"We'd better pack up," said Judy after tea. She said it calmly, but the voice had a whisper of intense expectancy in it.
"Pack up nothing," Uncle Felix reproved her quickly. "The important thing is—don't wind up. Just go on as usual. It will be best," he added significantly, "if you all hand over your timepieces to me at once." And, without a word, they recognised his wisdom and put their treasures into his waistcoat pockets—watches of silver, tin, and gunmetal. His use of the strange word "timepieces" was convincing. The unusual was in the air.
"There's Thompson's and Jackman's and Mrs. Horton's," Judy reminded him, her eyes shining like polished door-knobs.
"Too wrong to matter," decided Uncle Felix. "They're always slow or fast."
"Then there's the kitchen clock," Tim mentioned; "the grandfather thing."
Uncle Felix reflected a moment. His reply was satisfactory and conclusive:
"I'll go down to-night," he explained in a low voice, "when the servants are in bed. I'll take the weights off."
Judy and Tim appreciated the seriousness of the occasion more than ever.
"Into Mrs. Horton's kitchen?" they whispered.
"Into Mrs. Horton's kitchen," he agreed, beneath his breath.