Jon Hagadorn

Seven clocks had been neatly ranged on the mantelpiece.

The last and remaining one had been found on the lawn outside, where it had obviously been thrown from the window.

Bundle puzzled over that point now.

It seemed such an extraordinarily purposeless thing to do.

She could imagine that one of the maids might have tidied the clocks, and then, frightened by the inquisition into the matter, have denied doing so.

But certainly no maid would have thrown a clock into the garden."

Had Jerry Wade done so when its first sharp summons woke him?

But no.

That again was impossible.

Bundle remembered hearing that his death must have taken place in the early hours of the morning, and he would have been in a comatose condition for some time before that.

Bundle frowned.

This business of the clocks was curious.

She must get hold of Bill Eversley.

He had been there, she knew.

To think was to act with Bundle.

She got up and went over to the writing-desk.

It was an inlaid affair with a lid that rolled back.

Bundle sat down at it, pulled a sheet of notepaper towards her, and wrote, "'Dear Bill.'"

She paused to pull out the lower part of the desk.

It had stuck halfway, as she remembered it often did.