Till the Clock Stops

  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 theStory was lightly sown. Within the directors' room of the AasvogelSyndicate, Manchester House, New Broad Street, was done and hidden away adeed, simple and commonplace, which in due season was fated to yield aweighty crop of consequences complex and extraordinary.

  At the table, pen in hand, sat a young man, slight of build, but of freshcomplexion, and attractive, eager countenance, neither definitely fairnor definitely dark. He was silently reading over a document engrossed onbluish hand-made folio; not a lengthy document--nineteen lines, to beprecise. And he was reading very slowly and carefully, chiefly to obligethe man standing behind his chair.

  This man, whose age might have been anything between forty and fifty, andwhose colouring was dark and a trifle florid, would probably have evokedthe epithet of "handsome" on the operatic stage, and in any city butLondon that of "distinguished." In London, however, you could hardly failto 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-fedlooking, but perfectly groomed in his regulation city garb, an enigmaticsmile under his neat black moustache as he watched the reader, suggestednothing ugly or mean, nothing worse, indeed, than worldly prosperity anda frank enjoyment thereof. His well-kept fingers toyed with a little goldnugget depending from his watch chain--his only ornament.

  The third man was seated in a capacious leather-covered, easy chair bythe hearth. Leaning forward, he held his palms to the fire, though notnear enough for them to have derived much warmth. He was extremely talland thin. The head was long and rather narrow, the oval countenance hadsingularly refined features. The hair, once reddish, now almost grey, wasparted in the middle and very smoothly brushed; the beard was clippedclose to the cheeks and trimmed to a point. Bluish-grey eyes, deepset,gave an impression of weariness and sadness; indeed the whole face hintedat melancholy. Its attractive kindliness was marred by a certainfurtiveness. He was as stylishly dressed as his co-director, Bullard, butin light grey tweed; and he wore a pearl of price on his tie and a finediamond on his little finger. His name was Robert Lancaster, and no manever 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. Allright 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 saidheartily, "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 welcometo the money without--a--anything of the sort, but at present it sohappens--"

  "Alan quite understands," Bullard interrupted genially, "that in presentcircumstances it was not possible for us to advance even a trifle likethree thousand without something in the way of security--merely as amatter of form, as you have put it. We might have asked him to sign abill or bond; but that method would have been repugnant to you,Lancaster, as it was to me. As we have arranged it, Alan can start forthe Arctic without feeling a penny in debt--"

  "Hardly that," the young man quickly put in. "But I shall go withoutfeeling I must meet grasping creditors the moment I return. Upon my word,you have treated me magnificently. When the chance came, so unexpectedly,of taking over Garnet's share and place in the expedition, and when myUncle Christopher flatly refused to advance the money, I felt hopelesslyknocked out, for such a trip had been the ambition of my life. Why, I hadstudied for it, on the off-chance, for years! I didn't go into ageographical publisher's business just to deal in maps, you know. Andthen you both came to the rescue--why I can't think, unless it was justbecause you knew my poor father in South Africa. Well, I wish he and mymother were alive to add their thanks--"

  "Don't say another word, old chap," said Bullard.

  "I will say just this much: if I don't come back, I honestly hope thatwill of mine may some day bring you the fortune I've been told I shallinherit, though, candidly, I don't believe in it."

  "But the will is only a matter of--" began Lancaster.

  Bullard interposed. "You will repay us from the profits of the big bookyou are going to write. I must say your publisher mentioned pretty decentterms. However, let's finish the business and go to lunch. Here you are,Alan!--our cheques for L1500 each."

  Alan took the slips of tinted paper with a gesture in place of utteredthanks. He was intensely grateful to these two men, who had made possiblethe desire of years. The expedition was no great national affair; simplythe adventure of a few enthusiasts whose main object was to prove ordisprove the existence of land which a famous explorer had believed hiseyes had seen in the far distance. But the expedition would find muchthat it did not seek for, and its success would mean reputation for itsmembers, and reputation would, sooner or later, mean money, which thisyoung man was by no means above desiring, especially as the money wouldmean independence and--well, he was not yet absolutely sure of himselfwith respect to matrimony.

  He regretfully declined Bullard's invitation to lunch. There were so manythings to be done, for the expedition was to start only eight days later,and he had promised to take a bite with his friend Teddy France.

  "Then you will dine with us to-night," Lancaster said, rising. "You mustgive us all the time you can possibly spare before you go. My wife andDoris bade me say so."

  "I will come with pleasure," he replied, flushing slightly. Of late hehad had passages bordering on the tender with Doris Lancaster, and butfor the sudden filling of his mind with thoughts of this great adventurein the Arctic he might have slipped into the folly of a declaration.Folly, indeed!--for well he was aware that he was outside any plans whichMrs. Lancaster may have had for her charming and very loveable daughter.And yet the mention of her name, the prospect of seeing her, stirred himat the moment when the great adventure was looming its largest. Well, hewas only four-and-twenty, and who can follow to their origins thetangling dreams of youth? One excitement begets another. Romance calls toromance. He was going to the Arctic in spite of all sorts ofdifficulties, therefore he would surely win through to otherdesires--however remote, however guarded. As a matter of fact, he wantedto be in love with Doris, if only to suffer all manner of pains for hersake, and gain her in the end.

  He shook hands again with his benefactors.

  "You'll be going to Scotland to see your uncle before you start, Isuppose?" said Lancaster.

  "Yes; I'll travel on Sunday night, and spend Monday at Grey House. Youmust not think that he and I have quarrelled," Alan said, with a smile."It takes two to make a quarrel, you know, and I owe him far too much tobe one of them. I'd have given in to his wishes had it been anything butan Arctic Expedition. But we shall part good friends, you may be sure."

  "It's understood," Bullard remarked, "that he is not to be told of thislittle business of ours. As you know, Lancaster and I are his oldestfriends, and he might not regard the business as we should like him toregard it."

  "You may count on my discretion," returned the young man, "and I fancyUncle Christopher will be too proud to ask questions. Well, I mustreally go."

  When t
he door had closed, Bullard took up the document, folded it, andplaced it in a long envelope.

  "Lancaster!"

  Lancaster did not seem to hear. He had dropped back into the easy-chair,his hands to the fire.

  Bullard went over and tapped him on the shoulder, and he started.

  "What's the matter, Lancaster?"

  "Oh, nothing--nothing!" Lancaster sat up. "I feel a bit fagged to-day.I--I'm rather glad that bit of business is over. I didn't like it, thoughit was only a matter of--"

  "Perhaps nothing; perhaps half a million--"

  "'Sh, Bullard! We must not think of such a thing. Christopher may livefor many years, and--"

  "He won't do that! The attacks are becoming more frequent."

  "--And with all my heart I hope the boy will return safely."

  "And so say we all of us!" returned Bullard. "Only I like to be preparedfor emergencies. After all, we can't be positive that Christopher will dothe friendly to us when the time comes, and Alan being the only relativeis certain to benefit, more or less. Our own prospects are not so brightas they were. Of course, you've run through a pile--at least, Mrs.Lancaster has done it for you--"

  "If you please, Bullard--"

  "Come in!"

  A clerk entered, handed a telegram to Lancaster, and withdrew.

  Bullard lounged over to one of the windows, and lit a cigarette.Presently a queer sound caused him to turn sharply. Lancaster was lyingback, his face chalky.

  "Fainted, good Lord!" muttered Bullard, and took a step towards acabinet in the corner. He checked himself, came back and picked up themessage. He read:

  "Just arrived with valuable goods to sell. Shall I give first offer toChristopher or to you and Bullard? Reply c/o P.O., Tilbury. EdwinMarvel."

  "Damnation!" said Bullard.