St. Hilary did not bungle; and the cloak served admirably. The duke was no mean antagonist. As I placed my knee on his spine and twisted his arms back, while St. Hilary adjusted the bonds and the gag, I made up my mind that I should have to train down a little.

“And now?” I whispered, when we had trussed him up, for all the world like a fat fowl. It seemed to me rather useless and silly, all this fuss, and yet, I confess, I found it exciting.

St. Hilary shook his head for silence. One of the duke’s cigarettes drooping at the corner of his mouth, he deliberately went through da Sestos’s pockets. As I watched him, I shook with silent laughter. St. Hilary played his part with such boyish gusto. They made a picture, those two: the duke straining frantically at his bonds; St. Hilary, deft and cool, quite to the manner born, tapping this pocket and that, and emptying the contents of each in a little heap on the table–money, keys, letters. When he had glanced through the last, he conscientiously returned each article to its respective pocket. Except the keys and the copy of a telegram. The keys he calmly transferred to his own pocket; the telegram he handed to me. I read it curiously:

“Please tell Mr. Hume that he is by all means to give you the clock at once.”

It was signed by Mrs. Gordon, and was directed to the duke. I looked at it thoughtfully.

“Supposing, St. Hilary, that while reading this telegram the candle’s flame happened to catch it. Naturally, I should let it go–like this,” I whispered, and stamped on the burning paper.

“Wise young man,” commented St. Hilary. “And now I am going to return the call of the duke. We are going to play our little game of tit for tat.”

He put on his cloak, then, drawing its folds about him, he beckoned me out into the sala.

“Yes, I am off to our comedian’s apartment. We must have those fourteen pages, if possible. Do you keep your eye on the duke there until four o’clock. Then let yourself down-stairs softly, very softly. Return noisily, very noisily. Imagine you have been dining, as the poet says, not wisely but too well. You will then be horrified to discover that our lord duke is blindfolded, strapped, and gagged. You release him with cries of concern. You are all sympathy. We have done our work skilfully enough so that he can not know we are the aggressors. It is true, he may guess. I shall return here to-morrow morning, probably not before noon. We shall need a few hours’ sleep. I hope I shall bring those fourteen pages with me, then we can amuse ourselves with our clock.”clock.”

“But our beast of prey in there. Though he can not see or move, don’t forget he can hear. Keeping still until four o’clock in the morning does not appeal to me in the least. Why not shut him up in my coat-closet until it is time to release him?”

“Excellent.”

We entered my room again, and, in spite of his struggles, stood the duke upright in the narrow closet. Then, leaving him standing there like a mummy, we turned the key on him and left him to his reflections.

“Now I’m off,” whispered St. Hilary.

When he had closed the door behind him, I took the seat in front of the clock. I waited for the clock to strike the hour of two.

The silver bell struck the three-quarter-hour. The minutes dragged on. As I sat there, staring at the clock, my eyes on its face, it seemed a thing sinister, half alive. Its yellow face took on a look that was half human. It made faces at me. It mocked me.

And then at last a spring whirred. The little silver bells, sweet as an elfin chime in fairyland, shocked me into rigid attention. It was two o’clock. I watched the doors eagerly.

At first I thought none of the twelve doors had opened. I forgot for the moment that the door of the second hour was at the side of the clock. I moved the candle to the side. Yes, the door was wide open. I thrust the rays of the candle at the little doorway, and I saw–what?

A circular platform was being pushed slowly forward. On this platform was a tiny throne in silver. At the foot of this throne a bronze figure crouched abjectly. Another figure stood upright at the base of the throne. In his two hands the upright figure clutched a sword. As the clock struck twice, the sword was raised high above his head, with a droll, mechanical jerk. It descended twice on the neck of the crouching figure. Then, very slowly, the platform retreated into the doorway. The door closed.

That was all. A dollar cuckoo clock is hardly less impressive or more ridiculous. A figure hacks with a sword at a figure complacently kneeling to receive the blow–that was all! But was it all? Was there not, behind the little figure, a background of bronze, a drop-curtain, so to speak? And on the background was there not something in bas-relief? I felt quite sure that there was, though the two automata must be the principal actors in the foolish scene. I jotted down as much as I could remember, and waited for three o’clock to strike.

But if the previous hour was disappointing, this was maddeningly so. This time I had the two lighted candles standing at the third door, that not a fraction of a second might be wasted.

Again the whirr of the spring and the chime of bells. The third door opened slowly. The circular platform was pushed out again. A single figure this time. I watched it, breathless, and it did–nothing. It stood there motionless. But at the second glance I saw that it was designedly motionless. It was not an automaton. It was simply a piece of bronze cast in the shape of an old man in a flowing robe. The Doge’s cap was on his head. His right arm was lifted as if gesticulating. And as the hours struck, there appeared from the rear of the platform, in quick succession, tiny round disks. They sprang into line from within one after the other. Before the door closed I counted ten of them. They stood in a row, facing the immovable figure. There was again a bronze plate at the back. At first I thought it was ornamented with a geometrical design. But as I looked at it more closely, I saw that it was a gate. This scene was more tantalizing than the last. When the clock had been in perfect repair the ten disks must have been the basis for ten automata, much after the fashion of the Noah’s Ark men of our childhood. Naturally, the ten figures suggested the Council of Ten, and the single figure the Doge. But one would need some imagination to guess their significance. The clock might have a wonderful secret to tell, but it would take a genius or extraordinary luck to puzzle it out.

The clock ticked complacently. It seemed to jeer at me with its clacking rhythm. I lighted one of the duke’s excellent cigarettes. My nerves had been spurred to an ecstasy of excitement. I had expected wonderful things to happen. Nothing had happened. Nothing, I said to myself, was going to happen. I was very sleepy. The irritating tick-tock sounded far away. I nodded in my chair.

The whirr of the spring and the silver chime aroused me. I leaned forward languidly, cynically, rubbing my eyes. The first of the six doors in front opened. This time no automaton appeared. In the background I made out some monster, a well-curb, and a tree. The door closed slowly. I laughed aloud. St. Hilary and myself had been mad to dream that after almost five centuries the clock could tell its secret, if indeed it had a secret to tell.

I yawned, blew out the candles, put on my overcoat and hat, and slipped down-stairs. It was time to let the duke out of his box.