Till the Clock Stops

Till the Clock Stops, by John Joy
Bell

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Title: Till the Clock Stops
Author: John Joy Bell
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TILL THE CLOCK STOPS
BY J. J. BELL
AUTHOR OF "WEE MACGREEGOR," ETC.
1917

THE PROLOGUE
On a certain brilliant Spring morning in London's City the seed of the
Story was lightly sown. Within the directors' room of the Aasvogel
Syndicate, Manchester House, New Broad Street, was done and hidden
away a deed, simple and commonplace, which in due season was fated
to yield a weighty crop of consequences complex and extraordinary.
At the table, pen in hand, sat a young man, slight of build, but of fresh
complexion, and attractive, eager countenance, neither definitely fair
nor definitely dark. He was silently reading over a document engrossed
on bluish hand-made folio; not a lengthy document--nineteen lines, to

be precise. And he was reading very slowly and carefully, chiefly to
oblige the man standing behind his chair.
This man, whose age might have been anything between forty and fifty,
and whose colouring was dark and a trifle florid, would probably have
evoked the epithet of "handsome" on the operatic stage, and in any city
but London that of "distinguished." In London, however, you could
hardly fail to find his like in one or other of the west-end restaurants
about 8 p.m.
Francis Bullard, standing erect in the sunshine, a shade over-fed
looking, but perfectly groomed in his regulation city garb, an enigmatic
smile under his neat black moustache as he watched the reader,
suggested nothing ugly or mean, nothing worse, indeed, than worldly
prosperity and a frank enjoyment thereof. His well-kept fingers toyed
with a little gold nugget depending from his watch chain--his only
ornament.
The third man was seated in a capacious leather-covered, easy chair by
the hearth. Leaning forward, he held his palms to the fire, though not
near enough for them to have derived much warmth. He was extremely
tall and thin. The head was long and rather narrow, the oval
countenance had singularly refined features. The hair, once reddish,
now almost grey, was parted in the middle and very smoothly brushed;
the beard was clipped close to the cheeks and trimmed to a point.
Bluish-grey eyes, deepset, gave an impression of weariness and sadness;
indeed the whole face hinted at melancholy. Its attractive kindliness
was marred by a certain furtiveness. He was as stylishly dressed as his
co-director, Bullard, but in light grey tweed; and he wore a pearl of
price on his tie and a fine diamond on his little finger. His name was
Robert Lancaster, and no man ever started life with loftier ideals and
cleaner intentions.
At last the young man at the table, with a brisk motion, dipped his pen.
"One moment, Alan," said Bullard, and touched a bell-button.
A couple of clerks entered.

"Rose and Ferguson, you will witness Mr. Alan Craig's signature. All
right now, Alan!"
The young man dashed down his name and got up smiling.
Never was last will and testament more eagerly, more cheerfully signed.
The clerks performed their parts and retired.
Alan Craig seized Bullard's hand. "I'm more than obliged to you," he
said heartily, "and to you, too, Mr. Lancaster." He darted over to the
hearth.
The oldish man seemed to rouse himself for the handshake. "Of course,
it's merely a matter of form, Alan," he said, and cleared his throat;
"merely a matter of form. In ordinary times you would have been
welcome to the money without--a--anything of the sort, but at present it
so happens--"
"Alan quite understands," Bullard interrupted