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The relic of the late unlamented Lukisch was temporarily installed in a high chair before the open window giving on the areaway of Number 37.  There it briefly beamed upon the busy life of Our Square with its bland and hypocritical face, and there, thrice and no more, it sounded the passing of the hours with its sweet and false voice, biding the stroke of nine.  Meantime Willy Woolly settled down to keep watch on it and could not be moved from that duty.  Every time it struck the half he growled.  At the hour he barked and raged.  When Stepfather Time sought to draw him away to dinner he committed the unpardonable sin of dog-dom, he snarled at his master.  Turning this strange manifestation over in his troubled mind, the collector decided that Willy Woolly must be ill, and therefore that evening went to seek the Little Red Doctor and his wisdom.

Together they came across the park space opposite the House of Silvery Voices in time to witness the final scene.

The new clock struck the half after eight as they reached the turn in the path.  A long, quavering howl, mingled of rage and desperation, answered in Willy Woolly’s voice.

“You hear?” said Stepfather Time anxiously to the Little Red Doctor.  “The dog is not himself.”

They saw him rear up against the clock case.  He seemed to be trying to tear it open with his teeth.

“Willy!” cried his master in a tone such as, I suppose, the well-loved companion had not heard twice before in his life.  “Down, Willy!”

The dog drooped back.  But it was not in obedience.  For once he disregarded the master’s command.  Perhaps he did not even hear it in the absorption of his dread and rage.  Step by step he withdrew, then rushed and launched himself straight at the timepiece.  Slight though his bulk was, the impetus of the charge did the work.  The clock reeled, toppled, and fell outward through the window; then—­

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.