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.

104It 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.

105At 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 106tone 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 107that 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 108an 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 m............