The men left with a vague promise to be back in the future. Had he not made his response to them plain enough? He glanced to the small hall table with it’s drawer, maybe if these ‘gentlemen’ where going to be coming back he should leave his revolver in the drawer, handy if they cut up rough.<br/><br/>The hall clock chimed the hour of seven as Mark stood in his hall contemplating this development. As loathe as he was. As any honest respectable person was, to get involved with the Police then if the men did return once he had yet again seen them off he would visit the local Police station and report the incident.<br/><br/>And mow his paper and particularly fine malt awaited his pleasure. He began to walk back to his living room as the shadows seemed to shift about him.<br/><br/>His head was fuzzy and his mouth tasted like the bottom of the proverbial parrot’s cage. And what on earth was he doing lying across his dining room table? Mark rolled off the table and then had to put out his hand and steady himself at the wave of weakness that came over him.<br/><br/>The clock chimed the hour of eight and Mark looked incredulously at the clock. Eight how could it be eight, it had been seven when he was in the hall, what on earth had happened to the last hour. He staggered to his easy chair and flopped into it, the malt he had been looking forward to savoring vanished in one gulp, as did the next. Medicinal purposes that was for sure although the third he sipped at thoughtfully.<br/><br/>He began to flick through illnesses in his mind, time blanks, weakness what where they the symptoms off? Did he need to see another Doctor, maybe a tonic, he could get the local pharmacist to make him one up. Yes he would do that in the morning, he nodded to himself and then stood and walked over to his bookcase and began to pull out his medical books looking for his symptoms.<br/>