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by a great window, was a rack of old watches which had never been called for by their owners. They were the accumulation of years. Their running filled the room with a faint myriad-voiced ticking.

The jeweller mechanically compared his master watch with the others, turning his eyes from one dial to another in regular order. As he did so he whispered through gray lips, "It seems mere—gratitude . . ." He did not complete his sentence even mentally, but sat down in his chair and listened to the ticking of the watches.

The sound suggested once more to Belshue that Time might be a Lilliputian army double-quicking down the long slope of eternity into nothingness.