Then Uncle Felix spoke again; his big eyes fixed Tim piercingly like a pin. "When did it stop?" he inquired gravely. He meant to make quite sure of his discovery before revealing it. There must be no escape, no slip, no carelessness. "When did it stop, I ask you, Tim?" he repeated.
Tim was a trifle vague. "I was asleep," he whispered. "When I woke up—it wasn't going."
"You wound it?"
"Oh, yes, I wound it right enough."
"What time was it?"
"The clock—or the day, Uncle?" He was confused a little; he wished to be awfully accurate.
Uncle Felix explained that he desired to know what time the clock had stopped. The importance of the answer could be judged by the intentness of his expression while he waited.
"The finger-hands were at four," said the boy at length.
Uncle Felix gave a jump. "Ha, ha!" he exclaimed triumphantly, "then it stopped of its own accord!" They could have screamed with excitement, though without the least idea what they were excited about. You could have heard a butterfly breathing.
"It stopped at dawn!" he continued, louder.