“Be sure of this,” replied the dealer complacently, “the riddle that man has been ingenious enough to devise, man is ingenious enough to solve.”
“Granting always that it is a consistent riddle.”
“And I have enough faith in my goldsmith to believe that,” said St. Hilary obstinately. “But it is three minutes to one. The clock is about to strike.”
We watched the first of the doors open, the circular platform pushed out. A headless figure stood motionless, its right hand resting on a lion’s head. At the stroke of the hour, the beast lifted its paw and dropped it again. The headless figure wiggled its left hand. Then the platform solemnly retreated, and the door was noiselessly shut.
“Doesn’t that simply cap the climax for exquisite inanity?” I cried.
“It is silly enough to bear out my theory. The raising of that lion’s paw, the ludicrous wiggling of the solemn figure’s hand, can not possibly have any meaning.”
“Why are you so sure of that?”
“Because the gestures were made but once. But you observed the background?”
“It was simply the Ducal Palace,” I said indifferently, “which of itself may mean much or nothing.”
“Precisely. It is the figure and the lion that give the scene its vital touch. Any schoolboy could have recognized them. They stand, of course, for San Marco, the patron saint of Venice, and his lion. And now, let us get to work. Our first step must be to make ourselves familiar with every detail of each scene of the hours.”