“English, pardon me,” corrected St. Hilary readily, and he pinched my arm. “We leave Venice for London in an hour or so. This is the last and most curious dial we expect to see.”
What a polished and delightful liar the dealer in antiquities was! But a cautious one withal. For aught we knew, we might be prowling about these premises with a jimmy and dark lantern before many more moons, and it might be convenient to prove an alibi.
I had expected the priest to lead us to an obscure corner of the garden. To my surprise and disappointment he took us directly to the house. Of what use could a dial be under a roof? The good fathers of the seminary had taken it from the garden, in all likelihood, and placed it within doors as an interesting curiosity for their pupils to gape at.
“Perhaps you know, gentlemen,” said the priest, as he led the way up a broad and dreary stairway, devoid of ornament, but scrupulously clean, “that this was once the house of the Venetian astrologer, Jacopo Bembo. Here, some two hundred years ago, came the flower of the Venetian aristocracy. They came to consult him–one for a love philter; another for a talisman against the plague; another, perhaps, for a deadly potion to still the beating of a rival’s heart. Some strange and dark scenes, I suspect, have taken place in the laboratory of Messer Bembo. And this is it.”
We had ascended to the third story. He threw open the door of a large room. There were some maps on the wall, desks, and chairs. It was evidently used now as a school-room.
“But the dial?” I cried impatiently.
“Oh, the dial is on the roof. Have you ever heard of a dial being in so strange a place before?”
“It is precisely that,” I cried joyously, “that makes it so unique in interest for us.”
“And this dial on the roof will make our collection of curious dials quite complete,” added St. Hilary gravely.
We walked a few steps down the echoing landing. The worthy padre opened a door. A narrow wooden stairway led to the roof.