[At the door.] I didn’t wind it!
Sanford.
You must have! It hasn’t struck since I took the cottage!
Martin.
[Turning and regarding him significantly.] But it is striking, sir, isn’t it? Striking midnight?
Sanford.
[Abruptly.] So you have heard the story?
[Without looking at him, Martin steps further into the garden where white moonlight now floods gravel-path and steps. Then, a note of repressed triumph in his voice.
Martin.
Yes, sir——! Ten—eleven—twelve——! [Then to himself, on a low note of joy.] Ah——!