“Nothing could be easier. In the first place, the name of the maker is on every clock. Then he may have been familiar with the monograph of the antiquarian. Or the antiquarian may himself have brought the clock to the attention of the duke. It is even possible that, as a Venetian, he may have read the Diary of Sanudo. At any rate, he sent the clock back to Venice.”
“Did he guess the significance of the automata, do you suppose?”
“It seems probable that he did,” replied St. Hilary thoughtfully. “Otherwise, why should the clock have been hidden in the secret chamber? It is likely that he told the father of old Luigi to guard it carefully.”
“And does the editor himself hint at the automata’s having any significance?” I asked, alarmed.
“Luckily not. He dismisses the whole subject as a myth, a mere superstition of the middle ages.”
“All the same,” I said, “if we could get hold of a copy of that monograph we might have a hint or two.”
“Very true,” quietly answered the dealer. “That is why you are going to St. Petersburg. The monograph is in the Imperial Library. There is only one copy known to be extant, our editor assures me. Useful man, our editor.”
“Very,” and I laughed shortly. “But what if the duke gets wind of this precious legend, and feels curious enough to try his hand at solving the riddle? If, for instance, he asks Mrs. Gordon for his clock again, we shall have a rival contestant for honors in mysteries.”
“That is why we have no time to lose. Ah, the shutters of the clock-maker are down. At last we can examine your clock, and we shall be lucky if he hasn’t ruined it,” grumbled St. Hilary. He lifted the awning of the Arcade, and we stepped out into the glare of the Piazza.
Marruchi met me with apologies. No; he had not attempted to repair the clock. He had not even taken it to pieces. The mechanism was too intricate. In fact, he knew of but one clock-maker in the world to whom it might safely be entrusted.