Till the Clock Stops | Page 4

moderate fortune in cash and shares, and half a million pounds in
diamonds. And he had just told those two, his favoured friends and
trusted associates of the old South African days, that he was about to
die.
Robert Lancaster and Francis Bullard, summoned by telegraph from
London the previous afternoon, had not been unprepared for such an
announcement. As a matter of fact, they had been anticipating the end
itself for months--long, weary months, one may venture to say. Yet
Lancaster, who had been unfortunate in getting the easy-chair which
compelled its occupant to face the strong, clear light, suffered an
emotion that constricted his throat and brought tears to his eyes. But
Lancaster had ever been half-hearted, whether for good or evil. He
looked less unhealthy than on that spring morning, eighteen months
ago, but the furtiveness had increased so much that a stranger would
have pitied him as a man with nerves. To his host's calmly delivered
intimation he had no response ready.
Bullard, on the other hand, was at no loss for words, though he allowed
a few seconds--a decent interval, as they say--to elapse ere he uttered
them. He was not the sort of fool who tosses a light protest in the face
of a grave statement. If his dark face showed no more feeling than
usual, his voice was kind, sympathetic, sincere.
"My dear Christopher," he said, "you have hit us hard, for you never
were a man to make idle assertions, and we know you have suffered
much these last few years. Nevertheless, for our own sakes as well as

your own, we must take leave to hope that your medical man is
mistaken. For one thing, your eyes are not those of a man who is done
with life."
Christopher Craig smiled faintly. "Unfortunately, Bullard, life is
done--or nearly done--with me."
Said Lancaster, as if forced--"Have you seen a specialist?"
The host's hand made a slightly impatient movement. "Let us not
discuss the point further. I did not bring you both from London to listen
to medical details. By the way, I must thank you for coming so
promptly."
"We could not have done otherwise," said Bullard, fingering his cigar.
"It is nearly two years since we saw you--but, as you know, that has
been hardly our fault."
"Indeed no," Lancaster murmured.
"Go on smoking," said the host. "Yes; I'm afraid I became a bit of a
recluse latterly. I had to take such confounded care of myself. Well, I
didn't want to go out of the world before I could help it, and I was
enjoying the quiet here after the strenuous years in Africa--Africa
South, East, West. What years they were!" He sighed. "Only the luck
came too late to save my brother." He was gazing at the loch, and could
hardly have noticed Lancaster's wince which called up Bullard's frown.
Bullard threw his cold cigar into the fire and lit a fresh one with care.
With smoke coming from his lips he said softly, "Your brother was
devilishly badly treated in that land deal, Christopher. Lancaster and I
would have helped him out, had it been possible--wouldn't we,
Lancaster?"
Lancaster cleared his throat. "Oh, surely!"
"Thanks," said Christopher. "Of course we've gone over all that before,
and I'd thought I had spoken of it for the last time. Only now I feel I'd

die a bit happier if I could bring to book the man or men who ruined
him. But that cannot be, so let us change the subject with these words,
'They shall have their reward.'"
"Amen!" said Bullard, in clear tones.
Lancaster took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
Still gazing at the loch, Christopher continued--
"I will speak of the living--my nephew, Alan." He lifted his hand as
though to check a contradiction. "I am well aware that you believe him
dead, and I cannot get away from the fact that the wretched
twopence-ha'penny expedition came home without him. But no
member could assert that he was dead--only that he was lost, missing;
and though I shall not live to see it, I will die in the firm belief of his
return within a year."
For once Bullard seemed to have nothing to say, and doubtless he was
surprised to hear his colleague's voice stammer--
"If you could give me any grounds for your belief, Christopher--"
"Men have been lost in the Arctic before now, and have not died."
"But Alan, poor fellow, was alone."
"He had his gun and some food. As you know, he was hunting with a
man named Flitch when they got separated in a sudden fog."
"And all search proved vain," said Bullard.
"True. But there was an Eskimo encampment within a day's march,"
retorted Christopher, mildly.
"It had been broken