everybody. Mr. Vick turned at once to point to the flyblown disc on the wall behind him.
“That clock is dead right by the Shakespeare Head long bar, slow by Ronnie’s next door, and fast by the B.B.C.,” he announced with incomprehensible pride.
“It is four minutes and twenty-three—don’t stop me, twenty-four, twenty-five seconds fast pre-cisely,” said the sporting salesman, looking at his wristwatch, an impressive performance which he offset somewhat by adjusting the instrument immediately.
“Wait,” commanded the fat man, heaving himself up and accomplishing vasty manœuvres under his shrouding cape. “This is the right time. This is the real time. Railway time, that ’s what this is.” He brought out a large silver pocket watch, looked at it earnestly for some moments, shook it and put it back. “You’re not far out,” he said to the barber.
Richard shot back his own cuff out of force of habit, remembered in time, and glanced up sharply to find the Major watching him through the glass again. The round eyes turned away at once but the younger man was left with the odd but very definite conviction that for some inexplicable reason he was pleased. He was certainly smiling as he turned to the salesman.
“I make it a quarter to,” he remarked. “If you’re right, this wretched thing of mine has lost a minute and twenty seconds in the past half hour. Exactly thirty minutes ago I was driving over Westminster Bridge and as Big Ben chimed I put it right.”
Richard’s pugnacious young face became blank. The lie uttered so deliberately appeared to be so unnecessary. He eyed the stranger cautiously. He looked perfectly normal and even pleasant, sitting there fiddling with his watch, but suddenly Richard became aware of something very interesting about him. He was engaged in arranging something, some definite, carefully thought out plan. He could not rid himself of the impression. There was a wariness and a sense of suppressed force about the man which was special for the occasion whatever it was.
Richard’s speculations were interrupted by the convulsion in the room caused by the fat man getting up, and by the time he was himself in the vacated seat and had persuaded the foreign assistant not to make too much of a job of the unwanted haircut, Mr. Vick and his favoured client were in full session once more.
“If you don’t know Greenwich you don’t, Major,” the barber was saying brightly. “It was you mentioning Westminster Bridge put me in mind of it. But then of course there’s Shooters Hill. Kent is a lovely county. See much of Kent, Major?”
“Practically nothing.” A flicker of mischief passed over the thin lips. “It’s no use, my dear chap, you’ll have to face it that I have no fixed abode.”
Mr. Vick decided to be offended.
“Now you’re trying to take the mickey out of me,” he said reprovingly, and stepped back from his handiwork. “Well now, that’s that, sir. That suit you? I mustn’t keep that gentleman waitin’ if ’e’s going to get ’is bets on before the one o’clock, must I?”
It was a dismissal, and to Richard’s regret, since he was now trapped in the other chair himself, the Major rose, paid his score, and took his trench coat from the Peg.
He then performed the second little act which the younger man found curious. On entering he had evidently stripped off his raincoat with his jacket inside it, and now he put them on in the same way, so that the outside of the jacket did not appear. The younger man, watching the performance in his own glass now, reflected that the manœuvre was the same as the lie about Westminster Bridge, not so much venal as peculiar, for despite the slovenly beginning he took some pains to dress himself, knotting his muffler carefully and arranging his collar with just the right degree of swagger. As he was drawing in his belt he appeared to relent towards the inquisitive Mr. Vick, who was still sulking.
“I’m going to see a
“That clock is dead right by the Shakespeare Head long bar, slow by Ronnie’s next door, and fast by the B.B.C.,” he announced with incomprehensible pride.
“It is four minutes and twenty-three—don’t stop me, twenty-four, twenty-five seconds fast pre-cisely,” said the sporting salesman, looking at his wristwatch, an impressive performance which he offset somewhat by adjusting the instrument immediately.
“Wait,” commanded the fat man, heaving himself up and accomplishing vasty manœuvres under his shrouding cape. “This is the right time. This is the real time. Railway time, that ’s what this is.” He brought out a large silver pocket watch, looked at it earnestly for some moments, shook it and put it back. “You’re not far out,” he said to the barber.
Richard shot back his own cuff out of force of habit, remembered in time, and glanced up sharply to find the Major watching him through the glass again. The round eyes turned away at once but the younger man was left with the odd but very definite conviction that for some inexplicable reason he was pleased. He was certainly smiling as he turned to the salesman.
“I make it a quarter to,” he remarked. “If you’re right, this wretched thing of mine has lost a minute and twenty seconds in the past half hour. Exactly thirty minutes ago I was driving over Westminster Bridge and as Big Ben chimed I put it right.”
Richard’s pugnacious young face became blank. The lie uttered so deliberately appeared to be so unnecessary. He eyed the stranger cautiously. He looked perfectly normal and even pleasant, sitting there fiddling with his watch, but suddenly Richard became aware of something very interesting about him. He was engaged in arranging something, some definite, carefully thought out plan. He could not rid himself of the impression. There was a wariness and a sense of suppressed force about the man which was special for the occasion whatever it was.
Richard’s speculations were interrupted by the convulsion in the room caused by the fat man getting up, and by the time he was himself in the vacated seat and had persuaded the foreign assistant not to make too much of a job of the unwanted haircut, Mr. Vick and his favoured client were in full session once more.
“If you don’t know Greenwich you don’t, Major,” the barber was saying brightly. “It was you mentioning Westminster Bridge put me in mind of it. But then of course there’s Shooters Hill. Kent is a lovely county. See much of Kent, Major?”
“Practically nothing.” A flicker of mischief passed over the thin lips. “It’s no use, my dear chap, you’ll have to face it that I have no fixed abode.”
Mr. Vick decided to be offended.
“Now you’re trying to take the mickey out of me,” he said reprovingly, and stepped back from his handiwork. “Well now, that’s that, sir. That suit you? I mustn’t keep that gentleman waitin’ if ’e’s going to get ’is bets on before the one o’clock, must I?”
It was a dismissal, and to Richard’s regret, since he was now trapped in the other chair himself, the Major rose, paid his score, and took his trench coat from the Peg.
He then performed the second little act which the younger man found curious. On entering he had evidently stripped off his raincoat with his jacket inside it, and now he put them on in the same way, so that the outside of the jacket did not appear. The younger man, watching the performance in his own glass now, reflected that the manœuvre was the same as the lie about Westminster Bridge, not so much venal as peculiar, for despite the slovenly beginning he took some pains to dress himself, knotting his muffler carefully and arranging his collar with just the right degree of swagger. As he was drawing in his belt he appeared to relent towards the inquisitive Mr. Vick, who was still sulking.
“I’m going to see a
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