“Then,” I said with a sigh of relief, “St. Hilary played fair?”
“So far as I know,” replied the duke indifferently. “But I hear him coming up the stairs. You can ask him for yourself.”
The door burst open, and St. Hilary rushed in. A bandage stained with blood and dirt was wrapped about his head. He was still in my ulster and golf cap. He looked as if he had spent a few bad quarters of an hour.
“You are just in time, St. Hilary,” I cried, “to see the casket opened.”
“What! You have beaten him after all!” He glared at the duke.
“With neatness and despatch,” generously complimented the duke.
St. Hilary did not answer. He stood looking down at the casket, holding his watch in his hand. It was now six-thirty. The clock on the Piazza told the half-hour.
“Did you set the mechanism at six thirty-five precisely?” I asked anxiously.
“At six thirty-five precisely,” answered the duke, frowning too in anxiety.
“Tut, tut! Do you expect the accuracy of a watch of the twentieth century in this mechanism?” replied St. Hilary irritably. “It may be several minutes before the casket opens.”