“That’s settled then. And now let us have a look at your clock.”
“Marruchi, the clock-maker on the Piazza, has it. I left it with him to see if it could be repaired.”
He settled himself in the armchair, and pulled a rug over his knees.
“Marruchi, my boy, will be able to do nothing with it. It is a job above his caliber. And now to sleep, to sleep. You and I have a long journey ahead of us to-morrow.”
“A journey? Where?”
“I shall be off to Amsterdam; you, to St. Petersburg. Good night.”
“St. Petersburg?” I demanded stormily. “St. Petersburg! Why the devil St. Petersburg?”
But St. Hilary was already asleep–or pretended to be.
CHAPTER IX
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.