Till the Clock Stops | Page 6

ledge of the
table. "You will forgive my handing you over to a servant. Caw will
see you to your car. Farewell, Lancaster; my regards to your wife, my
love to Doris. Farewell, Bullard; yet there are better things even than
diamonds."
The door was opened. A middle-aged man in black, with clean shaven
ascetic face, and hair the colour of rust, and of remarkably wiry bodily
appearance stood at attention.
There was something in Christopher's sad smile that forbade further
words, and the visitors departed. Lancaster's countenance working,
Bullard's a mask.
The door was shut noiselessly. Christopher's hand fell clenched on the
green box. His pallid lips moved.
"Traitors, hypocrites, money maniacs! Verily, they shall have their
reward!" He reopened the box, took out all the five trays, and gazed
awhile at the massed brilliance. And his smile was exceeding grim.
CHAPTER II
Within a few minutes the servant returned.
"The gentlemen have gone, sir, and Monsoor Guidet is ready," he said,

then looked hard at his master.
The master appeared to rouse himself. "Tell Guidet to go ahead. He'll
require your assistance, I expect. Stay!" He pointed to the diamonds.
"Put them in the box, Caw."
The man restored the glittering trays to their places with as much
emotion as if they had contained samples of bird-seed. When he had let
down the lid--
"Your pardon, Mr. Craig, but won't you allow me to ring for Dr.
Handyside now?"
"Confound you, Caw, do what you're told!"
"Very good, sir," said Caw sadly, moving off.
"And look here, Caw; if I'm crusty, you know why. And I shan't be
bullying you for long. That's all."
Caw bowed his head and went out. On the landing he threw up his
hands. "My God!" he said under his breath, "can nothing be done to
save him?" For here was a man who loved his master better than
himself. One wonders if Caw had ever forgot for an hour in all those
twenty years that Christopher Craig had lifted him from the gutter and
given him the chance which the world seemed to have denied him.
Shortly afterwards he entered the room with Monsieur Guidet. The two
moved slowly, cautiously, for between them they carried a heavy and
seemingly fragile object.
"Go ahead," said Christopher, "and let me know when it is finished."
He closed his eyes.
Nearly an hour passed before he opened them in response to his
servant's voice.
"Monsieur has now finished, sir."

He sat up at once. From a drawer he took a large stout envelope already
addressed and sealed with wax.
"Caw, get on your cycle and take this to the post. Have it registered.
And put a chair for Monsieur Guidet--there--no, nearer--that's right.
Order a cab to take Monsieur to the steamer. He and I will have a chat
till you return.... Monsieur, come and sit down."
As Caw left the room the Frenchman turned from his completed
handiwork to accept his patron's invitation. He was a dapper, stout little
man, merry of eye, despite the fact that a couple of months ago he and
his family had been in bitter poverty. He smiled very happily as he took
the chair beside the writing table. He was about to receive the balance
of his account, amounting, according to agreement, to two hundred
pounds.
The work done was embodied in the clock and case which now filled,
fitting to a nicety, the niche in the back wall. Outwardly there was
nothing very unusual about the clock itself. A gilt box enclosing the
mechanism and carrying the plain white face, the hands at twelve,
occupied the topmost third of the case, which was of thick plate-glass
bound and backed with gilt metal. There was no apparent means of
opening the case. From what one could see, however, the workmanship
was perfect, exquisite. The compensating pendulum alone was
ornamented--with a conventional sun in diamonds, and one could
imagine the effect when it swung in brilliant light. At present it was at
rest, held up to the right wall of the case by a loop of fine silk passed
through a minute hole in the glass, brought round to the front, and
secured to a tiny nail at the edge of the niche; a snip--the thread
withdrawn--and the clock would start on the work it had been designed
to perform. The only really odd things about the whole affair were that
the lowest third of the case was filled with a liquid, thickish and
emerald green and possessing a curious iridescence, and that just
beneath the niche was fixed a strip of ebony tilted upwards and bearing
in distinct opal lettering the word:
DANGEROUS

"Well, monsieur," said Christopher Craig, opening cheque-book, "I
suppose I can trust your clock to perform all that we