A fearful thought suddenly entered his mind:  supposing the failure of the church-clock’s striking powers should be only temporary; supposing it should recover under some verger’s treatment, and strike twelve!

“Let’s go into the conservatory and look at the Square,” said he.  “I always look at the Square at midnight, and it’s nearly twelve now.”

“You’re the most peculiar man I ever met,” said Eliza Fiddle, eyeing him uneasily.

“Very true,” Mr. Prohack agreed.

“I’m half afraid of you.”

“Very wise,” said Mr. Prohack absently.

They crossed the rooms together, arousing keen interest in all beholders.  And as they crossed Charlie entered the assemblage.  He certainly had an extremely perturbed—­or was it merely self-conscious—­face.  And just in front of him was Mimi Winstock, who looked as if she was escaping from the scene of a crime.  Was Lady Massulam’s warning about Charlie about to be justified?  Mr. Prohack’s qualm was renewed.  The very ground trembled for a second under his feet and then was solid and moveless again.  No sooner had the quartette reached the conservatory than Eliza left it to go and discuss important affairs with Mr. Asprey Chown, who had summoned Ozzie to his elbow.  They might not have seen one another for many years, and they might have been settling the fate of continents.

Mr. Prohack took out his watch, which showed a minute to twelve.  He experienced a minute’s agony.  The clock did not strike.

“Well,” said Mr. Softly Bishop, who during the minute had been whispering information about the historic Square to Miss Fancy, who hung with all her weight on his words, “Well, it’s very interesting and even amusing, we three being alone here together isn’t it?...  The three heirs of the late Silas Angmering!  How funny life is!” And he examined his nose with new curiosity.

All Mr. Prohack’s skin tingled, and his face flushed, as he realised that Miss Fancy was the mysterious third beneficiary under Angmering’s will.  Yes, she was in fact jewelled like a woman who had recently been handling a hundred thousand pounds or so.  And Mr. Softly Bishop might be less fascinated by the steely blue eyes than Mr. Prohack had imagined.  Mr. Softly Bishop might in fact win the duel.  The question, however, had no interest for Mr. Prohack, who was absorbed in a sense of gloomy humiliation.  He rushed away from his co-heirs.  He simply had to rush away right to bad.

CHAPTER XX

THE SILENT TOWER