“You don’t remember what time, that was, Buntle?” asked Poole eagerly.
“I do so; Captain Wraile asked me what time it was—he couldn’t see the clock from where he sat, sir. It was 6.25 pip emma.”
“6.25! You’re certain?”
“Absolutely, sir; because he said the gentleman was expected at 6.30 and I thought to myself ‘I must slip along or he’ll be here before I get there.’ ”
Poole felt blank depression settle upon him. This was surely cutting Wraile’s limits too close for possibility.
“That clock,” he asked, “is it accurate—does it usually keep good time? Is it set regularly?”
“Every day, sir; my own duty, as soon as it comes through each morning, is to get round and check every clock in the Club by the time from 2 LO. That clock’s dead regular.”
Poole groaned. This was surely defeat.
“That’s what made me wonder, sir, when I checked the clocks next day and found this one was ten minutes fast.”
Poole leapt to his feet.