alan shook his limp hand and helped him to a seat beside Guidet—which was an error of judgment, for the Frenchman's eloquence was loosened afresh.

"Ah, poor Mr. Caw," he cried, patting the sufferer affectionately. "But never mind, for now you have the enemy on the toast! Cheer up, for I will tell you a good choke! Figure it to yourself, the pig-hog comes here with a glass dish over his bad face—he was so fearful of my clock that it would hurt him—he had so great terror of the green fluid—ha! ha!—I must laugh, it was so very droll." Then he flashed round on Bullard. "But listen, pig-hog, and I tell you the secret of the dreadful, fearful, terrible, awful green fluid! I know the secret, for I make it myself. It is a kind of fish—what you call a cod—understand? And I make it with the oil of castor and some nice colourings! Voila! I could laugh for weeks and fortnights, and—"

"Look out!" shouted Teddy, and sprang forward—too late.

"Till the clock stops," said Bullard in a thick voice, and fired at it. Then he flung the pistol behind him and grinned.

Teddy secured Guidet just in time, and a silence fell that seemed to last for minutes.

The bullet, having made a starry hole in the glass, had pierced the face an inch below its centre, and as the company stared, the pendulum shuddered and fell with a little plash into the green liquid.

A wild cry came from the Frenchman—"Miracle!"—and he fell to hugging poor Caw.

As though the others had ceased to exist, Bullard strode forward. Now his countenance was congested, his eyes glazed. "The diamonds!" he muttered. "Where are the—"

He stopped short, as did Alan and Teddy, who had started to intercept him,—stopped short, as did every other human movement in that room at the sound of a voice—a voice emanating from no person present.

Far and faint it sounded, but distinct enough for the hearing of all.

"Do not be alarmed," it said, and paused.

And Bullard was ghastly again, and Lancaster gasped and shivered and put his hands to his face. Marjorie caught Doris's hand, and Caw tried to rise. The others stared at the clock.

The voice slowly proceeded—

"These are my instructions to my nephew, Alan Craig, respecting the diamonds once mine, now his; and if Alan has not returned, to my servant Caw, and failing him, to my lawyer, Mr. George Harvie, who shall then open the letter marked 'last resort,' which I leave in his care. But I make this record in the full belief that my nephew lives and will hear my words." A pause.

Bullard threw himself on the couch. "'His master's voice, Caw,'" he sneered most bitterly.

No one answered save the impulsive Marjorie.

"Cad!" she said clearly.

The voice resumed:

"Alan, you will have the diamonds divided expertly and without delay into three portions of equal value, and you will hand one portion to Miss Marjorie Handyside, the second to Miss Doris Lancaster, yourself retaining the third. I make no restrictions of any sort. I also desire you to present the pendulum intact to Monsieur Guidet, the maker of the clock, provided he has proved faithful. Finally, I ask you to present to my one-time friend, Francis Bullard, the Green Box left in the deep drawer of my writing-table, unless he has already obtained possession of the same, along with the key which Mr. Harvie will provide. And may God bless and deal gently with us all!—even with the traitor in our midst. Farewell."

There was another silence. Doris was kneeling, her arms round her father, as though to protect him, and Bullard had risen; the others had scarcely changed their positions.

Mr. Harvie cleared his throat. "Really, my dear Mr. Craig," he said, "all this is most interesting, but, I beg leave to say, extremely irregular. And—and where are the—"

"I almost forgot to say," replied the voice—and you might have fancied a repressed chuckle—"that the diamonds are deposited, in my nephew's name, with the Bank of Scotland, Glasgow. Once more, farewell."

And with that the clock, having performed its duty, though so long before its time, disintegrated, the works falling piecemeal into the green fluid, there forming a melancholy little heap of submerged wreckage.

No one seemed to know what to say, until Mr. Harvie came to the rescue. He advanced and congratulated Marjorie.

"And you, too, Miss Lancaster," he said kindly.

Doris rose and gave him her hand. "It's really true, isn't it?" she whispered. "And I can do anything I like with them?"

"Anything you like, my dear."

Alan and Teddy approached the girls, but Bullard was before them. The man refused to believe he was beaten.

"Doris," he said, almost pleasantly, "now that the clock has stopped, I feel at liberty to announce our engagement."

She looked at him bravely, but did not speak.

He lowered his voice. "Your father's debt to the Syndicate is paid, but—"

"Oh, you worm!" cried Marjorie. "Where's my revolver?"

But Alan took him by the collar and slung him halfway across the room, crying savagely: "How dare you speak to a lady?"

"Bravo, Mr. Craik!" Guidet chuckled. "Another good bean!"

"Leave him to me," said Teddy. "He has asked for it, and, by Heaven, he's going to get it! Look here, Bullard!" He held up an inch of fine gold chain with a nugget attached, and Bullard wilted. "If you aren't out of this country within three days, and if you ever defile it again, I'll use this, though I should get five years for holding it back. Now go!"

Bullard turned to the door.

"Oh, stop him!" feebly cried Caw. "He must not go without the Green Box."

Bullard made a dash, but the Frenchman was before him and held the door till Teddy brought box and key. For an instant Bullard looked as if he would send the thing crashing amongst the midst of them all. Then he took it and went.

"Mr. France," said Caw, "please take my revolver and see that he carries the box right off the premises."

"I'll see him to the gates," said Teddy.

* * * * *

And so Francis Bullard realised that he was beaten at last. Yet even in the agony of rage and hate and defeat that shook his being as he turned from the gates of Grey House, he ignored despair. Nothing was final! South Africa was before him! There was money to be made! There was revenge to be planned.... Revenge! He could think of nothing else—not even of some one who might be crazy for revenge on himself.

He came to the wood, started the car, and backed it out to the road. Then he set off for Glasgow at a more reckless pace than usual—and suddenly remembered that the Green Box was on the seat beside him. Fool that he was!—the thing must be got rid of! The water—that was the place. He prepared to slow down. No, not yet. Better get past that bit where the road ran so high above the shore. He put on speed again, and then—

A snarl behind him, a hot breath on his ear, and two hands fastened viciously about his neck.

"Stop the car!" quacked the voice of Edwin Marvel. "My turn now! I've been waiting for this, you beast, you liar, you swindler! Stop the car!" repeated the madman, and wrenched at his captive's throat so that the latter's hands were torn from the wheel.

Bullard's prayer, warning, or whatever it was, came forth in a mere gurgle. The car swerved, left the road, ran up a short, gentle, grassy slope, tilted at the summit, toppled and plunged to the rocky shore.

There was an appalling explosion.



CHAPTER XXIX

A fortnight later, Caw, in his little sitting-room, was entertaining Monsieur Guidet to afternoon tea. The Frenchman had just completed the operation of replacing Christopher's clock with one of similar aspect minus the glamour and mystery of pendulum and fluid.

"Monsoor," said Caw, "excuse my asking it again, but could you not have done what the bullet did?"

"Perhaps, Mr. Caw, only perhaps. I am not so clever as Chance. The bullet, you see, came at the exact right instant to the exact right place. It was a miracle! The pig-hog—no! I call him not so since he is dead—the poor devil might have fired a million hundred bullets without doing what that one bullet did. That is all I can say—all I wish to say, because I still am sad that my clock was not let to stop himself. But now, I will ask you a query, Mr. Caw. How did the young lady, so beautiful, so brave, so splendid, come to be in the room with the—the poor devil?"

"Miss Handyside, being uneasy in her mind," Caw answered, a trifle stiffly, "had come secretly to ask me to keep an eye on an unworthy person who was staying in the house. Which is as much as I care to say on the subject, Monsoor."

"But you will tell me if she and Mr. Alan Craik are now betrothered?"

At that Caw's manner relaxed; he smiled rather complacently. "As a matter of fact, Monsoor," he replied, "the event took place yesterday, at four thirty-five p.m."

"Bravo! But I am not all surprised. That night, when I see them together, I begin to smell a mouse."

"If I may say so," said Caw modestly, "it was myself who pulled the string, as it were."

Monsieur looked puzzled.

"I need not go into details, Monsoor, but I may tell you, in strictest confidence, that I had become fully fed up with the thing hanging fire. To my mind the position was absurd. Here were two pleasant young persons, worth nearly quarter of a million apiece, and as miserably in love as ever I hope to see two of my fellow creatures—and nothing doing! So, when the chance came, I felt it was my duty to take it. Accordingly, while they were going through the passage, I shut off the electric at the main switch." Caw paused to light a cigarette: he was becoming somewhat frivolous in his ways. "Later," he proceeded, "I gathered that they came out at the other end an engaged couple."

"Clever, Mr. Caw! You are a philosopher, I think."

"Oh, any idiot knows that people in that condition prefer darkness. Still, I think I have done a service to both my masters, for she was Mr. Christopher's choice for his nephew. Well"—he sighed—"I'm glad to have done one thing without bungling."

"And the other young lady—also most beautiful but too hungry—too skim—you understand?"

"Slim, if you please, Monsoor. You'll be talking about slim milk next! But to be serious, it is a case where one can only hope for the best. There was never a finer young man than Mr. France, and it is a great pity there were no diamonds for him. I understand he is none too well off, and when a lady happens to have a very large fortune—of course, I understand that is no impediment in your country—"

"Would you not shut off the electric again, Mr. Caw?" the Frenchman eagerly asked.

Caw shook his head. "I was never one for tempting Providence by trying to repeat an immense success. Likely as not, they would fall down the stair instead of into each other's arms."

"Hah! that would not be so pleasing. The broken heart can be repaired, but the broken nose—" Monsieur made an expressive gesture and rose. "But, as you have said, we must hope for the best. It is always well to take an optical view of the future—is it not? And now, Mr. Caw"—he became nervous and produced a jeweller's package—"before I go I give you a small momento. My clock has brought you dangers, for which forgive. We have been allies in the service of my benefactor, Mr. Christopher Craik, and I hope we remain good friends for ever always. Take this, mon ami, but look not at it till I have depart. The description on it I hope you will approve on. But one thing more—I trust you to let me know when the marriage—no, I say the marriages, not singular—are about to go off ... Au revoir!"

* * * * *

When Caw opened the package he was amazed to find a very fine gold hunting watch; and he was not a little touched on reading the inscription inside the case.

"To J. Caw from A. Guidet. To Be Faithful Is The Best Thing We Can Do."

"Ay," he murmured ruefully, "but I've made a pretty poor show of it."

* * * * *

At the same hour, in the doctor's study, Marjorie and Alan were awaiting—without any visible impatience—the return of the others for tea. Lancaster and Teddy were still Alan's guests, but Doris was now Marjorie's. On the day following the stoppage of the clock, Mrs. Lancaster, finding it imperative that she should fulfil certain most important social engagements, had returned to London. She left Grey House in ignorance of all that had happened beyond the bare details of the division of the diamonds. Of Bullard's end she did not hear till a week later, and the particulars of his death were as vague as many of the particulars of the man's life. The "accident" had remained undiscovered for a couple of days, and the tides of the Firth had removed much. Mrs. Lancaster had departed with sullen, smouldering eyes. She honestly considered her daughter thankless and undutiful, because the latter had not promised her a share of the diamonds on the spot.

It was of her that Alan and Marjorie had been talking for the past five minutes.

"I wouldn't be too pessimistic, Alan, if I were you," the girl was saying. "Mrs. Lancaster, given her own way and plenty of money, may be quite bearable, if not charming, to live with, and Doris is evidently bent on supplying the money—"

"For her father's sake. Doris will never forgive her mother, and I don't see why she should."

Marjorie smiled. "Let's wait and see. What will the Lancasters' income be from Doris's gift?"

"If Doris spends a hundred thousand on a joint annuity, as she threatens to do, they will have about L8,000 a year."

"Goodness! what a lot to have to spend in twelve months!"

"And, of course, Lancaster, though he will have retired from business, will have quite a decent income of his own when the mines come round again."

"Well, I prophesy that they will both be fairly happy. Mrs. Lancaster ought to be able to make a pretty good display in what she calls Society. Now and then Mr. Lancaster will have a shilling left to spend on a nice book for his library, poor dear; and, with no business worries, he will probably begin to admire his wife once more as well as love her, which he has always done; and when he gets a surfeit of her friends, as I fear he will now and then, he will just take a little holiday and pay you a visit—"

"Us, please!"

"I wonder," said Miss Handyside, becoming extremely grave, "I wonder whether we ought to marry, after all."

"What?"

"We're both of us far, far too rich. You know I have always despised very rich people."

"I'm sure I'll lose my bit in no time," said Alan, hopefully.

"On the other hand, I have never admired foolish people."

"I never said you were conceited, did I?" he retorted.

"You wouldn't have said a thing like that twenty-four hours ago, Mr. Craig!"

"Twenty-four hours ago I would not have interrupted you for the world."

"What do you mean?"

"Look at the clock! Twenty-four hours ago, in that dark passage, you were whispering—"

"I wasn't!" cried Marjorie, blushing adorably. "Hold your tongue and talk about something sensible."

"Right! Do you think you could be ready to marry me next month?"

When a minute or two had passed, she said: "We're a pair of horrid, selfish things!"

"How so?"

"We're so wrapped up in happiness—at least, you are—that we have no thought for poor Doris, and poor, poor Teddy. Oh, what is to be done about them? ... Why don't you answer?"

"Because it's a problem, dear girl. We know it's simply want of money that's holding Teddy back, but even a fellow with plenty can't say to his friend: 'Look here, old cock, take this cheque and run away and get engaged!'"

"Certainly not! There's no need to be indelicate. Couldn't you put the cheque in his stocking at Christmas—or something?"

"While I am doubtful as to whether Teddy hangs up his sock, I know he's too sensitive and proud to accept a money gift, however delicately offered. As a matter of fact, Marjorie, I've tried—wanted him to take a quarter of the diamonds as a sort of souvenir, you know—"

"You dear, kind, generous man!" exclaimed Marjorie....

Order being restored—

"My only hope," he went on, "is that Teddy will, somehow, lose his head and take the plunge, and then it would be a wedding present. One can't reject a wedding present, can one?"

"No—though every one of my sisters has fervently wished one could. And I could give him a wedding present, too!"

"We!"

"No, big!"

They both laughed, then sighed, and with one accord said—

"But he'll never do it!"

* * * * *

Dusk was falling on the loch. The figures of Lancaster and Handyside walking in front were becoming invisible.

"But why," asked Doris, "are you going back to London? I thought you had decided to spend the winter at Grey House and help Alan with his book about the Eskimos."

"I'm afraid it's a blue lookout for the Eskimos. You see, Alan hopes Marjorie will agree to marry him in January. The stopping of the clock has altered a good many things," he finished, rather drearily.

"It seems to have altered you, Teddy," she said shyly.

He did not respond, and there was another of the long pauses which had been frequent during the walk.

"Father and I must be going, too, before long," she said at last.

"Your father is looking a new man, Doris," he returned, with an effort.

"Thanks to you.... Oh, I know you have told me not to speak about it, but I implore you to tell me how you did that wonderful thing about the debt to the Syndicate. Tell me, Teddy."

"You must excuse me."

"But why should you want to hide the truth from me? Do you know what you force me to think?—that you paid the debt yourself!"

"Well, I didn't."

"Not some of it?"

There was silence, then—"For heaven's sake, Doris, let the matter rest. Forget about it!"

"Forget! What do you think I'm made of? ... Oh, I'm beginning to wonder whether Christopher's diamonds have brought me any real happiness."

Controlling himself he said: "You know they have, for your father's sake alone—"

"Even so," she said, and halted.

"Doris," he whispered with passionate bitterness, "I will say it only once: it's rotten to be poor. That's all. Now let's—"

"And I think I will say it all my life," she answered almost inaudibly; "... it's rotten to be rich, and I'm afraid we shall be late for tea."

They were,—very late.

THE END