St. Hilary had given me a letter of introduction to the director of the
Imperial Library. Heaven knows where he had met him, but he seemed to
know half the celebrities in Europe. I presented it in person. I have
always found it useful to be referred–if one is to be referred at
all–downward, rather than upward. One is more apt to strike a higher
level of officialdom, and that means a more intelligent and enthusiastic
service. In this case I was not referred downward at all. The director
himself made inquiries for the precious volume. He returned in half an
hour with apologies. The book was in use. To-morrow, no doubt, it would
be at my disposal.
The mere fact that the volume was in use made me uneasy. Automaton
clocks are not a particularly popular subject. At once I thought of the
duke. Was it possible that already he had seen the book St. Hilary had
just been speaking to me about? That seemed unlikely. But the next
morning, when I was crossing the Dworzowy Bridge, once more on my way to
the library, I met him face to face.
It is difficult to say who was the more surprised. Though my curiosity
was unbounded to know if he were the person who had been studying up
automaton clocks yesterday, I should have passed without speaking. But
he advanced to me with open palm, and greeted me with unnecessary
cordiality in French.
“And what brings Mr. Hume to St. Petersburg?”
I murmured something about studies in the Imperial Library.
At that he looked even more startled than when he first saw me:
“I, too, have been in the Imperial Library,” he cried. “I have been
reading a rare book there–one of the rarest in the world.”
“Indeed! The book I wish to consult is also one of the rarest in the
world.”
It was a foolish hint, but I could not forbear the pleasure of giving
it. Already I suspected that the duke was on the trail of the casket.
Instead of being alarmed or annoyed, it gave me the keenest delight.
Brain against brain. Wit against wit. Courage against courage. I could
have asked nothing more to my liking. For instinctively I had felt the
mettle of my foe and measured the chances of my rival for Jacqueline’s
heart.
At this bold challenge–it was nothing less–he started perceptibly. It
was impossible to doubt further. But in an instant the mask had fallen
over his face. He bowed with mock respect.
“Ah, Mr. Hume is a scholar?” he asked mockingly. “For me, I find the
streets–its life and pleasures and peoples–more instructive than any
books. Especially here in this strange, frozen north. Is there not an
English poet who has said that the proper study of mankind is man? If he
had said woman, he would have spoken the absolute truth. Yes, a
beautiful woman is the apotheosis of fascination and interest for the
man of fashion and heart. Leave the dull books for the priests and the
dotards, my friend.”
I had nothing to say to this essentially Italian summing up of the
interests of life. We walked on a few steps in silence. We had crossed
the bridge now. He took my arm.
“Yes, yes,” he continued, “woman is the proper study of mankind. But
when one meets a woman as lovely as the exquisite Miss Quintard–ah,
knowing her, one knows all there is for one in life, is it not so?” and
he pinched my arm familiarly.
I withdrew my arm angrily. I resented his tone and his reference to
Jacqueline. But I said nothing, only walked faster toward the Library.
“I have met many beautiful women in my life, but now I know there are no
more worth seeing.”
“And did you fathom the lady’s charms so quickly–in the one short hour
at the Palazzo?” I asked, a little spitefully, I am afraid.
“Fathom? Certainly not. But the vivid impressions of the hour may be
deepened by the careful and delightful study of a week.”
I stood quite still.
“Of a week?” I stammered.
“Of a week, my friend,” he cried, enjoying his triumph. “For you must
know that I have seen much of the fascinating Mrs. Gordon and her
adorable niece at Bellagio. I happen to have a villa there.”
At Bellagio! I drew in a deep breath, and it seemed to stab me. I had
been wrapped up in the vain pursuit of a shadow, while that magnificent
brute at my side, twirling his mustache up into his eyes, had been in
the very presence of the goddess. I could not speak. I hope it was not
jealousy that gnawed at my heart. Indeed, it was not jealousy at all, I
think. It was rather fear–fear for my dear Jacqueline. Not simply that
she was to be won from me–had already been won from me, perhaps. If one
whom I respected had gained her love, I do not think I should have cried
out. But this Duke da Sestos! I trembled for her happiness. I knew that
Jacqueline’s aunt was the duke’s ally. And Jacqueline herself? Women are
at once so subtle and so dense. I have seen the noblest of them deceived
by a charming manner–the cleverest wedded to a villain or a fool.
We reached the Imperial Library. The clock on a neighboring tower was
striking ten when the doors of the Library opened and the director came
out. I raised my hat. He returned my greeting courteously, and informed
me that the book I wished was at last at my disposal. Unfortunately he
mentioned it by name.
“And what interest has Mr. Hume in automaton clocks?” demanded the duke,
when the director had turned his back.
I shrugged my shoulders, and bade him good afternoon.
“Mr. Hume, a moment, if you please.”
I turned.
“Your hotel is the de l’Europe, I believe?”
“But unfortunately I am rarely at home,” I said ungraciously.
“I am disappointed. We might have spent an agreeable hour together in
this barbarous capital. Au revoir.”
I bowed, and went swiftly up the steps. Again he called me.
“By the way, Mrs. Gordon tells me, Mr. Hume, that she has entrusted the
old clock to you.”
“That is quite true.”
He looked at me keenly.
“Ah, then, now I understand your interest in automaton clocks. Your
interest awakens mine. I myself am anxious to see the clock again. When
will you be in Venice?”
“In a month or two,” I answered airily.
“A month or two, my dear friend!” he expostulated. “I must see my clock
before that. I am thinking of having it repaired for Mrs. Gordon.”
He emphasized the “my.”
“I have thought of the same thing,” I said evasively.
“But, Mr. Hume, I beg you to understand that it is with Mrs. Gordon’s
permission that I do so. Have you asked it?”
“Not yet,” I replied coolly, going up a couple of steps.
His face darkened.
“Then, since I have Mrs. Gordon’s permission, will you kindly write an
order to your servant that he give it me on my return to Venice?”
“Unfortunately, that is impossible. You see, I have forestalled you. I
have sent it to be repaired.”
He stood a moment, twisting his mustache up into his eyes. Then, to my
astonishment, he leaped up the steps, two at a time.
“Since, Mr. Hume,” again he took my arm and almost forced me down the
steps, “you question my word, I will telegraph to Mrs. Gordon and show
you her answer. When I receive that answer, I shall come to your hotel
and insist that you give me both the name of the maker to whom you have
sent the clock and a written order to him that he deliver it to me. If
you refuse, I shall be compelled to call in the police, and I am not
unknown here in St. Petersburg.”
“I am afraid I shall find a means to evade your police, Duke da Sestos,”
I said, laughing.
A moment he looked at me, puzzled, then, seeing my contempt for his
threat, laughed also.
“La, la, it is true. I am a great fool. I might know that to threaten
Mr. Hume is not the way to gain one’s ends. Look, I threaten, I demand
no longer. I beg. I throw myself on Mr. Hume’s mercy. I confess I am
most anxious to see the clock. I take it for granted that Mr. Hume has
had reasons for my not seeing it. But come, we will play fair. You have
the clock, it is true. But, after all, I have the right to it. Let us
grant, then, that we stand on even ground. Our rights to it are
equal–your right, that of possession; mine, the moral and legal right.
We will go together to the telegraph bureau. We will each of us
telegraph to Mrs. Gordon for permission. She shall decide. Come, is that
not sportsmanlike?”
“Hardly,” I replied, laughing again. “The result would be too much a
matter of certainty–for you.”
“Ah, you are determined to be unfair,” he cried angrily.
I hesitated a moment. Then I seized his arm.
“Come along, then,” I said, still laughing, “we will go to your
telegraph bureau.”
It seemed the only way to get rid of him; but, I may say, I had no
intention of abiding by the decision of Mrs. Gordon.
We entered the bureau. We stood at the desk, and each seized pen and
paper. But before the duke had written a line, he had recognized an
acquaintance in the street. I must excuse him one moment, and would I
await his return so that we might compare our telegrams and avoid any
misunderstanding?
I waited ten minutes. Then, my telegram in my hand, I stepped outside
the bureau and looked up and down the street. He was not in sight. I
waited ten minutes more. Still the duke did not return. My patience was
exhausted. I went back to the Library. But when I called for my book, to
my extreme astonishment, it was again in use. It had, declared the
attendant ungraciously, been reserved for me, but they could not hold it
all the morning.
So this Italian duke had tricked me. The telegram was simply a ruse, a
clumsy and senseless ruse, if you will, but I had been guileless enough
to let it work. But it would not avail him long. Granted that he had
delayed my seeing the book, all I had to do was to return in the
afternoon. I walked back to my hotel for breakfast.
There the second surprise of the day awaited me. A telegram from
Jacqueline had been sent to me to Venice, and retelegraphed to me at St.
Petersburg by my housekeeper. It was sufficiently puzzling:
“_Please be sure to accept aunt’s invitation for Friday. I am anxious to
see you–most anxious. I shall expect you Friday–absolutely._”
I held it in my hand, astonished and perplexed. An invitation had been
sent to me by Mrs. Gordon to visit her at Bellagio; I was to come on
Friday; Jacqueline especially wished to see me. But why? Why should she
expect me “absolutely”? Was it possible she had told Mrs. Gordon of my
love for her? Dare I put the most favorable meaning into the message? At
any rate, if I were to arrive at Bellagio on Friday, I must leave that
afternoon. Well, after my breakfast, I could return to the Library, have
a look at the monograph on clocks, and still catch the train.
But even as I was hurrying to the restaurant, I paused. Was this another
of the duke’s tricks, a more elaborate one? A moment’s thought showed
that this was most unlikely. I hurried through my meal, and taking a
drosky returned to the Library, determined to wait there until I had
seen my book.
This time, at any rate, the book was not in use, and in five minutes I
had it in my hands.
I turned to consult the index. Apparently there was no index. I went
through the volume carefully to find mention of the da Sestos clock, and
presently I discovered that fourteen pages of the volume had been
completely torn out.
I stared down at the mutilated book. So at last the duke’s game was
revealed in its beautiful and simple entirety. He must have hurried back
to the Library when he left me in the telegraph office. He, of course,
had torn out the leaves. Score two for the duke. The game was becoming
interesting.
When I called the attention of the librarian to the torn pages, he
summoned the assistant who had given out the book. Did the assistant
know that these fourteen pages were missing? The young man replied that
he had noticed that yesterday. He had intended to speak to his chief
about it. When asked if he could describe the reader, he replied that he
could not. Pressed still further, however, he thought he remembered that
the reader of the book had been an old man and had brown eyes. It was
useless to say any more. It was evident that the assistant had been
bribed and was lying. I might have given the librarian a hint or two as
to what had become of those fourteen pages, but I wished to keep the
police out of our game. Before long, perhaps, I might have to trust to
the duke’s generosity. In the meanwhile, I would go to Bellagio to learn
why Jacqueline wished to see me so urgently.