The sun was just tipping the dome of the Salute as I fell asleep in my chair. My compact with St. Hilary promised great things. It meant action–a fascinating clue to follow, whether it led us to the jewels of the Doge or not. And if this dry chronicle of the past should prove to be no colorless legend, but a living fact, palpitating with human interest, I should have material for a book indeed. A legend of the Renaissance reincarnated in the twentieth century–that must appeal to Jacqueline no less than to me. Besides, the solving of this mystery, if solution there were, or the proving it to be but an empty fable, would certainly demand those qualities she believed I lacked so sadly. In everything this quest must be to my advantage.

It was eight o’clock before I could get St. Hilary into a gondola. As we were rowed rapidly to the Molo, an indescribable elation of spirits buoyed me up. Three years had slipped from my shoulders–three years of inertia and weariness. I was happy, and I did not play the fool and analyze too deeply my happiness.

Perhaps the warm, delicious breeze that came in puffs, laden with the scent of oleanders and roses from the royal gardens, had its influence; and the deep-blue sky, with the pearly clouds drifting slowly over San Giorgios, and the glorious sun, flashing on every tip and spire, and reflected silver-gray and rose-colored in the millions of little waves that danced and sparkled in a very ecstasy of color. For the rain had ceased. The sullen clouds were gone; the muddy streams; the discolored damp stones. Venice was again the enchanted city of fairy architecture, floating in the intangible air.

One would have thought it difficult to believe this wonderful story in the full light of day, on the Piazza here, flooded with sun, with the gondoliers smoking and breaking out into snatches of song, with the tourists already astir, and the guides from San Marco’s already on the alert for them. Last night in my chambers, with the curtains drawn and the lights of Venice shining mystically in the distance, there might have been an excuse for one’s imagination getting a little the better of one. But with the morning should have come sober skepticism. I can only say that there were two reasons that forbade that: one that I wished to believe; the other, that St. Hilary did believe.

A dozen steps on the Piazzetta, and we saw that Marruchi was not yet opened, so we strolled toward Florian’s for our morning coffee. As we passed under the Arcade, St. Hilary paused at a bookseller’s shop beneath the Libreria Vecchia. I noticed carelessly in passing that the window was filled with copies of a book just published.

“Have you looked into that book yet?” asked St. Hilary, as he bowed to the bookseller within.

“No,” I answered, taking my seat at one of the round tables. “I did not even read its title.”

“It is called Annali dell’ Inquisizione in Venezia. It was published about a month ago. Organia and Rosen have had it in their windows for a fortnight at least.”

“I have no doubt that that fact has some pertinency,” I said irritably. “But before you explain just in what way, suppose you answer a few questions that naturally occurred to me while you were asleep in my chair last night.”

“Well?”

“Why the deuce do you want me to go to St. Petersburg? Why do you intend going to Amsterdam? How did you come to know about the Diary of Sanudo? How did you guess that the clock was in the da Sestos palace? Or did you not guess? Surely we are not the first to attempt to solve the secret of the hours? And even if no one has yet attempted it (and that seems incredible), is it not possible that the clock may be beyond repair, so that we can not fathom the significance of the automata, if there be any significance? And, lastly, how do you know that you have the clock?”

“If you had read that book in the shop there, some of your questions might have been answered,” retorted St. Hilary placidly.

I held the coffee-pot suspended in mid-air. “It mentions the clock?”

“It does.”

“Then it’s there for all the world to read–the duke, for instance!”

The thought was rather startling.

“I suppose so. Had I known before I saw you last night that you were to be my criminal partner in pursuit of the casket and the gems, I should have brought that book as well as the Diary which I happened to have in my pocket. As it is, you might just step over to Rosen’s and buy a copy. You will find it an amusing book during your long journey to St. Petersburg.”

I looked at him with some annoyance.

“You take so much for granted,” I remonstrated. “I shall need some persuasion. You know, I suppose, that it’s quite necessary for me to get a passport to travel in Russia. And as to our criminal pursuit, I take it that findings are keepings.”

“Very true,” he answered, looking at me cynically. “Beatrice, who wore some of our gems when she went into that cathedral over there, is dust these four hundred years and more. The line of the D’Estes and Sforzas is extinct. There is not a man or woman in Venice or Italy who may boast that a drop of the Doge’s blood runs in their veins. Legally, I suppose, the state––”

“Oh, the state!” I sniffed contemptuously. “I don’t mind putting my claims against the state!”

“Brave man! But let me remind you, my squeamish friend, that it may be necessary for you and me to use the jimmy before we get possession of those gems. Do you think we shall find them on the pavement? Hardly! They are hidden in one of these hundreds of palaces, and they will not be given up for the asking.”

“I suppose not,” I admitted reluctantly. “All the same, it has an ugly sound, the word criminal.”

“I warned you that this was no task for the dilettante.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” I replied hastily. “But I am going to show you that I can be a bit unscrupulous, as well as you, on occasions.”

“That’s better,” replied he, grinning at me. “Now about that book. As I said, it mentions da Sestos and his clock. But the Inquisition of Venice, I need not remind you, concerned itself not so much with the religious conscience of the individual as with affairs of the state. It is da Sestos, the criminal, who comes into this book; and only incidentally, da Sestos, the atheist, who made a clock that was inhabited by an evil spirit.”

“And the story of Sanudo is substantiated?”

“Fairly well. And in this book we learn what became of the clock after his death. It was forfeited by the Inquisition as a thing unclean. It was hidden away in the Ducal Palace for nearly two hundred years.”

“And afterward?”

“In a long foot-note the editor of the Annals tells us that at the entry of Napoleon it was looted by a captain of artillery, who afterward sold it to a dealer in Paris. It remained in the shop of the dealer for nearly half a century, when a learned antiquarian, who was writing an elaborate monograph on automaton clocks, came across it. This antiquarian, our editor tells us, bought the clock and studied it. How it came into the possession of the uncle of the present Duke da Sestos is not known. This uncle, as the duke himself told us the other day, lived in Paris. He recognized the timepiece as that made by his remote ancestor nearly four hundred years ago.”

“Recognized it? But how?”

“Nothing could be easier. In the first place, the name of the maker is on every clock. Then he may have been familiar with the monograph of the antiquarian. Or the antiquarian may himself have brought the clock to the attention of the duke. It is even possible that, as a Venetian, he may have read the Diary of Sanudo. At any rate, he sent the clock back to Venice.”

“Did he guess the significance of the automata, do you suppose?”

“It seems probable that he did,” replied St. Hilary thoughtfully. “Otherwise, why should the clock have been hidden in the secret chamber? It is likely that he told the father of old Luigi to guard it carefully.”

“And does the editor himself hint at the automata’s having any significance?” I asked, alarmed.

“Luckily not. He dismisses the whole subject as a myth, a mere superstition of the middle ages.”

“All the same,” I said, “if we could get hold of a copy of that monograph we might have a hint or two.”

“Very true,” quietly answered the dealer. “That is why you are going to St. Petersburg. The monograph is in the Imperial Library. There is only one copy known to be extant, our editor assures me. Useful man, our editor.”

“Very,” and I laughed shortly. “But what if the duke gets wind of this precious legend, and feels curious enough to try his hand at solving the riddle? If, for instance, he asks Mrs. Gordon for his clock again, we shall have a rival contestant for honors in mysteries.”

“That is why we have no time to lose. Ah, the shutters of the clock-maker are down. At last we can examine your clock, and we shall be lucky if he hasn’t ruined it,” grumbled St. Hilary. He lifted the awning of the Arcade, and we stepped out into the glare of the Piazza.

Marruchi met me with apologies. No; he had not attempted to repair the clock. He had not even taken it to pieces. The mechanism was too intricate. In fact, he knew of but one clock-maker in the world to whom it might safely be entrusted.

“And he lives at Amsterdam,” concluded St. Hilary complacently. “And now, perhaps, you understand, Hume, why it is necessary for one of us to go to Amsterdam?”

I hesitated. I remembered how he had attempted to obtain possession of the clock by subterfuge. How could I be sure that his sending me off to St. Petersburg was not a ruse to get me conveniently out of the way? Meanwhile he would have the clock, and when he had mastered its secret, he could return it to me with the assurance that it was but a myth after all. “Why should I not go to Amsterdam, and you to St. Petersburg?” That was the question that I might very pertinently have asked him. But I did not. I had promised to trust him. I trusted him now.

“Can you catch the afternoon express, Hume? It leaves at three-thirty and makes connections for St. Petersburg.”

“I suppose so,” I admitted reluctantly, “though I hardly relish our rushing off to the ends of the earth in this way.”

“Oh, you of little faith,” he cried testily. “If you are really going into this affair heart and soul with me, you will need a great deal more patience than a journey to St. Petersburg involves. As to my going to Amsterdam, you heard Marruchi say there is just one clock-maker in the world clever enough to take our clock to pieces and put it together again without bungling.”

“Very well,” I assented soberly, and led the way to the Bureau Internationale des Wagon-lits to secure my sleeping-berth. But I must say St. Hilary’s characterization of me was justified. I had faith enough to be curious about the clock here in Venice. But long and tedious journeys to Amsterdam and St. Petersburg–that was quite another matter.