Till the Clock Stops by John Joy Bell (latest novels to read .TXT) 📕

I have never once uttered a word against Lancaster. The man has been simply the victim, the tool, of Bullard. Caw thinks the same, and my uncle said as much just before he died. You and I know that he is no villain. And why delay sending an answer to this wire? There can be only one answer. You'll find forms on the table."

"Won't you send it, Alan?"

"I'll send one to Lancaster himself."

"Better not."

"Why?"

"Mrs. Lancaster is on Bullard's side."

"Ah!"

"Besides," Teddy continued, rather awkwardly, "I feel that you ought to hear what I have to say before you promise Lancaster--"

"I was merely going to ask him not to worry about anything."

"Exactly! But I had better tell you at once that in order to follow your advice Lancaster would require to have twenty-five thousand pounds."

Alan gave a soft whistle. Then he laughed pleasantly. "You may tell Doris to tell him not to worry about anything. I'm owing him fifteen hundred and interest as it is."

"Alan!" cried Teddy, incredulous; "you don't really--"

"Oh, shut up! Put it any way you like, but don't keep Doris waiting. Listen! How will this do? 'Tell father with Alan's regards, no cause for anxiety in any direction, and he hopes to see you both almost immediately. Guard this from B.' ... Anything else?"

"I--I'd like to mention that the box is here."

"The box! But what in creation does Doris know--"

"I'll be telling you in a minute," Teddy interrupted, looking hot and miserable.

"All right. Go ahead."

Teddy added to the message: "Surprised to find box safe here." Then, with his pencil dabbing the blotting-paper, he said: "Alan, if you don't mind my suggesting it, I think she'd like a word from you--for herself." He had evidently forgotten that he had brought no "word" for Alan.

The latter did not reply at once. "You might put," he said slowly, his gaze on the fire, "'Trust Alan,' or words to that effect--No, don't say anything."

Teddy gave him a puzzled glance, sighed, and completed the message.

Alan rang the bell, remarking: "Caw will be interested to know that it was Bullard who was here last night with his petards. Pretty clever chap, Bullard. But what on earth made him return the box?"

"I can tell you that also," said Teddy, as Caw came in for the telegram.

"Quick as you can, Caw," Alan said. "Mr. France has more to tell us."

The friends smoked in silence till the servant came back.

This time Teddy reserved nothing save Doris's promise to marry Bullard at the end of a year. That, he felt, was for Doris herself to tell. Beyond an occasional exclamation his recital met with no interruption. When he had made an end there was a long pause while Alan and Caw filled up mentally a few more of the gaps in their knowledge. The latter was sadly upset by the revelation of the stones being paste.

"I wonder," said the former, "who the man was who opened the box for Bullard?"

"Lancaster, I fancy, will be able to tell you. Bullard seems to have rather a choice set of assistants. Doris described him as a dreadful-looking man!"

"May I ask you a question, Mr. Alan?"

"Certainly--as many as you like."

The servant was gazing at the carpet. "When Mr. France informed us that the diamonds in the Green Box were false, why, sir, did your eyes jump to the clock?" He rose without waiting for the answer. "And may I remind you, gentlemen, that you are dining at Dr. Handyside's in twenty minutes from now?" He was going out when Alan recalled him.

"Have you the address of the chap who made the clock, Caw?"

"I have, sir."

"Then wire him now asking him to come here in the morning. And, by the way, Caw--" Alan hesitated.

"Sir?"

"You don't mind being left alone this evening?"

"No, sir. I hardly expect that anything will happen _this_ evening. Besides, it is evidently known now that you are at home. Also, which I omitted to mention before, there is the bell wire to Dr. Handyside's study."

"Then that's all right," Alan said, not without relief, "and you'll have that big dog by to-morrow or next day."

Caw bowed and went out.

"You didn't answer his question about the clock," remarked Teddy.

"Confound the clock!" Alan laughed and got up. "For a moment I had a mad idea that--well, never mind for the present. We don't want to be late next door."



CHAPTER XIX

Bullard was still in Glasgow. The return of Alan Craig--for he had soon come to laugh at Marvel's story--had been a staggering blow. The will, by which he had reckoned to win, should all other means fail, was become a sheet of waste paper. Moreover, the "other means" were almost certainly rendered impracticable by the presence of Alan at Grey House. Those, however, were only his first thoughts.

The car bearing him and the shivering Flitch from the scene of their success and consternation was not ten miles on its way when his nerves and mind began to regain their normal steadiness and order. Another five miles, and the germ of a fresh plot began to swell in his brain--perhaps the ugliest, grimmest plot yet conceived and developed in that defiled temple. It was a crude plot, too, and quite unworthy of Francis Bullard, as he would have realised for himself had he not been obsessed by the new conviction that the real diamonds, now virtually Alan's, were hidden in the clock in that upper room. Further, it contained a serious flaw, in that it allowed nothing for the possibility of Alan's making a fresh will. And finally, if one may be permitted to put the primary objection last, it depended on the possession of the Green Box which had just passed from his keeping.

Nevertheless, commonsense like conscience failed to condemn the scheme, and Bullard drove into Glasgow with his mind made up.

An awkward situation was now created by the presence of Flitch. Bullard dared not, for more reasons than one, let the creature go his own ways, and eventually, swallowing his disgust, he took a double-room in a third-rate temperance hotel, giving the landlord a hint to the effect that he was shepherding a semi-reformed dipsomaniac. It was a long night for Bullard, and probably the same for Flitch who between dozes either prayed for Heaven's mercy, or groaned for anybody's whisky.

On the morrow, fortunately for Bullard's plans, the wretch had apparently got over his penitence and was certainly none the worse of his short spell of compulsory abstinence. All the same, Bullard on going out, after Flitch's breakfast, to enjoy his own elsewhere, locked the latter into the bedroom, which was on the third floor. First of all he despatched to Lancaster a telegram brutal in its curtness: "Alan Craig is at Grey House." Later he made a number of purchases in places not much patronised by the general public, then took a room at the North British Hotel wherein he shut himself until lunch time. Having enjoyed a carefully chosen meal, he returned to his inferior lodging and permitted the captive to feed. Thereafter a hushed and lengthy conversation took place in the frowsy bedroom. At times Flitch objected, at times he pleaded, and in the end was bullied into sullen acquiescence.

"And I've got to stick in this hole till it suits ye, have I?" he grumbled.

"Just so. Pity you're not fond of reading. I see there's a Bible on the dressing-table," Bullard said airily. "But it won't be for more than a day or two--three at the outside. I must be back in London on Monday morning whether we pull it off or not."

"Monday! But look here, mister, what about that chap we left chained up in the cellar?"

Bullard had forgotten, for the time being, about the ill-starred Marvel, but the reminder did not trouble him. Marvel out of the way for good would not be a happening to regret. "I daresay our friend will have an appetite by Monday," he remarked, playing with the nugget.

"He'll be dead! I'd bet anything he's eaten his bit by now, and yon's a hellish cold place in this weather. If I'd known murder was yer game, Mr. Bullard--"

"That'll do. You can leave the matter to me. Do you want to get out of this country or not, Flitch?"

"God knows I do!"

"Then you know who is the only person who can help you to go. Don't be a fool. Good afternoon!"

He took a cab to the North British Hotel. On alighting, a newsboy offered him a paper. He was passing on when his eye was caught by the bill--"Serious Rioting on the Rand." He bought a paper and with set countenance made his way to the writing-room off the lounge. At that hour the place was deserted, and in the furthest corner he seated himself and opened the paper. Trouble had been threatening on the Rand for some time, but Bullard was quite unprepared for a catastrophe such as he was now called upon to face. The details were few but fateful. Thus:--

"The group of mines controlled by the Aasvogel Syndicate are the chief sufferers so far. Dynamite was freely used, and power-houses, batteries and cyanide-houses present scenes of hopeless ruin. The shafts, it is stated, are destroyed. Several persons on the staff of the Lucifer Mine are unaccounted for. At the moment of cabling fires are raging in several quarters."

For several minutes after he had mastered the significance of it all, Bullard sat perfectly still. There was a curious pallor about his mouth and he had a shaken, shrunken look generally. Letting the paper slip to the floor he rang the bell, and, when the waiter arrived, ordered tea. "But first fetch me some telegraph forms," he said.

A busy hour followed. Keenly considered and reconsidered messages had to be written for despatch to his private brokers as well as to those who acted for the Syndicate, and to the Syndicate's secretary. By prompt action something--a good deal perhaps--might be saved from the wreckage--for himself. For others he had no thought. "This finishes Lancaster," he said to himself; "he'll have to face the music, after all." He sighed. "Means losing Doris, perhaps...."

The fates, it seemed, were conspiring to force his hand. It was now imperative that he should be in London by the following night, at latest. He foresaw a journey to South Africa, a long stay there. Was he going to be compelled to abandon his greatly daring new scheme? Why, the new scheme was a hundred times more urgent, more vital than it had been a couple of hours ago! And yet it would be sheer madness to attempt to carry it out to-night--unless the unlikely happened. He looked up at the clock--five-twenty already!--and murmured "impossible."

His reflections were disturbed by the sing-song voice of a page-boy coming through the lounge.

"Number one hundred and seventy-four," it droned, "number one hundred and--"

Bullard darted to the door. "Here, boy," he called a trifle hoarsely, holding out his hand.

A moment later he was opening an envelope. There was nothing in it. He dropped it upon the fire, took his coat and hat, and left the hotel by the station door.

At a corner of the bookstall, at which hurried suburban passengers were grabbing evening papers, a youngish man in a