“But why did she not recognize you sooner?”
“Because I happen to have a figure that is not unlike her swain’s, I suppose. As to my voice, have I not heard many times the squeak of the noble Conti, and am I not a mimic on occasions?”
“But surely I do not resemble the other noble Conti?”
“In that bulging robe, with that beard and mask, you might be equally an angel of light or the very devil himself. I am glad you had wit enough not to speak.”
“And now?” I asked impatiently.
“After we have slipped the bolt of that little gate in the garden wall over there, we will make our way up the tower and hide until the guests have gone. We dare not trust ourselves in the palace again after our escapade. That gate opens on the side street. We shall be glad to avail ourselves of it later.”
We were about to leave the arbor when a Punchinello strolled down the garden path, a poodle at his heels. He was humming a French song, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. He passed by a pergola of grapevines without once turning in our direction. Recognizing the dog, I guessed the identity of the clown. It was the man who had been tampering with Pietro’s honesty a night or two before. His presence at the palace was alarming, but I said no word to St. Hilary of my fears. Spies or no spies, I was going to find that casket to-night!
When the garden was again deserted I drew the bolts of the gate, then followed St. Hilary up the steps of the tower. All the guests were at supper, and we met no one.
At the summit of the tower the sides were wide open to the sky. A low parapet ran around the sides. The roof rose to an apex some ten or twelve feet above. Two broad timbers, just out of reach, stretched across the roof. Rusty rings were still embedded in them. In former days this had been a bell-tower. I pointed out the timbers to St. Hilary.
“There is our hiding-place if any one comes. Could you reach those beams if I gave you a back?”