"I thought Bundle was laying it on a bit thick myself," said Bill. "But Codders is such an ass he'd swallow anything. Well, night-night. I expect you'll have a bit of a job waking me when the time comes--but stick to it." "It won't be much good if you've taken a leaf out of Gerry Wade's book," said Jimmy maliciously. Bill looked at him reproachfully. "What the hell do you want to go and make a chap uncomfortable for?" he demanded. "You're only getting your own back," said Jimmy. "Toddle along." But Bill lingered. He stood uncomfortably, first on one foot and then on the other. "Look here," he said. "Yes?" "What I mean to say is--well, I mean you'll be all right and all that, won't you? It's all very well ragging, but when I think of poor old Gerry--and then poor old Ronny--" Jimmy gazed at him in exasperation. Bill was one of those who undoubtedly meant well, but the result of his efforts would not be described as heartening. "I see," he remarked, "that I shall have to show you Leopold." He slipped his hand into the pocket of the dark blue suit into which he had just changed and held out something for Bill's inspection. "A real, genuine, blue-nosed automatic," he said with modest pride. "No, I say," Bill said. "Is it really?" He was undoubtedly impressed. "Stevens, my man, got him for me. Warranted clean and methodical in his habits. You press the button and Leopold does the rest." "Oh!" said Bill. "I say, Jimmy?" "Yes?" "Be careful, won't you? I mean, don't go loosing that thing off at anybody. Pretty awkward if you shot old Digby walking in his sleep." "That's all right," said Jimmy. "Naturally, I want to get value out of Leopold now I've bought him, but I'll curb my bloodthirsty instincts as far as possible." "Well, night-night," said Bill for the fourteenth time, and this time really did depart. Jimmy was left alone to take up his vigil. Sir Stanley Digby occupied a room at the extremity of the west wing. A bathroom adjoined it on one side, and on the other a communicating door led into a smaller room, which was tenanted by Mr. Terence O'Rourke. The doors of these three rooms gave on to a short corridor. The watcher had a simple task. A chair placed inconspicuously in the shadow of an oak press just where the corridor ran into the main gallery formed a perfect vantage ground. There was no other way into the west wing, and anyone going to or from it could not fail to be seen. One electric light was still on. Jimmy ensconced himself comfortably, crossed his legs and waited. Leopold lay in readiness across his knee. He glanced at his watch. It was twenty minutes to one--just an hour since the household had retired to rest. Not a sound broke the stillness, except for the far-off ticking of a clock somewhere. Somehow or other, Jimmy did not much care for that sound. It recalled things. Gerald Wade--and those seven ticking clocks on the mantelpiece.... Whose hand had placed them there, and why? He shivered.