“And the object of that?”
“It was absolutely necessary that we should be certain that the secret of the clock, provided it has a secret, is told by the automata, and that this secret was not hidden in its works. Now, at least, we know what not to look for.”
“The automata themselves, then, hold the secret?”
“So far as we can tell at present. The fact is, I have heard only two of the hours strike.”
“And were the automata of the hours that you saw in working order?”
“One of them at least was, though, I confess, the result was slightly disappointing. However, I certainly did not expect the secret of the clock to be on the surface.”
We walked up the quay in silence. Suddenly, as we were crossing a bridge, St. Hilary seized my arm, his familiar gesture always for silence and caution. He looked over the parapet. Half a dozen black gondolas, swaying in the wind, were tied to rings in the wall. In one of them sat a man. A piece of tarpaulin protected him from the rain. As we looked at him he struck a match to light his pipe, and I saw his face.
“Did you ever happen to see that gondolier before?” demanded St. Hilary as we walked on.
“Never, so far as I know,” I answered idly, peering through the rain for the landmark of Palazzo Frollo, two ridiculously small marble lions on the rail of the balcony of the second story.
“Hum, then perhaps I was mistaken. By the way, I met the duke on the Riva as I was going to the station to meet you.”