40
From the House of Silvery Voices rose a roar that smote the heavens. A roar and a belch of flame and a spreading, poisonous stench that struck the two men in the park to earth. When they struggled to their feet again, the smoke had parted and the House of Silvery Voices gaped open, its front wall stripped bodily away. But within, the sound of the busy industry of time went on uninterrupted.
Weaving and wobbling on his feet, Stepfather Time staggered toward the pot calling on the name of Willy Woolly. At the gate he stopped, put forth his hand, and lifted from the railing a wopsy, woolly fragment, no bigger than a sheet of note paper. It was red and warm and wet.
"He's gone," said Stepfather Time.
The Clock of Conscience took up the tale. "Gone. Gone. Gone," it pealed.
As the collector would not leave the shattered house, they sent for me to stay the night with him. A strange vigil! For now it was the man who followed with intent, unworldly eyes that which I, with my lesser vision, could not discern. And the Unseen moved swiftly about the desolate room, low to the floor, and seemed finally to stop, motionless beneath a caressing hand. I thought to hear that dull, measured thumping of a grateful tail, but it was only the Twelve Apostles getting ready to strike.
Only once that night did Stepfather Time speak, and then not to me.
"Tell her," he said in an assured murmur, "that I shan't be long."
"Not-long. Not-long. Not-long. Not-long. Not-long," confirmed Grandfather from his stance on the stairway.
In that assurance Stepfather Time fell asleep. He did not go out again with his pushcart, but sat in the rear room while the Mordaunt Estate in person superintended the job of putting a new front on the house.
The night after it was finished I received an urgent telephone call to come there at once. At the entrance I met the Little Red Doctor coming out.
"The clocks have stopped," said he gently.
So I turned to cross the park with him.
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