"But you can put her in shape, can't you?" came a bit anxiously from Bailey.
At the words a slow smile puckered the Scotchman's lips and for the first time he stole a glance at the speaker.
"Don't fret, Bailey," he drawled.
"I'm not fretting, Mr. McPhearson. But the woman who owns that clock won't sleep nights until she gets it home again."
"I don't blame her," was all McPhearson said.
"It's a good one, eh?"
"It's a dandy. I'd give my head for one like it. Genuine from start to finish and listed in the book. It was made by Richard Parsons of Number 15 Goswell Street, London, somewhere about 1720—at least he is down as a member of the Clockmakers' Company right along then. Pity he can't know his handiwork is still doing duty. He'd be proud of it. Two hundred years or more isn't a bad record for a clock."
"Two hundred years!" gasped Christopher involuntarily.
McPhearson peeped up over his microscope.
"This is Mr. Burton's son, McPhearson," put in Bailey.