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diff --git a/old/54888-0.txt b/old/54888-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 83a4b18..0000000 --- a/old/54888-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7833 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Clock and the Key, by Arthur Henry Vesey - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Clock and the Key - -Author: Arthur Henry Vesey - -Release Date: June 11, 2017 [EBook #54888] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CLOCK AND THE KEY *** - - - - -Produced by KD Weeks and the Online Distributed Proofreading -Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from -images generously made available by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Transcriber’s Note: - -This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects. -Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_. - -Footnotes have been moved to follow the paragraphs in which they are -referenced. - -A few minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. -Please see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details -regarding the handling of any textual issues encountered during its -preparation. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - THE CLOCK AND THE KEY - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - THE CLOCK AND - THE KEY - - - - - BY - - ARTHUR HENRY VESEY - - AUTHOR OF “A CHEQUE FOR THREE THOUSAND” - “A PEDIGREE IN PAWN,” ETC. - - - - -[Illustration: colophon] - - - - - NEW YORK - D. APPLETON AND COMPANY - 1905 - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY - D. APPLETON AND COMPANY - - _Published February, 1905_ - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TO - =M. B. L.= - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - THE CLOCK AND THE KEY - - - ------- - - - - - CHAPTER I - - -Our gondola, far out on the lagoon, hardly moved. But neither Jacqueline -nor I, under the red and white striped awning, cared much, and Pietro -even dared to light a cigarette. - -Silver-gray dome, campanile, and spire gleamed through the golden haze -that hung over the enchanted city. A great stillness was over all–only -the ripple of Pietro’s lazy oar, and faintly, very faintly, bells -chiming. - -“I have dreamed of it,” said Jacqueline. “Only the dreams were such -futile things compared with the reality. I close my eyes. I open them -quickly. I am afraid it will all be blown away, vanish in a single -moment. But there it is, your dear, dear Venice–the green garden away up -there; the white Riva, basking in the sunlight; the rosy palace; and the -red and orange sails, drifting slowly along. We shall return to the -Piazza presently, and St. Mark’s will be there, and the pigeons, and the -white palaces. Oh, there is not a false note to destroy the perfect -charm of Venice, not one.” - -I aroused myself. While Jacqueline had been intoxicated with the beauty -of Venice, I had been intoxicated with the beauty of Jacqueline. I must -say something, and something prosaic, or I should be forgetting myself. - -“Oh, favored of the gods,” I murmured, “to be dead to unpleasant sights -and sounds. And yet, not in Paradise, not even in this Paradise, are -they quite shut out. Look, there is a penny steamer making its blatant -way from the Molo to the Giudecca. And that far-off rumble is the -express crossing the long bridge from Mestre. And, whew, that’s the -twelve-o’clock whistle at the Arsenal. There you have three notes of -progress and civilization in this city of dead dreams and dead hopes.” - -Jacqueline turned in her seat and looked at me curiously. - -“My dear Richard, will you answer me one question?” - -“Gladly, if it is not too difficult. But don’t forget, Jacqueline, -Venice is not exactly an intellectual center.” - -“Then tell me, please, why it is that when you were in New York, hardly -two months ago, you talked so charmingly of your Venetian skies and -still lagoons that you quite made me long for them. But now, when I am -at last under one of your wonderful skies and on your wonderful lagoon, -instead of helping me to love it all, and sympathizing with me, you -insist on the horrible things that clash–things I would so gladly forget -for the happy moment.” - -“Because,” I answered gravely, “I must not allow myself to forget that -one happy moment is not a lifetime.” - -“Really, I don’t understand you.“ - -She looked at me frankly–too frankly–that was the trouble. I hesitated. -In spite of the flimsy excuses her aunt had suspiciously erected, I had -brought Jacqueline alone with me here to tell her why I must not allow -myself to love her; and, I may add, to hear her laugh to delicious scorn -my reasons. And yet I hesitated. Sometimes I felt she cared for me. But -if I answered her question truthfully, I risked a cruel awakening. - -“Do you know how long I have been living in Venice?” I asked presently, -with apparent irrelevance. - -“Three years, is it not?” - -“That is a long time to be dreaming and loafing, isn’t it?” - -“Yes.” Her eyes looked gravely out on the lagoon. - -“And it seems to you hardly a manly, strenuous life for a man of–shall -we say–thirty years of age, to spend three years rocking himself to -sleep, as it were, in a gondola?” - -“No,” she laughed nervously; “hardly a strenuous life.” - -“Such a life as that,” I persisted, “must contrast rather unfavorably -with the lives of men you know in New York, for example?” - -“I suppose one may spend one’s life well even here in Venice.” - -I laughed rather bitterly. - -“One gets up at ten,” I murmured. “One has coffee in bed, and dawdles -over the papers. A gentle, gentle walk till twelve–to the garden, -perhaps–oh, you can walk miles in Venice, though most tourists think -not. At twelve, breakfast at Florian’s on the Piazza. A long smoke, -perhaps a row to the Lido and a swim, if it is summer. At five another -long smoke and incidentally a long drink on the Piazza again, and the -band. At seven, dinner at the Grundewald, a momentous affair, when one -hesitates ten minutes over the menu. Then another long smoke out in the -lagoon, under the stars, with the lights of Venice in the distance, and -in the distance, too, the herd of tourists, splitting their gloves in -ecstasy over the efforts of the tenor robusto under the balconies of the -Grand Hotel. And then, wicked, dreamless slumber. The next morning, the -same thing over again.” - -Jacqueline gasped. She looked at me with a curious intentness, and I was -uneasy under her gaze. I knew she was noting quite ruthlessly that I was -getting fat. - -“It is difficult to keep quite fit in Venice,” I pleaded. - -“And you really have done that for three years,” she said at last, -almost in admiration. It was as if I were a strange animal doing clever -tricks. - -“For three years, barring flights to New York and London in January and -February, and a few weeks in the Tyrol during July and August,” I -answered steadily. - -“And you really like it?” she asked, still wonderingly. - -“I can never imagine myself liking it again. I have despised myself -since last Tuesday.” - -“Since last Tuesday!” she echoed, and then blushed. It was on Tuesday -that Jacqueline and her aunt had arrived in Venice. “But you are not -answering my first question.” - -“I am answering it in a roundabout way,” I replied dreamily. Then quite -abruptly, “You didn’t know me until I was at Oxford, did you?” - -“No.” - -“I was sent to Eton when I was a sickly, timid little chap of fourteen. -I had had a lonely life of it in New York. My mother was so afraid I -should have a good time like other boys, and shout and play and talk -with an American accent, that she chained me to a priggish English -tutor, who took me for solemn walks in the park for recreation. I was -hardly any better off than the pale-faced little idiots you see marching -about Rome and Palermo two by two, dressed up in ridiculous uniforms of -broadcloth, and carrying canes–not so well off, for there are many of -them, and only one slovenly priest. But my keeper had me all to himself. -Think of it, I never held a baseball in my little fist. Imagine that -kind of a youngster set down in the midst of half a thousand lusty young -English schoolboys, and an American at that.” - -“Poor little homesick boy,” she murmured. “And then?” - -“Just five years of being shunned and moping and long solitary rows on -the river, and dreams bad for a boy of my years–just a long stretch of -that sort of thing, that was my life at the public school. - -“At Oxford it was pretty much the same. I pulled through in a listless -sort of fashion and got my degree. But the habits of boyhood told now. I -found it harder than ever to get into things. I found myself more and -more the mere spectator of life–not a happy existence, nor a good -foundation for an American to begin the duties of life with.” - -“I should think not,” said Jacqueline severely. If she had pity for the -lonely little boy, she had no mercy for the man. “And so because you -idled through college and liked it, you came here to Venice to idle away -the rest of your life?” she asked with some scorn. - -“Well, it was hardly so deliberate as that,” I said patiently. “No, I -went back to America, and for the first time came face to face with my -father. At least it was the first time that he had taken the trouble to -speak to me in a heart-to-heart sort of way. You know my father well, so -I needn’t expatiate on his virtues.” - -Jacqueline smiled. But no malice hovered on her lips as on mine. -American women are supposed to demand much of their husbands and -fathers. But at least they respect the husbands and fathers who toil -that they may play. So she answered primly: - -“I have always found your father a most interesting man, I know he loves -you in his way. That you have so little ambition is the bitter -disappointment of his life. He has often spoken of you to me.” - -“Yes, yes,” I said hurriedly, “no doubt he loves me in his own fashion. -But we hardly understand each other. The morning after I landed from -England, after I had taken my degree, he called me into his office and -asked me without any preliminaries what I thought I was fit for. I told -him that I really hadn’t any idea. He thumped his great fist on his desk -and roared: ‘So far, young man, your mother has had her turn. She’s -mammied you, and made a fool of you with your English education and -English accent. Now it’s my turn. Go back to Germany. Stay there two -years and come back a chemist. I want you to help me in the factory.’ - -“I never dreamed of opposing him. I was rather relieved to get out of -his presence. So I took the check that he handed to me, and shook him -dutifully by the hand. ‘Good-by,’ he said, ‘and when I say a chemist, I -mean a good chemist. If you aren’t that, you needn’t bother to come back -at all.’ The next morning I engaged passage for Bremen.” - -“The rest I know about,” said Jacqueline looking at her watch. - -“I dare say, only I should like you to understand it from my point of -view. I went to Berlin. My name was entered on the roll of students of -the university. I drank a lot of beer, but I studied very little -chemistry. At the end of my two years’ probation, I began to think with -apprehension of my father’s parting words: ‘And a good chemist, or you -needn’t trouble to come back.’ - -“And then, one day, when I was quite at a loss what to do, I received -word that my mother had died suddenly. She left me a small fortune. - -“I dreaded more than ever to return to my father. Why should I? I began -to ask myself. Why should I? echoed my one friend. - -“This friend was a wizened, eccentric, boastful little man, but with an -undying enthusiasm for the rare and the beautiful. He spoke cunning -words to entice me: ‘Your father’s idea of a successful life is one of -work and yet more work–of tasks and habits that bind one more and more -inexorably as the years go on. This is not success at all, but the -direst failure. A life made up of habits and tasks that safely steer one -through one’s existence, minute by minute, is a life with all the -excitement and keen delight and ecstasy left out. To live such a life is -to be a machine and no man. - -“‘Come,’ he said, ‘with me to Venice. I will show you how to live. Why -should you go back to America and the hideous? There are millions of -fools to labor doggedly–to keep the world a-going–why should you be -dragged into the ranks of the slaves to the lash? There are thousands to -agonize and strive, to create the beautiful–and to fail, terribly. Why -should you be dragged into the ranks of those slaves to an ideal? There -are hundreds to make the world better. Why should you be a slave to -conscience? But there are so few to make a fine art of living. Be one of -them. Enjoy perfectly. Enjoy wisely. Life may be for you something so -rare and beautiful that the horrible and the vulgar shall not exist for -you.’ I listened to him. I came to Venice. Here I am.” - -“There is something rather fine about it all,” said Jacqueline -wistfully. “But there’s sophistry somewhere. And it seems brutally -selfish.” - -“Sophistry! Selfish! How subtle the sophistry and selfishness I alone -can tell. Dear Jacqueline, I had left one thing out of my calculations -in building this fool’s paradise.” - -“And that?” Jacqueline looked troubled. I know she pitied me. - -“I had forgotten that one may love.” - -I leaned over toward her. Regardless of Pietro, who, I knew, was -squinting through the red and white striped awning, I took her hand. -“Dear Jacqueline, do you think that it is too late for me to begin -again?” - -Jacqueline was silent. She withdrew her hand gently. I had felt it -tremble in mine. - -“Do you see now that I am answering your question?” I asked. “When I was -in New York, and knew at last that I should always love you, I had to -keep reminding myself that _this_ was my world. I had set before myself -an ideal. I must be faithful to it. So, now, when you are in Venice, I -have tried to remind myself just as strongly that you come from the -world of the penny steamboat and factory–a workaday world–a relentless -world. In that world men tear and rend one another for a name, for a -position. Each one is for himself, ruthless of others, unscrupulous -often. Each one strives madly for something that is just out of his -reach. That is the world you come from. I have reminded myself of it -over and over. But it’s no use. I can’t keep silent. I must speak. -Jacqueline, I love you.” - -She sat motionless. Her eyes looked out on the lagoon. Then she clasped -her knees, and looked at me with a curious intentness. When she did -speak, it was so slowly, so decisively that her words sounded like an -inexorable fate. - -“My dear Richard, you are an extraordinary man. You are one of the rare -specimens who hold a perfectly impossible ideal. When you fail to attain -that ideal, you frankly abandon yourself to materialism–a materialism -that smothers you. You have not even attempted to play the man. It is -incredible that you should deliberately lay yourself down to loll on a -flowery bed of ease for three years. Your very last words about my poor -world show how great a gulf is fixed between you and me. Yes, I am of -that world. I glory in it. But you sneer at the very qualities you lack. -That is so easy, and, forgive me, so weak. You call my poor world -ruthless. But often ruthlessness, yes, and unscrupulousness even, go -with strength. The man I love must have a touch of this relentlessness -you despise. Better that he be unscrupulous than weak. And as for -patience, surely to be greatly patient is to be greatly strong. But you, -my dear Dick, you area piece of bric-à-brac, you and your ideals. You -should be under a glass case. You are too _précieux_ for the struggle in -the world you shrink from. Return your love? Impossible. You have done -nothing to deserve it.” - -I could not speak. She had told me the truth. Presently she looked at -me. Then she touched my arm lightly. - -“I have hurt you,” she pleaded. - -“Well, why not?” I answered roughly. “It is the truth. But, Jacqueline, -is your answer quite final? If I plunge into this struggle–if I show you -that I too can strive and achieve things for the woman I love, if not -for myself, will you let me tell you again that I love you?” - -“Can the leopard change his spots?” she asked lightly. - -“That remains to be seen. Let me prove to you that I am not merely the -dilettante that you see on the surface. If I have not cared to succeed -before, perhaps it was because there was nothing or no one to work for. -If I show you that I really have those qualities that you demand and -think I lack, will you let me tell you again that I love you?” - -“What could you do to show that?” asked Jacqueline softly. - -“I could go back to New York to-morrow. I could join my father in -business.” - -“To New York to-morrow!” she said in dismay. - -“Yes,” I cried joyously. I had caught the note of dismay. - -“But I dare not advise you to do that. I could not take that -responsibility unless I loved you. I do not love you. But if you are not -fitted for business, you would surely fail.” - -“Would you discourage me in the attempt to do what you have condemned me -for not doing?” I asked with impatience. - -“It may be that here in Venice is a task.” - -“In Venice? Impossible.” - -“You told me the other day that you had once thought of writing up the -legends of Venice. You said they had really never been done well. Why -not attempt that?” - -“Oh, that!” I exclaimed discontentedly. - -“And why not?” - -“It must be an entire change of life–of habits and ambition and tastes. -Why not attempt something big while I am about it?” - -“My dear Richard,” insisted Jacqueline gently, “it makes no difference -how obscure one’s task is. It may be even a useless task, only one must -show patience and strength in the performance of it.” - -“Jacqueline, you are giving me hope.” - -She held up her gloved hand, smiling. - -“No, I give you no hope. Nor do I give you reason to despair. I do not -love you, now. I could not love such a one as you. Whether I could love -you if you were different–if you had ambition and stamina–I can not -tell.” - -“I shall yet make you love me, Jacqueline.” - -Our eyes met for one instant, then hers fell before my steady gaze. - -“Will you please tell the gondolier to row faster? I shall be late for -luncheon, and I have an appointment at three.” - -“Then I sha’n’t see you this afternoon?” - -“Perhaps. If you care to accompany my aunt and myself on a little -expedition.” - -“I shall be delighted. And where?” - -“To an old Venetian palace on the Grand Canal. We are to inspect it from -garret to basement. A dealer in antiquities is to take us there. He is -to buy the contents of the palace as they stand. You know my aunt, Mrs. -Gordon, is never so happy as when buying some useless piece of -bric-à-brac.” - -“Beware of the dealer in bric-à-brac here in Venice. He is a Jew, your -dealer–be sure of that.” - -“Oh, no, he is not. Aunt and I know him well. He is an American.” - -“His name?” - -“St. Hilary. He has an immense shop on Fifth Avenue.” - -“St. Hilary!” I exclaimed, “and he is here in Venice!” - -“Do you know him?” - -“Why, this St. Hilary is the man I told you of,” I answered slowly, “who -first charmed me into coming to Venice. He is responsible for my wasting -these past three years. I feel a grudge against him for that. He owes me -some reparation. Yes; I shall be interested in seeing your palace with -St. Hilary as guide. When shall I meet you?” - -“Outside Florian’s, on the Piazza at three. But you have not yet aroused -your gondolier.” - -I poked Pietro with my walking-stick. Pietro flung away his cigarette -and bent to his oar. The gondola, like a thing of life, leaped joyously -toward the Molo. - - - - - CHAPTER II - - -My rooms were in a wonderful old palace in the unfashionable quarter of -the Giudecca. From the windows, precisely opposite the Salute, I had the -finest view in Venice. That made them worth while. But the principal -charm of the location for me lay in the fact that here the ubiquitous -tripper rarely puts foot. - -At a quarter to three I boarded a penny steamer from the Fondamenta -della Croce, the broad sunny quay in front of my palace, and crossed -over to the Molo. It was the first time in three years that I had used -this humble craft. The penny steamer, be it understood, was a part of -the new _régime_. It stood for hustle and democratic haste, the -qualities in which dear Jacqueline had found me so sadly lacking. - -It gave me an immense satisfaction–this little voyage. I paid my soldo -to the shabby, uniformed conductor; I watched him uncurl the rope from -the post; I heard the steersman shout down his hollow tube the -directions to the engineer in his cubby-hole below; I seated myself -between an unshaven priest and a frowsy old woman with a basket of eels; -and it all appealed to me as fresh and interesting. - -The world was very bright that afternoon. The sky had never seemed so -blue. There was something for me to do–what, I did not know precisely -(for I had not taken Jacqueline’s suggestion very seriously), but -somewhere I should find my task, and so win Jacqueline’s complete love -and regard. In the meanwhile I was to see her. - -I leaped ashore, the first of the passengers, and walked briskly across -the Piazzetta. I saw them immediately at one of the little black tables -outside of Florian’s–St. Hilary in the center, and Mrs. Gordon and -Jacqueline on either side. St. Hilary was talking–as usual. - -He evinced no surprise at seeing me. That was not his way. He did not -even shake hands. He merely saluted me with his rattan cane, and -continued to talk–as usual. - -“Then it is the beauty of Venice that impresses you both?” he was -saying. “The beauty! I am weary of the cry. Let me tell you that there -is something infinitely more appealing to one than beauty in Venice, if -one knows precisely how to look for it and where.” - -“And what is that?” asked Mrs. Gordon, as St. Hilary paused. - -“It is its mystery,” he said impressively. - -“Its mystery!” repeated vaguely Jacqueline’s aunt. “And why its -mystery?” - -“Listen. I wish you to understand. It is night. You are quite alone–you -and your gondolier. And it is late–very late. All Venice is asleep. You -drift slowly down the Grand Canal. You hear nothing but the weird cry, -‘_stai-li oh_,’ as a gondolier approaches a corner. Above are the stars, -and in the dark waters about you are stars–a thousand of them–reflected -in a thousand rivulets. On this side and on that–dumb as the dead–are -the despoiled palaces. They suffer in silence. They are desecrated. -Their glory is departed. Some of them are lodging-houses, a -glass-factory, a post-office, a shop of cheap and false antiquities. But -Pesaro and Contarini once dwelt in them. Titian and Giorgione adorned -their walls. Within was the splendor of the Renaissance–cloth of -gold–priceless tapestries–bronzes–pictures–treasures of the East–of -Constantinople, of far-off Tartary. Everything of beauty in the whole -world found its way at some time within those barred gates. - -“But where is it now–all that treasure, that beauty? Has every temple -been ravaged? Has the vandal prowled in the very holy of holies? Are -only the bare walls left? Only the very skeletons of all that pride of -the flesh? Or, somewhere, hidden perhaps centuries ago–in some dark -cranny–in some secret chamber–is there some forgotten masterpiece–some -beauty of cunning hand, some jewel patiently waiting for one to pluck it -from its obscurity? There must be. I know there is. Do you hear? I say I -_know_. There, madame, you have for me the mystery of Venice.” - -“For you,” placidly replied Mrs. Gordon, “simply because you are a -dealer in antiquities. But why is Venice in that regard more mysterious -than other great cities?” - -I thought Mrs. Gordon right. St. Hilary’s enthusiasm was far-fetched. -The dapper little man, with his black, snapping eyes, his face the color -of parchment, and lined as the palm of one’s hand, agile as a puppet on -strings, neat as a tailor’s model, was in earnest, absurdly in earnest, -in this idle, quaint fancy of his. - -“Perhaps so,” he sighed. “Say that it is the passion of the collector -that talks and not the sober judgment of the dealer. And yet, and yet, -it is this hope that sends me to impossible places in Persia, to Burma. -Yes; it has brought me now to Venice.” - -“To Venice!” I cried, astonished. “You allow yourself to be mastered by -a whim, as vague, as visionary as this?” - -“My dear Hume, perhaps this whim, as you call it, is not vague or -visionary to me,” he replied quietly. - -“But,” I expostulated, “you have no proofs of your treasure. Why is it -not behind the glass cases in St. Mark’s yonder? Why are not your -canvases in the museums? Why are not your antiquities in the shops?” - -He looked at me with a strangely thoughtful expression. - -“What we have never had we do not miss,” he mused. “No one missed the -Venus de Milo, or the Frieze of the Parthenon, or the Kohinoor. Yet we -call them to-day three of the wonders of the world.” - -“Because there are but three of them,” I said impatiently. “I am afraid -you must look far and wide before you find the lucky fourth.” - -“No doubt,” he said indifferently, “no doubt.” And then with apparent -irrelevance, “Now one would not think that crowns were so easily lost.” - -“And have they been?” I asked curiously. - -“Only the other day eight were found at one digging, not far from -Toledo. They had been lost for a thousand years. There was a find for -you. Then the crown of the Emperor of Austria, the holy crown, the -_szenta korona_, has been lost and found no less than three times. The -last time (not half a century ago) it disappeared after the defeat of -Kossuth. Some said it had been taken to London; some, that it was broken -up and the jewels sold in Constantinople. But for a few florins a -peasant returned it as mysteriously as it had disappeared. Foolish -peasant!” - -“Mr. St. Hilary,” expostulated Mrs. Gordon severely, “you would not have -had him do otherwise?” - -“I suppose not. But upon my word, sometimes I think that one might as -well go in for big things as for little. There is the _Gnaga Boh_, the -Dragon Lord, the most perfect ruby in the world. A half-witted creature, -the widow of King Theebaw, wears it. We are great friends, that old hag -and I, and I could have stolen it from her a thousand times. Some day -perhaps she will give it to me. And that notorious Indian prince, -Gwaikor of Baroda, has half a dozen stones of price. He, too, is a crony -of mine. Nothing would be easier than to steal one of them.” - -“My dear Mr. St. Hilary,” again interrupted Mrs. Gordon, “surely you do -not contemplate burglary?” - -“That is precisely the trouble,” he complained mournfully, “I have a -conscience. But findings are certainly keepings.” - -“Ah, but it must be so difficult to find one’s findings,” said -Jacqueline quaintly. - -“Not always. Have you never heard how the Hermes of Praxiteles was -discovered?” - -She shook her head. - -“Pausanias, an old Greek historian, wrote of that statue about a -thousand years ago–how he had seen it at Olympia. There was the passage -for all the world to read. He wrote precisely what there was to dig -for–precisely where one was to dig. But did any one believe him? Not for -a thousand years. But when, after a thousand years, a party of Germans -made up their minds that perhaps there was something in the story, and -dug in Olympia as he told them, there was their Hermes waiting for them. -You see one may have information as to where lies one’s treasure -sometimes. But so few of us have faith.” - -“And have you your information as well as your abundant faith, St. -Hilary?” I inquired with mock solicitude. - -At this idle question, his heavily lidded eyes opened wide. The pupils -dilated. A challenge flashed from their blue depths. I stared at him. -But almost immediately the heavy lids drooped again. - -“All this is extremely interesting, Mr. St. Hilary,” said Jacqueline. -“But is it not rather wide from our Venetian palace? Why do we wait?” - -“Simply, my dear young lady, because the owner happens to be of a -religious turn of mind; and at this moment, I believe, is confessing his -sins in San Marco’s yonder.” - -“Who is the owner of the palace?” inquired Mrs. Gordon. “And why does he -wish to sell its contents?” - -“The owner is a duke, the Duca da Sestos, and he wishes to sell because -he is as impecunious as the rest of his tribe.” - -“A duke!” cried Mrs. Gordon. “How interesting! And what kind of a duke -is this gentleman?” - -“Of the very flower of the Italian nobility. He is a prince of good -fellows, a dashing cavalier, handsome as a young god, and twenty-six.” - -“How _very_ interesting,” repeated Mrs. Gordon, and looked at -Jacqueline. - -The look troubled me. Jacqueline herself seemed annoyed at it. She -turned to St. Hilary. - -“And have you any other treasures up your sleeve, Mr. St. Hilary?” - -“My dear young lady, shall I give you an inventory of one collection I -know about? I promise to make all your mouths water. - -“To begin with, there is a balas-ruby, known as El Spigo, or the ear of -corn. In the fifteenth century it was valued at the enormous sum of two -hundred and fifty thousand ducats. Then there is the jewel, El Lupo, the -wolf. It is one large diamond and three pearls. These two stones would -take the eye of the vulgar. But imagine a beryl, twice as big as your -thumb-nail, and on it the portrait of the pope, Clement VII, carved by -none other than the great Cellini.” - -“I will buy it at any price,” cried Jacqueline. - -“Then,” continued St. Hilary, touching his forefinger lightly, “there is -a pale-red ruby. The stone is indifferent. But it is a cameo, and the -likeness carved on it is that of Ludovico Il Moro, the Duke of Milan. -Domenico de’ Camei is the artist, and they called him de’ Camei because -he was the greatest carver of cameos in the world.” - -“That is mine,” said Mrs. Gordon, her eyes on San Marco. - -“To continue, there is a turquoise cameo, half as large as the palm of -your hand, and on it is carved the Triumph of Augustus. Thirty figures -are on that stone. There is an Isis head in malachite. The only other to -compare with it is in the Hermitage collection at St. Petersburg. Few -portraits of Beatrice d’Este exist. One of them is carved on one of my -stones, and is known as a diamond portrait. Imagine a thin plate of -diamonds, evenly polished on both sides with little facets on the edges. -The diamonds make, as it were, the glass frame of the portrait itself, -which is carved on lapis lazuli by the great Ambrosius Caradossa.” - -“That,” I interrupted, “must be mine.” - -“I must not forget two curious poison-rings–one with a sliding panel; -the other, still more dangerous, a lion with sharp claws–the claws -hollowed and communicating with a small poison-receptacle. We must be -careful how we finger that ring when we take our treasure out of the -casket. Yes; and the casket itself is worth looking at. By an ingenious -system of clockwork, the cover could not be opened in less than twelve -hours.” - -“And where, where are all these treasures?” demanded Mrs. Gordon, taking -her eyes from the cathedral for the moment. - -“My dear lady, so far as I know, they are here in Venice.” - -“In Venice!” I cried. - -“But, unfortunately, they disappeared nearly five hundred years ago.” - -There was a chorus of disappointment and reproaches. Mrs. Gordon again -impatiently turned her attention to San Marco. - -“And there is absolutely no clue to them?” demanded Jacqueline. - -“No clue, dear lady,” he murmured, spreading wide his hands. - -“But at least tell us whose the gems were?” I asked. - -“Ah, yes, that at least I can tell you. The gems belonged to Beatrice -d’Este, Duchess of Milan and wife of Ludovico Il Moro. She pawned them -to the Doge of Venice to raise money for her husband’s army.” - -“And they have absolutely disappeared?” I insisted. - -“As if they had never existed. But they do exist, and here in Venice. -Think of it! In Venice. And now, perhaps, my dear Hume, you can -understand the fascination of Venice for me.” He sighed deeply. - -“But why are you reminded of them so particularly this afternoon?” I -persisted curiously. - -“Because we are going to see the box that is said to have contained the -casket.” - -“In the palace of our duke?” asked Jacqueline’s aunt. - -St. Hilary bowed. “In the palace of our duke, madame.” - -“And how did it come there?” I asked in my turn. - -“It is said that the duke’s ancestor, a great goldsmith in Venice––” - -He ended his sentence abruptly. “Here comes our duke,” he said. - -I looked up. The dealer in antiquities had not exaggerated his charms. -He was tall. His figure was as noble as his carriage. His hand rested -lightly on his sword-hilt. His bold eyes, of a piercing blue, searched -Jacqueline’s lovely face. He had the all-conquering air of a young god. -His eyes wandered to mine. We looked steadily at each other. We measured -each other. Instinctively I distrusted him. - -St. Hilary made the introductions. “I have asked my friends to go with -me. I have not taken too great a liberty?” he said in French. - -“Not at all,” assured the duke. “I am only sorry I have kept the ladies -waiting. My launch is waiting at the Molo. Shall we go at once?” - - - - - CHAPTER III - - -The Palazzo da Sestos was for many years one of the sights of the Grand -Canal. It is not more beautiful than a score of others. Its sole -distinction lay in the fact that its faded green shutters had been -barred for something more than half a century. Other palaces are closed -for a year–for ten years. But for fifty years no butcher or baker boy -had pulled the rusty bell-rope at the little rear street–no gondola had -paused at its moss-grown steps. It had acquired something of mystery. It -was pointed out to the tourist as inevitably as the glass-factory of -Salviati. - -But to-day the wide iron gates stood open. The steam-launch swept -between the palace steps and the huge spiles, still proud in their very -decrepitude, crowned with the corno and adorned with the da Sestos coat -of arms. A servant, shaking and bobbing his white old head, stood on the -marble steps that dipped down to the water. - -We entered the echoing hall, and an indescribable odor of damp mortar -and dust made us cough. Something scurried across the red and white -marble flags. A bat, blinded by the sudden light, swirled about the hall -in circles. Mrs. Gordon shivered and clutched the duke’s arm. Jacqueline -gathered up her skirts carefully about her. There was something unclean -and uncanny about the place. - -The lofty hall ran through the palace. Beyond was another iron gate, -opening on the garden, now a wild confusion of clambering grape-vines -and ivy and myrtle, that rioted up the crumbling walls and choked and -twined themselves about the broken statuary and the yellow-stained -well-curb. On either side of the hall were stone benches, and over each -long seat the da Sestos coat of arms again, the strange insignia of a -protruding hand clasping a huge key. Doors to the right and left led to -the Magazzini, or store-rooms, in which, years ago, when Venice was the -mistress of the world in commerce, the _nobili_ stored their -merchandise. St. Hilary, who had unconsciously taken the lead, cast a -disdainful eye on the bare walls, and hurried to the stairway. - -At the landing we paused. Two massively carved doors faced us, the one -opening on the Sala Grande, the other to a long succession of small -reception-rooms, leading one out of the other. Luigi tremblingly -unlocked the doors of the Sala, and threw them back with ceremony, -holding high above his head a flickering candle. - -We stood without, peering into the darkness, while the old man tottered -across the vast room and unbarred a shutter. The candle shone pale in -the light of day. He pushed open a window, and a faint breeze touched -our cheeks. One breathed again. The sun streamed on the shining floor of -colored cement, gaily embedded with little pieces of marble. I looked -about me. - -Great yellow sheets shrouded everything–the tapestries, the pictures, -the furniture. St. Hilary tore the sheets down impatiently, Luigi -looking from master to dealer in troubled amazement and indignation. At -last the noble room stood revealed. The little frivolous company of -smartly dressed men and women in flannels and muslins seemed strangely -like intruders in this great apartment of faded magnificence and -mournful grandeur. - -Flemish tapestries covered the vast expanse of the walls. Throne-chairs -in Genoese velvet and brocade and stamped leather, each with the -inevitable arms in gold appliqué, were ranged formally side by side. -There was a magnificent center-table, the heavy malachite top with its -mosaic center and Etruscan border, supported by four elaborately carved -winged goddesses. There were antique Spanish and Italian cabinets of -tortoise-shell and ivory and ebony. At either end of the room were two -cavernous fireplaces, the pilasters covered with exquisitely carved -cherubs and Raphaelesque scrolls. Vases of verde; trousseau-chests of -ebony; consol-tables of bronze and ormulu; jewel-boxes of jasper and -lapis lazuli; clocks of bronze and Sienna marble; marble busts; -portières of silk and velvet; Florentine mirrors; Venetian chandeliers -of pink and white and blue Venetian glass–all belonged to the Venice of -the Renaissance–to Venice in its splendor. - -“I suppose,” said the duke, looking about, “this old room has had its -chairs and tables standing precisely as you see them for two hundred -years.” - -“And, now,” said Mrs. Gordon reproachfully, “you dare to despoil it? -Were I you, it would sadden me to sell at a price these dumb things to -that terrible dealer, darting about with his note-book from treasure to -treasure.” - -“_Per Baccho!_” laughed the duke. “Why should I have any sentiment for a -place and for things that are as strange to me as to you? They have only -recently become mine, and that by an accident. If Luigi, now, were -having his say, it might be different, eh, old man?” - -Luigi had been dogging the footsteps of the dealer, replacing the -coverings. He looked up anxiously. - -“What! his Excellency is to sell this palace?” he faltered. - -“All,” said the duke lightly, and ignored him. “You must know, ladies, -that the uncle, by whose timely death I inherited the palace, was the -last Venetian of our name. He never set foot in this palace, I am told. -He lived abroad. The traditions of these Venetians were not his. Nor are -they mine. I prefer to make traditions of my own. I am from Turin. -There, one is at least in the world. There, one has ambitions for power -and glory.” - -“With ambition you will arrive far,” said Mrs. Gordon adoringly. - -“But these Venetians, bah, I know them!” he continued. “To gossip a -little, to dawdle over their silly newspapers at the Café Quadri–to eat, -to drink, to flirt–that is their dream of happiness. They are rocked to -sleep in their wonderful gondolas. They drift on the smooth surface of -their sluggish canals out to the great sea of oblivion. No. The silent -waterways of this melancholy, faded Venice are not exactly paths of -glory.” - -“No,” said Jacqueline, and perhaps unconsciously she looked at me. - -I deserved the reproachful glance, no doubt. I should have borne it -meekly enough had not the duke noticed it as well as myself. As he led -the way through the reception-rooms, he stared curiously at me, and then -at Jacqueline. He smiled. My vague dislike became more definite. - -These reception-rooms were monotonously alike. Our interest began to -flag. But the indefatigable dealer of antiquities had seen enough to -awaken his enthusiasm. It was natural that he should peer and pry. It -was his business, I suppose, to finger brocades, to try the springs of -chairs. But there was not a trousseau-chest whose cover he did not lift, -an armoire or cabinet that he did not look within. I thought his -eagerness bordered almost on vulgarity, until I remembered the box that -held the da Sestos cabinet. He was looking for it, of course. - -At last he gave a little cry of satisfaction. He turned to Mrs. Gordon. -We had reached the last of the _camerini_. - -“You will remember, madame, I was telling you an extraordinary story of -the lost gems of the Beatrice d’Este. It is true that I can not show you -the jewels. Nor the casket that contained the jewels. But if it would -interest you to see the box that contained the casket, behold it!” - -He touched lightly with his cane a steel chest that stood on a -consol-table. - -“And how are you to prove this?” asked Mrs. Gordon, a little -skeptically. - -St. Hilary pointed to the cover. On it was engraved: “_Giovanni da -Sestos fecit, 1525_.” - -“A da Sestos made the casket for the jewels!” exclaimed Mrs. Gordon, -glancing at the duke. - -“It is a matter of history,” replied St. Hilary. - -“Jewels!” cried the duke. “What is this about a da Sestos making a -casket for jewels?” - -“I was amusing the ladies this afternoon with the story of the -mysterious disappearance of the D’Este gems. As a matter of fact, they -did not merely disappear, Mrs. Gordon. They were stolen, and stolen, if -the legend be true, from one of his Grace’s ancestors.” - -“An ancestor of mine?” cried the duke. “Impossible.” - -“He was a marvelous artist and clock-maker,” returned St. Hilary coolly. -“He was the first Venetian of his name to become famous, though I -believe his end was rather tragic.” - -“You seem to know a great deal about the affairs of my family, Mr. St. -Hilary. It is strange that I have never heard of this ancestor and his -casket.” - -“Not so strange,” replied the dealer, “seeing that nearly five hundred -years have passed since then. As to the casket, it is a curiosity, and a -matter of history. There are few curiosities in the world that escape -the notice of us dealers in antiquities. It is our business to know -about them.” - -“Perhaps you will enlighten me as to this strange story,” said the duke. - -“Some day,” promised St. Hilary carelessly. “Any day, in fact, that you -have half an hour to smoke a cigar with me at Florian’s.” Then he turned -to old Luigi, who was nervously fumbling with his keys. “Have we seen -everything? All the rooms?” - -The old man bowed. “Everything, signore.” - -“That door, where does it lead?” - -Luigi pressed down the handle and threw it open. - -“Good heavens, Mr. St. Hilary!” cried the duke, “are you looking for the -gems you have been romancing about? Surely by this time you have seen -everything.” - -The dealer paid little heed to the duke’s remonstrances. He was -fingering the tapestries. The duke turned to the ladies with a gesture -of annoyance. - -“Shall we now leave this mad dealer to his own devices? It would please -me very much if both of you would choose some souvenir of our delightful -afternoon. I am reluctant to let the terrible American have everything. -Shall we go to the reception-rooms again? It is there that we shall find -the more interesting pieces of bric-à-brac.” - -The duke and the ladies left the sala, old Luigi leading the way. Myself -his Grace had ignored completely. - -I turned listlessly to join St. Hilary. To my astonishment he absolutely -disappeared. I walked the full length of the sala, quite mystified; for -I had observed only one exit. - -As I stood in a dim corner of the vast apartment one of the tapestries -opposite shook. St. Hilary emerged from behind it. He glanced around the -room an instant, and then, thinking himself unseen, he walked rapidly -into the reception-room after the others. - -My curiosity was thoroughly aroused. I lifted the tapestry in my turn -and felt along the wall behind it. - -Suddenly this wall gave way to the pressure of my hand. I had pushed -open a door. - -I found myself in a narrow chamber, hardly larger than a coat-closet. I -struck a match. But before I could explore the interior, the tapestry -was lifted once more, and Luigi appeared, the lighted candle still in -his hand. - -“What is the signore doing in there?” he demanded with an anxiety that -seemed to me rather uncalled for. - -“I thought that you had shown all the apartments, Luigi?” - -“But his Excellency will be annoyed if he sees you here,” persisted the -old servant. - -“Not at all,” said a cold voice, and the duke entered, followed by the -others. - -“My dear Richard,” laughed Jacqueline, “this is deliciously mysterious. -So you have actually discovered a hidden chamber?” - -“Quite what one might expect in an old Venetian palace,” added Mrs. -Gordon. “Now if you have found Mr. St. Hilary’s jewels, it will be -perfect.” - -“I doubt if my friend Hume has wit enough to have made the discovery -that it is nothing but a bare chamber,” cried the dealer, darting at me -a look of intense annoyance. - -“Oh, it is no discovery of mine,” I said calmly. “I have merely followed -where St. Hilary led.” - -“As a dealer in antiquities I am naturally interested in curiosities, -even in curious chambers.” - -“All the same, your knowledge of my palace is rather extraordinary–even -for a dealer in antiquities,” cried the duke. - -St. Hilary took the lighted candle from the servant. - -“If you were a better Venetian,” he retorted, “and were familiar with -the archives of the Frari, you would know that the Inquisition of Venice -had plans of every palace in the city. I happen to have examined them. -That is all.” - -“But your Excellency will observe,” said old Luigi unconcernedly, “that -the room is quite empty.” - -“Yes, yes,” agreed the dealer, pushing us gently without. - -“No, not quite,” I said, looking at him keenly. “What is this on the -shelf here?” - -“A clock!” exclaimed Jacqueline. - - - - - CHAPTER IV - - -It stood on a stone shelf built out from the wall as high as one could -reach. - -“Tut, tut, a broken-down clock,” cried St. Hilary contemptuously. -“Nothing could be more useless and uninteresting,” and he blew out the -candle. - -We trooped into the sala again. - -“And now, Duke, having thoroughly explored your house beautiful, even to -the recesses of the hidden and mysterious chamber, I’m quite prepared to -make you an offer at your convenience.” - -“There is all the time in the world for that, Mr. St. Hilary,” replied -the duke impatiently. “The ladies have not yet chosen their souvenirs. -What gift will you honor me by accepting?” He turned to Jacqueline. - -She hesitated, and looked at Mrs. Gordon. - -“My dear Jacqueline,” encouraged her aunt, “I am sure Mr. St. Hilary -will not make his offer much less for anything that you might choose.” - -“No,” said the dealer, making figures in his note-book, “I have quite -decided on the sum. Let me recommend to your notice this faience -pitcher. I assure you it is rare. You can see for yourself that it is -beautiful.” - -“If it is really of no value in itself,” said Jacqueline, disregarding -St. Hilary’s pitcher, “there is nothing that appeals to me more than -that steel box. Mr. St. Hilary’s story has quite touched my -imagination.” - -“It is already yours. And now what will madame choose?” - -“Could I examine that decrepit old clock in the hidden room again? I -happen to be making a collection of clocks.” - -“Then you can make no mistake about this superb specimen in Sienna -marble,” urged the dealer. - -“But, like Jacqueline,” smilingly protested Mrs. Gordon, “I prefer -something that has a touch of mystery about it. And that old clock, shut -up in the darkness there, one knows not how many years, ought to have a -history.” - -“But it is so very, very old,” cried old Luigi deprecatingly. “It has -not gone for two hundred years.” - -“That hardly makes it less interesting,” I said dryly. “Let us see the -clock by all means.” The reluctance of both St. Hilary and Luigi had -struck me as being rather strange. - -“Your Excellency surely does not mean to give it away? It is an heirloom -of the family,” expostulated old Luigi obstinately. - -“I have told you to bring it out,” commanded the duke. - -Very reluctantly the old man entered the little chamber. - -“It is too heavy,” he cried from within. “I can not lift it.” - -Duke da Sestos and myself went to his assistance. Together we carried it -to the sala and placed it on the center-table. The slight jar set a -number of bells ringing in musical confusion. - -Certainly it was unique–at least I had never seen anything like it. - -Imagine an oblong box of bronze, about as long as one’s arm, and -three-quarters as high. Around three sides of this box ran a little -platform, heavily gilded. Immediately above this platform were twelve -doors, three at either end, and six at the face. It was almost bare of -ornament, except that on the top had been three figures. The heads and -arms of all three were now broken off. - -“Its very simplicity and ugliness interest one,” cried Mrs. Gordon with -enthusiasm. “And those twelve doors certainly mean that it is an -automaton, do they not, Mr. St. Hilary? One can imagine the stiff little -figures that appear, each at its hour, and at their respective -doors–kings with their crowns of gold, ginger-bread Virgins, prelates -with their miters, and armored knights. Each figure in its hour does its -devoirs, I suppose, and disappears again.” - -“At every shake of the table,” said Jacqueline, “its bells clang -angrily. You might think it was offended at being disturbed after its -long sleep of two hundred years.” - -“Yes,” confessed the duke, looking at the clock thoughtfully, “it awakes -a fantastic note that will strike in the fancy of the most dull. Think -what stories of love and intrigue it has listened to! What deeds of -revenge and hate it has looked down upon! At what hours of agony and -ecstasy have those bells not chimed? What death-knells to hopes, what -peals of love and happiness!” - -Jacqueline had been turning the clock slowly around. Suddenly she sank -on her knees to examine it more closely, and read aloud: - - Se mi guardi con cura, - Se mi ascolti con attenzione, - E se, nell’ intendermi, tu Sei cosi acorto com’ io lo sono nel dirti– - T’ arridera la Fortuna. - -“Will you translate it for me, please?” - -“‘If you guard me carefully, if you listen to me diligently, if you are -as clever in understanding me as I am in telling you, Fortune will smile -on you,’” translated the duke. - -“The delicious braggart!” cried Mrs. Gordon delightedly. “Now what do -you think that brave promise means, Mr. St. Hilary?” - -“Pooh, pooh, madame! It promises too much to mean anything. ‘Early to -bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy and wealthy and wise.’ ‘Time -is money’–there are a score of proverbs as vague and as meaningless.” - -“Oh, but you mustn’t cast any aspersions on my dear clock. Perhaps Luigi -can read the riddle more cleverly. Do you know if there is any legend -connected with the clock?” - -The old man hesitated. - -“Come, come, speak up,” said the duke roughly. - -“Ah, yes, your Excellency,” replied the old man. “But I implore you not -to sell or give away the clock. You will always regret it. Good luck -goes with the clock, your Excellency.” - -“But the motto,” urged Mrs. Gordon. “Has it any meaning?” - -“Yes, yes, signora. It means that each hour brings its own gift, if one -can only understand. One may never suffer, not hunger nor cold, not -poverty nor disappointment, if one can only read the secret of each -hour. For at every hour something wonderful is told. And the clock is a -charm against the Evil One. My father told me, and his father told him. -Yes; we have guarded it carefully in that quiet room. It has stood there -as long as I can remember. And now your Excellency will give it away! -Misfortune will come; I know it.” - -“Be still, imbecile. Madame, shall I have the clock taken to my launch -for you?” - -“Oh, don’t deprive the old man of his charm against the evil eye, aunt,” -said Jacqueline lightly, half pitying, half mocking the old servant’s -distress. - -“I would remind Miss Quintard that it is I who am deprived of the charm, -if there is any, and not Luigi,” laughed the duke. - -“I would be the last one to bring you ill fortune,” jested Mrs. Gordon. -Then very slowly, “But I intend to bring you good fortune, not to take -it away from you.” - -“I am hoping precisely for that,” said the duke gravely, and looked at -Jacqueline. - -Jacqueline was still kneeling before the clock. - -“How I should like to know what you really mean, foolish legend,” she -said wistfully. - -I leaned on the table and stooped toward her. - -“If one were to run down that legend, it would require patience and -perseverance enough to satisfy even you, would it not, Jacqueline?” I -asked lightly. - -She smiled, but seeing that I was half in earnest, became serious. - -“Yes,” she said slowly, “I believe it would.” - -“Then, Jacqueline, when I begin my legends of Venice, shall I take up -first the legend of this old clock?” - -“Do,” she said carelessly. “Aunt would thank you, I know.” - -I walked over to the window, and looked gloomily without. I had hoped -Jacqueline was in earnest when she suggested that I should write a book -on the legends of Venice. But now that I wished to take her desire -seriously, she was evidently inclined to laugh at me. - -“Will you clap your hands for the servant in my launch to come up?” -asked the duke. “I wish him to carry the clock down for Mrs. Gordon.” - -“One moment, please,” said St. Hilary. “I am collector enough to -understand Mrs. Gordon’s enthusiasm. But being a dealer as well as a -collector, I cannot allow this enthusiasm to interfere with my -pocket-book. I know, Mrs. Gordon, you would never forgive me if I did -not say that my sneers at the value of the clock were the pretense of -the dealer who depreciates a thing that he may get it the cheaper. The -clock, madame, is a valuable antique. The value of the things in this -palace will be lowered considerably if it is not included in its -contents.” - -There was an awkward pause. The duke reddened with anger. - -“In that case,” said Mrs. Gordon, greatly embarrassed, “I could not -dream, of course––” - -“Mr. St. Hilary,” said the duke coldly, “the clock is not for sale to -you at any price. Madame, you will not offend me by refusing?” - -Mrs. Gordon gazed at her niece in perplexity. - -“You would find it rather difficult to carry it about with you in -Europe,” said Jacqueline lamely. - -“Yes, I am afraid I should,” declared Mrs. Gordon with alacrity. - -“If you will entrust the task to me, I shall be charmed to have it -packed and sent to America for you,” volunteered St. Hilary. He seemed -eager to atone for his ill-timed remarks of a moment before. - -“But Mr. Hume tells me he is going to write a book on the legends of -Venice,” interrupted Jacqueline. “A moment ago, aunt, he suggested that -he might be able to discover one about this very clock, and I encouraged -him to try. Why not let Mr. Hume take care of it during our travels?” - -I professed my willingness joyfully, and though it was evident that -neither the duke nor St. Hilary welcomed Jacqueline’s suggestion, the -clock was soon placed in a gondola I summoned. - -To its chimes the fortunes of da Sestos and myself were to dance -merrily. - - - - - CHAPTER V - - -The day following I was strangely depressed. I had run the gantlet of -hope and doubt. Jacqueline’s various moods had baffled me. And the -duke–frankly, I feared him. Jacqueline had so obviously admired him. He -stood for the very qualities that I lacked. The glamour of his name, the -luxurious environment he scorned so vigorously, his verve, and, above -all, his alliance with Mrs. Gordon, made him a formidable rival. For -that Mrs. Gordon, in some subtle way, had already come to a vague -understanding with him, I did not doubt. - -Two letters were on the tray that brought in my morning coffee. One from -Jacqueline; the other from her brother. They called to me in quite -different directions. Jacqueline to her side; the brother to his -assistance in Rome. The young fool was in trouble–trouble serious enough -to demand the assistance of one who had influence with the authorities. -I happened to fill that position. I must go to his aid. - -In Jacqueline’s letter I fancied I read a tenderness that was altogether -new and delightful. It was no longer the reserved Jacqueline that spoke. -There was a delightful shyness, but through the shyness spoke the woman -who dared to be bold for the man she loved. - -She wished me to call at once. We would discuss the book together. And -she had invited St. Hilary and myself to dinner that evening. After I -had left them yesterday he had hinted at a wonderful story about the old -clock. She would make him talk. I should have copy for one of my legends -at least. - -But I could not hesitate as to my destination. For, in assisting her -brother, I would be doing Jacqueline a favor. Unfortunately, I could not -tell her why I had to leave Venice so peremptorily. Neither she nor her -aunt must know that the youngster had made an ass of himself. I wrote -her merely that an affair of importance had called me to Rome. I caught -the first train south. - -Ten days passed before I sniffed once more the pungent odor of the -lagoons. There had been complications and delays; and in his remorse the -boy had had a touch of Roman fever. I could not leave him like that. - -A letter from Jacqueline awaited me. It had arrived only a day or two -before. Her annoyance at my sudden flight from Venice was obvious. - -She regretted my absence at her dinner, but I had not missed much. St. -Hilary had refused to talk. Perhaps there was really no legend, after -all. And, indeed, when one came to think over the matter calmly, was it -worth while attempting to discover one? And was I really interested in -writing the book–that is, for its own sake? I ought to be well assured -of that. She was afraid she would not see me again for the present. They -were to leave almost immediately for Bellagio. - -I walked over to my window. I was bitterly hurt and disappointed. - -Venice was storm-swept. The Giudecca, deserted, was lashed by wind and -rain. The ships, moored near the Salute, tossed and swayed at their -anchors. The goddess over the customs-house spun about on her golden -ball and vainly tried to shield herself behind her flimsy veil. - -The brightness and glory of Venice had vanished as in a dream. The -palaces, ivory and gold in the sunlight, looked sodden and decayed in -the gloom, like an old woman deprived of her rouge-pot and powder. -Venice, in short, was a painting, a masterpiece, if you wish, which the -mischievous fist of some mawkish infant had smeared and smudged. The -pigeons, the cafés, the gondolas–they are the creatures of the sun. -To-day the pigeons were huddled under the Dome of the Salute; the cafés -deserted; the gondolas covered with tarpaulin. - -But as I looked, a gondola, rowed by two oarsmen, emerged from the rain -and fog. It was headed directly for the landing outside my windows. It -touched the steps. The old _gransieri_, shivering in an archway, -pattered across the quay with his hook. The passenger leaped ashore. It -was St. Hilary. And in this weather! - -I drew the portière. I walked over to the mantel and felt for a match to -light the gas, for it was growing late. As I struck it, half a dozen -visiting-cards caught my eye–eight, to be quite precise. One of the -eight was that of the Duke da Sestos. What humble attraction had I for -the noble gentleman? The seven others bore the name of St. Hilary. Seven -calls in ten days! I looked at them thoughtfully. And then–why, I have -no idea–I thought of the mysterious clock that Mrs. Gordon had entrusted -to my care, and that I had left with a jeweler on the Piazza to see if -it was quite beyond repair. It would be just as well to say nothing of -that to the dealer. I was curious to know precisely the fascination that -the old timepiece had for him. - -“I was longing for some one to talk to. Just returned from a little trip -to Rome. What’s the news?” - -“Oh, I have just dropped in for a smoke. Where’s your whisky? I am -drenched through. The felsa of that confounded gondola leaked.” - -I caught the swift glance that took in every detail of my room. I waved -my hand to the side-board. - -“Help yourself. I’ll join you presently, when I have slipped into a -bath-robe. You’ll find the cigarettes by the whisky.” - -I stepped into my room. I heard the fizz of the siphon. I caught the -fumes of his cigarette. I heard the creak of a wicker-chair as he threw -himself into it. Then there was silence. I was about to rejoin him, when -I happened to look into my mirror. St. Hilary was reflected in it, and -he was opening a coat-closet. - -I whistled noisily, and put my eye to a crack in the door. He was -looking into a cabinet. Then he pulled aside the portière that hid the -deep recess of the window. Another puzzled glance about the room, and he -sank noiselessly into the chair. It was not difficult to put two and two -together. He was looking for Mrs. Gordon’s clock. Well, he should -satisfy himself thoroughly that it was not on my premises. Then I would -wait for his next move. I entered my sitting-room, still whistling. - -“Just a word to my man, and I’m ready for our smoke,” I said, and went -into the sala. I banged the door after me, but took pains to leave it -carefully ajar. - -It was as I thought. He promptly slipped into my bedroom. I waited -considerately for him to resume his seat before joining him. - -“Well, indefatigable peerer and pryer for the rare and odd, what is the -news of the past ten days?” I asked, reaching for the Scotch. - -I knew he was watching me closely. The nouns were a trifle suggestive. - -“No news so far as I know. I have been buried in the palazzo of the -duke, making an inventory of things. Interesting old palace, eh?” - -I nodded, and blew a cloud of cigarette-smoke into the air. - -“Nice chap, the duke.” - -I nodded again. - -“Extremely gallant to the ladies.” - -Again I nodded, but without much enthusiasm. - -“Rather pretty compliment, his giving them those souvenirs.” - -“No one but an Italian would have thought of it.” - -“But I must say I was disgusted at the poor taste of the ladies.” - -“Why so?” - -“My dear fellow, did you observe that bowl of majolica? Or that superb -cloisonné Kioto vase? With carved ivories galore and a plaque of della -Robbia to choose from, and to pick out a silly timepiece.” - -“Ah, yes,” I remarked dryly, “you had an eye on that clock yourself, -hadn’t you?” - -“Tut, tut, I have an eye on everything that is useless and odd. By the -way, she asked you to keep it for her. I should like to have a look at -it. Trot it out, my boy.” - -I gazed into St. Hilary’s innocent blue eyes, and laughed quietly. “The -other day, in Rome,” I said slowly, “I met on the street a certain -Captain Villari. He’s as poor as the proverbial mouse, and an -acquaintance. He asked me to go to the opera with him, I did not refuse, -though the invitation, coming from him, surprised me. And the inevitable -happened, of course. At the very box-office, he discovered with cries of -consternation that he had left all his money in his other uniform. Might -he dare, would I think it too presuming, if he asked me for the loan of -ten lire until to-morrow? - -“I assured him with all the warmth in the world that it would be a -privilege, I put my hand in my pocket to oblige him. _Accidenti!_ Was -there ever such devilish luck! I had left my money in my morning -clothes! - -“We looked at each other half a minute; then we embraced with laughter. -It was such an odd coincidence. And so we went our separate ways, quite -good-naturedly. He knew I was lying. I knew he had been lying. What do -you think of my story?” - -“What has that story to do with an old timepiece?” he blustered. - -I leaned forward and tapped him on the knee. - -“Only this, my crafty dealer in antiquities. You, as well as my captain, -are too crafty by half. You know the timepiece is not in these rooms, -just as well as I do myself.” - -“I don’t understand you,” he fumed. - -“No? Then what were you looking for a minute or two ago? In that -cabinet, behind the portière there? By Jove, you had the impertinence to -lift the cover of my trunk in the bedroom.” - -If I had expected him to show shame or confusion, I was much mistaken. -He stared at me a moment. Then he threw back his head and laughed. - -“It wasn’t nice of me, I confess,” he said coolly. “I should have acted -with my customary frankness, and have asked to see it first.” - -“I think it would have been the better way. As to this customary -frankness of yours, you guard that virtue so closely that I am a -stranger to it.” - -“Very well, I’ll give you an instance of it. Now that my cards are on -the table, what have you done with the clock?” - -“Is that what you call being frank? I fail to see those cards of yours -on the table even now. Play fair, St. Hilary.” - -“I don’t understand you,” he said, and his neck took on a purple tinge. - -“You understand me perfectly. Just as my captain did. And I have both -eyes and ears. Let me remind you, in the first place, you were perfectly -well aware that the clock was in the palace. You looked for it -deliberately, but slyly. When I was curious in my turn, you were hardly -pleased. You pooh-poohed the chamber. You made fun of the clock. You -blew out the candle promptly that no one might examine it. When Mrs. -Gordon insisted on doing so, you vainly attempted to divert her -interest. As a last resort, you tried to make it impossible for her to -accept it by asserting that it was an antique of great value. Don’t you -think that was in extremely bad taste?” - -“My dear fellow, desperate cases require desperate remedies.” - -“Ah, then you confess that you were even desperately anxious to have the -clock? Why should you deny it? There is nothing to be ashamed of. Your -eight calls have made me quite certain of that, and the fact that you -played the spy, looking into my trunk just now.” - -St. Hilary laughed, a little too boisterously. - -“Good, good!” he cried. “I confess I didn’t credit my dear dilettante -with quite so observing an eye. And if I were to confess that this old -clock interests me beyond belief, why should you not satisfy my -curiosity? Have you any interest in it? An interest that conflicts with -mine, for instance?” and he looked at me curiously. - -“It is quite possible,” I answered calmly. - -“And this interest really conflicts with mine?” - -“Why not?” I answered, smiling at him. - -“Then I see no reason why I should not go my way and you yours.” He -picked up his hat in high dudgeon and walked toward the door. - -“Nor do I,” I answered, reaching for a cigar. “However, let me remind -you that I still have the clock.” - -It may seem strange and unreasonable that I should have assumed so -cautious a tone with the dealer. My interest in the clock was simply -that I wished to write up the legend connected with it, if legend there -was. But I browbeat him to punish him. He had not come to me frankly and -openly. He had spied on me and he had lied to me. The penalty for that -must be a full confession as to why he attached such tremendous -importance to this clock. - -He stood at the door. His eyes devoured my face with that same searching -glance that had so startled me on the Piazza a few days before. - -“Trust me, St. Hilary,” I said very quietly. “I am not a man to betray a -confidence–certainly not the confidence of a friend like you. And it is -barely possible I may help you.” - -“I have thought that, too,” he said, and hesitated. - -“Then why not?” - -“Because you are too much of the dilettante, the dreamer,” he said -angrily. “Bah, I need a man like the Duke da Sestos–a man that has grit -and resource–who can even be unscrupulous on occasion–yes, look into a -friend’s trunk and not feel too squeamish. I do need help; but could you -go to extreme ends with me patiently and relentlessly? You hardly fill -the bill, Hume.” - -He had quoted almost Jacqueline’s words. He could have said nothing that -would have touched me so deeply. I answered him impetuously: - -“St. Hilary, do you forget that it was you who made me a dreamer? It is -you who first preached to me impossible ideals of beauty and art. And -when I failed to reach those ideals, you laughed at me; you consoled me -with sneers. If I had not a soul to appreciate art and beauty, there was -still the sensuous Venice for me to enjoy. And so, month by month, I -have sunk into the slough of materialism, until, at last, it is almost -too late for me to shake myself free. First, the woman I love flaunts at -the dilettante, and then it is my friend.” - -He stared at me; then, rising, he walked over to where I sat and put his -hand on my shoulder. - -“What do you mean–that the woman you love has flaunted you?” - -I told him quite simply. He passed his hand across his forehead. - -“My dear, dear Hume,” he said affectionately, “forgive me. Love is a -thing dead and past for me. I am in the sere leaf and brown. I had -forgotten that love might come into your life. So your interest in the -clock, after all, is simply that you wish to write a legend about it?” - -“Yes.” - -“Listen to me. Hume. I have a quest that demands patience, courage, -faith, a will that is relentless. If I shared it with you, could you -bring to it these qualities?” - -“Try me,” I said firmly. “If it is a task that demands action, and if it -concerns this clock, I am with you heart and soul.” - -“It does concern the clock. But it is a hundred-to-one shot, with the -odds all against us. If you fail, at least you will have your legend. If -you succeed, you will share equally with myself. I have needed one for -this quest in whose honesty I could have absolute faith. I have thought -of you, but only to mistrust you. If I trust you now, will you follow -where I shall lead?” - -“Try me,” I said again. - - - - - CHAPTER VI - - -He unbuttoned his frock-coat (I had never seen him wear any garment less -formal) and took out of it a slender little volume in vellum covers. He -passed it to me in silence. I opened it. It was a manuscript copy, -roughly stitched together. I recognized the handwriting as that of St. -Hilary. - -“Well?” I asked curiously, returning it to him. - -“This is a crude translation of certain passages in the Diary of Marius -Sanudo, a Venetian who lived about the beginning of the sixteenth -century. I made this translation in the Royal Library at Vienna the -other day. The Diary is one of the rarest books in the world. You are -wide enough awake to listen to it for an hour or two?” - -“It concerns the clock?” - -“It concerns the casket and the clock. You may imagine these extracts as -being divided into two chapters. Chapter I–concerning the jewels and the -casket; Chapter II–the clock. My remarks may be supposed to constitute a -third chapter. You have heard of Beatrice d’Este, the Duchess of Milan -and wife of Ludovico the Moor?” - -“Practically only what you have told me about her. I know she lived -during the latter part of the fifteenth century.” - -“Then I suppose you have never seen her portrait, attributed to Leonardo -da Vinci. It hangs in the Ambrosiana Library at Milan, the second room -to the left as you enter; and I assure you that it is well worth a -little pilgrimage to Milan to see. It is a profile of extraordinary -charm–a young girl of eighteen. It is difficult to imagine this adorable -child–for she was only twenty-two when she died–as an ambassadress to -the most powerful court in Europe. - -“Her husband, Ludovico, toward the last part of his reign, was hard -pressed by his foes. After intrigues with two kings and a pope, he found -himself caught in the web of his own treachery. He needed money to pay -his allies. But his wonderful Sala del Tesoro, with its oak chest of -gold and plate, was empty. Only the jewels were left. I have already -told you that this collection has never since been equaled in artistic -value. - -“Now, if you are familiar with the financial methods of these princes of -the Renaissance, you will know that in times of stress they resorted to -the rather vulgar expedient of simply putting their jewels in pawn. - -“Beatrice had conducted these delicate little transactions at Venice for -her husband more than once. But now, before she had recourse to this -last desperate expedient, she was to plead before the Signory, as his -ambassadress, for help both of money and men. If the Signory refused to -help Ludovico, her husband, she was to appeal to the Doge; for the old -man had already shown the utmost regard for this high-spirited young -duchess. If, however, both Doge and Signory failed her, she was to pawn -the jewels with Albani, the richest goldsmith in Venice. - -“With this introduction, I will read you the first extract from the -Diary of Messer Sanudo: - -“‘Of all the cities of the world, Venice is the one where the greatest -honor is paid to strangers. But never was lord or lady received with -greater joy by the Signory in council. The Doge himself conducted her to -the seat of honor, and all eyes were turned to her in admiration at her -divine beauty. She wore a gold brocade embroidered with crimson doves, -with a jeweled feather in her cap, and a rope of pearls and diamonds -around her neck, to which the priceless ruby, the most glorious stone, I -think, man has ever seen, called El Spigo, is fastened as pendant. - -“‘All were amazed at the words of wisdom and eloquence that fell from -her childish lips. She set forth her love for Venice, and piteously -implored our help against Milan’s foes. If it were not possible for us -to furnish men, at least let her not return quite empty of hand to her -dear lord; for she would rather die than cause him such grief and -despair. - -“‘The Signory and Doge listened to her courteously. When she had ended, -the Doge rose and thanked her graciously for the words she had spoken. -He declared that nothing would give the Signory greater joy than to do -all she had asked. But he reminded her that at this time Venice was -herself at war with Genoa, her hereditary foe. Her own treasury was -empty. There was hardly to be found in all Venice a noble or plebeian -who had not loaned to the state money out of his private fortune. When -he had said this, he descended from his dais again, and gently taking -her by the hand, so led her without, the Signory being moved to -admiration at her dignity and grace.’” - -“And of course they denied her petition, since they were Venetians?” - -“That goes without saying. Have I not said that the jewels remain in -Venice to this day? At least the more glorious part of them.” - -“I am impatient to hear of them.” - -St. Hilary again read from the Diary of Sanudo: - -“‘This day the duchess went in state to see the treasure of San Marco. -As the bucentaur, containing the Doge and one hundred and fifty of her -company, entered the Canale Grande, the duchess confessed that never -before had she beheld the like. From the windows and the balconies, hung -with the richest tapestries, noble ladies, glittering with gold chains -and gems, looked down on the sumptuous scene. It was the finest sight of -the whole world. And when they landed at the Molo, they could hardly -force their way through the press, though the Doge himself walked in -front of them. Every one turned to look at the magnificent jewels on the -duchess. On every side I heard, “This is the wife of Signor Ludovico. -Look what fine jewels she wears! What splendid diamonds and rubies!” And -indeed every part of her vest whereon was embroidered the two towers of -the port of Genoa was covered with them. - -“‘And when they came out of the treasure-house, I myself heard the Doge -say, “It is but a poor sight for you, dear lady, seeing that the jewels -which adorn you are as many and beautiful as those we guard so -carefully.” (Words that had better have been left unsaid, for such light -words bring into discredit the glories of our Venice.) - -“The duchess answered boastingly (and who indeed could blame her, -seeing that the Doge should not have said what he did?), “Do these poor -stones please your Excellency? To-morrow I shall show you some gems that -are indeed wonderful.” - -“‘And the Doge said sorrowfully, “I shall await to-morrow with the -greatest eagerness in the world.”’” - -St. Hilary laid the book face downward on his knees. - -“Now, it is a matter of record, Hume, that she did show the stones to -the Doge. Whether he fell under the glamour of their beauty, or the -charm and witchery of the lovely ambassadress, does not concern us. What -does concern us is the fact that the jewels were not locked up in the -strong-box of Albani the Jew, but of the Doge.” - -“And the gems were never redeemed?” I interrupted. - -“Never. Beatrice returned from her mission only to die a few months -later. Ludovico was taken captive by Louis of France, who dragged him to -Lyons, where, like a wild beast, he perished miserably in an iron cage. - -“The next extract that I shall read from the Diary of Sanudo is two -years later. During these two years his pages are full of the troubles -Venice was caused by her enemy Genoa, and the straits to which she was -put to raise funds. Every citizen, we read, contributed his dole, -however humble. Except the Doge. Sanudo refers again and again to the -increasing distrust at this strange negligence on the part of the chief -officer of the state. But we know that his fortune was completely tied -up in the jewels.” - -“But why did he not pawn the jewels?” I interrupted. “He must have known -that Beatrice was dead. They could never be redeemed.” - -“Ah, that’s a pertinent question. Let our Diarist answer it for you. -This answer, I assure you, will be of interest: - -“‘This day, the fourteenth of November, in the year of our blessed Lord -fourteen hundred and ninety-nine, I have heard that which is more -incredible than the travels of Messer Marco Polo to the great Mogul of -Tartary. Scarce an hour has passed that I was told it by one of the -Signory himself; and I hasten to write it down, lest any of its wonders -escape me. - -“‘All Venice knows that though our Doge is the richest in the state, yet -he alone hath contributed to the treasury no proportion of the greatness -of his fortune. So that to-day, when one after another in the Signory -bemoaned the lack of money, and the Doge sat silent and neither made -excuse nor offered aid, murmurs of discontent and suspicion arose louder -than any that have yet been heard. At first the Doge smiled bravely and -affected to listen as heretofore. But there were those who saw him -tremble for very fear. And presently, one bolder than the rest, charged -the Doge to his face with treachery, in thus hiding his wealth in the -time of the state’s direst need. Still the Doge kept silence, until -murmurs and shouts arose on all sides. Then he arose, half dead for -fear, and declared that he would explain all. And this is the manner of -his speaking: - -“‘“My lords of the Signory, I beseech you to have patience and listen to -me; for that I am indeed the most unfortunate of men you will see when I -have done speaking. The whole of my wealth did I loan to Ludovico the -Moor, at the entreaty of his wife, when last she visited this state two -years ago. She promised that she would redeem the gems before a year was -passed. But you, lords, know how she hath died and her husband Ludovico -lies imprisoned. - -“‘“My lords, I had for the duchess the tenderness of a father for a -beloved daughter, and thinking that I would give her pleasure, when she -should come again to redeem her jewels, I hired Giovanni da Sestos, the -goldsmith, whose renown as an artist you all know, to make a casket for -the gems that should be as beautiful as the very gems themselves. - -“‘“It was to be so small that it could be carried about. Yet it was to -be so strong that the most skilful thief would be baffled to break it -open. For when it was once closed, certain springs ingeniously contrived -by clockwork made it impossible even for the man who possessed the -casket to open it till a day of twelve hours should have passed. - -“‘“I had made promise to Messer Giovanni that he should receive three -payments for his task. Two payments I made to him; one, when he -undertook the work; another, that he might buy the gems with which the -cover was to be richly adorned. The third payment I promised to make -when the casket should be given into my hands. - -“‘“But hardly had Giovanni finished his task when Beatrice died. And, my -lords of the Signory, knowing now that the jewels could never be -redeemed, seeing that Ludovico is in prison and his wife dead, I vowed -that I would now pawn them to Albani the Jew, that I might at last help -the state in her need. - -“‘“But when Giovanni wrote to me to say that the casket, which he had at -last completed, was more beautiful than anything like it since the -beginning of the world, I longed greatly to see the jewels in the -glorious box before they should be out of my possession forever. And now -see how the heavy hand of God hath punished me for my weakness. - -“‘“For I had written to Giovanni to bring to me the casket alone and at -night. (For I did not wish that any should know that I possessed the -gems till I had pawned them and until the money should be paid into the -treasury of the state.) I bade him come at the hour of twelve to my -bed-chamber. I told him I should receive him alone. I would let him in -by a secret stairway. - -“‘“And so, when all Venice slept, I admitted him to my room, where there -was none other than myself, except the guard. - -“‘“My lords of the Signory, never did I dream of anything so rare and -beautiful as that casket. It seemed to me that I should die for very -desire of it. And at last I thought of a cunning plan. Giovanni himself -fell guilelessly in with this plan. For he was eager to see whether the -gems would fit the little pockets that he had made for each of the more -costly. And so we placed the gems in the pocket of the casket, and then, -as if by chance, I closed the cover, which could not be opened for a -whole day of twelve hours. And now, I thought, Giovanni must leave both -casket and gems; for I had intended to put him off with smooth promises, -saying that it was late, and that on the morrow he should have his third -payment of money. - -“‘“But Giovanni clasped the casket in both his hands and swore he would -not leave it with me until I should have paid him every ducat I owed -him. But the man’s anger was without reason, for he knew I could not pay -him the money that he asked until I had first pawned the jewels. And -presently, when I attempted to soothe him, he became as violent as a -wild beast. (And indeed the goldsmith da Sestos, though a great artist, -was always, I verily believe, half mad.) The guard at last became afraid -for my life. For Giovanni swore that I had entrapped him, and -obstinately refused to leave the palace until I should have paid him -all. - -“‘“Seeing now that nothing would move him to reason, I made pretense -that I could fetch from the treasury the money he demanded; and leaving -the guard in my bed-chamber to keep watch on the treasure, I left my -room. But I was careful to draw the bolts after me, so that it was -impossible that he should escape with the casket. - -“‘“And indeed it was my purpose to call the soldiers of the guard who -kept watch at the foot of the secret stairway, so that the insolent -fellow might be thrust without the palace, for he had angered me -greatly. I was without the chamber but a few moments, but when I -returned with the guard and the doors were unbolted, a scene of horror -met my eyes. - -“‘“The guard lay dead with a dagger in his breast. Giovanni writhed on -the floor in an agony of pain, grievously wounded, though not unto -death. And the casket was gone. - -“‘“My lords of the Signory, you will ask how the casket was gone, seeing -that the door had been locked and the two men were both in my -bed-chamber. But the window, looking out on the court of the Ducal -Palace, was open. From the balcony hung a rope strong enough to bear the -weight of a man. - -“‘“It was many days before Giovanni came to his senses. Then he told how -two men had been hid in the balcony. No sooner had I gone from the -chamber than they had set on him and the guard. He accused me of hiding -the men in the balcony. (I much wonder that I did not think of it. But, -to my cost, I did not, and it is a man deprived of wealth and honor that -speaks to you this day.)” - -“‘The Signory heard the confession of the Doge for the most part in -silence (though some there were that jeered). When he had finished, he -who had first accused the Doge of treachery demanded what proof the -senate might have of this fable, seeing that no doubt the Doge had -caused the death of Giovanni. (And, indeed, it had been a great mystery, -his disappearance.) - -“‘At that the Doge made a sign, and one fetched Giovanni from the leads -where he had been languishing since the stealing of the gems. But -Giovanni protested with tears that far from being guilty himself, it was -the Doge who had caused the gems to be taken, and nothing could shake -him from this belief. So that at last there were many of the Signory who -inclined to it. And presently, when they had questioned him closely, -they decreed, partly because certain ones believed him innocent of all -evil-doing, and partly because he was so incomparable an artist, that he -should no longer be held a prisoner under the _piombi_ of the Ducal -Palace, but should return to his own house. But lest by any chance he -had been guilty of the loss of the gems, he was there to be held a -prisoner; and guards were appointed to have charge over him day and -night. - -“‘This is the truly miraculous story of the jewels of the Doge; but few -in Venice believe it. For what goldsmith could not be bribed to swear to -such a story? And as for the Doge, it would seem that the state could -find one better fitted to wear the cap and ermine robe.’” - -“And that is chapter one?” I asked, taking a long breath. - -“That is chapter one,” echoed St. Hilary. - - - - - CHAPTER VII - - -“Shall we now proceed to chapter two?” he asked presently. “May I assume -that I have awakened your interest?” - -“You may certainly assume that.” I smiled at his smug assurance. - -“The next extract, then, from our Diarist is two years later, December, -1501, to be precise. In the meanwhile, it seems the Doge had regained -the confidence of the republic. At any rate he had evidently not been -removed from office. - -“‘This day was erected a tablet in the Frari to Giovanni da Sestos, who -died some six weeks since. He was an incomparable artist in gold and -precious stones, the greatest that Venice has known, but famous even -beyond his just merits as an artist by reason of the mystery of the -wonderful casket and the more wonderful gems. And people are saying -(though I myself have not seen it) that he hath left a clock that is a -greater marvel than the lost casket itself, which only the jeweler and -his son (beside the Doge) set eyes on before it was stolen. And certain -ones who have seen this clock (before it was broken) declare that the -clock of our Piazza, though infinitely larger, is but a puerile thing -compared to it. - -“‘When first imprisoned in his own house, Giovanni utterly despaired, -for he was watched by spies day and night, and none might converse with -him without their being present. For days he did not move, but sat moody -and sullen, gazing at nothing with his terrible, burning eyes. - -“‘So he lived for many weeks. Then one day he leaped to his feet and -shouted aloud for his tools. Though his adored casket had been stolen -from him, he swore he would make something more marvelous than that -before death came on him. And because he was so great an artist, not -even the Doge dared to deprive Venice of any wonder that he might make, -though he had sworn that Giovanni should never again breathe the fresh -air of the Piazza. So they gave to him his tools, and for certain hours -during the day his son was permitted to aid him, since he suffered no -other to enter his workshop. Two years the father and son labored at -this clock until it was quite finished. - -“‘And when it was finished, Giovanni sent his son to that Doge who had -caused him to make the casket and had since imprisoned him, beseeching -him to come to him with all haste, for he had somewhat to say to him, -and to show him. The Doge went straightway to his house. For he thought -he was to hear some confession as to the missing casket, since he -believed steadfastly that it was the goldsmith who had caused it to be -stolen, and no other. - -“‘Giovanni met him with all ceremony, and, taking him courteously by the -hand, led him to his workshop, where stood the wonderful clock. - -“‘When the Doge saw this clock he was filled with anger, for the three -bronze figures reclining about the face of the clock were hideous images -of Giovanni’s most bitter foes. Two of them were a rival goldsmith and -the jailer who had fed him when he was a prisoner in the _piombi_. But -the third and most hideous of all was the Doge himself, such a miracle -of ugliness and horror that to look on it would make a man shudder. But -because he wished to hear what Giovanni had to say, the Doge spoke -Giovanni fair, and declared himself delighted with his ingenuity. For -they say (though, as I have written before, neither have I seen the -clock nor have I known any that have) that at every hour a door opened, -and some story out of the history of Venice was acted. - -“‘And as each hour went by the Doge became wearied of watching the -antics of the clock as the hours struck. But Giovanni compelled him to -be patient and besought him to see the antics of the figures of all of -the twelve hours. Between each hour the Doge kept inquiring of the -goldsmith if he had anything to tell him. And each time that the -question was asked the goldsmith laughed boisterously, and said, “Though -I did tell thee, thou hast not ears to hear.” This answer he made -several times, till at last the Doge, seeing at last that he was being -ridiculed, arose in anger and cried: “For the last time, Messer -Giovanni, hast thou anything to say to me?” And still the goldsmith -answered with jeers, “Though I told thee, thou hast not ears to hear,” -and would say no more. - -“‘Then, because he had been answered in this rude fashion many times, -the Doge could no longer restrain his passion. He lifted his staff, and -furiously smote off the three figures of the clock, and in doing so the -clock fell violently to the earth, and it was broken in its insides, and -never more will it strike hour, so at least I am told. - -“‘When Giovanni saw that his marvelous clock was broken, he raved like a -madman, and spat on the Doge, and belabored him with his fists so that -he was compelled to take flight from the house. And as he fled, the -goldsmith called after him very bitterly: “Did I not say thou wert a -fool? For, though the casket were lost, did I not make a greater marvel? -But thou canst not understand its divine beauty and wonder. And now, by -my oath, though I knew the secret place of the casket, yet shouldst thou -never know, seeing that thou hast broken my clock.” - -“‘As soon as the Doge reached the Ducal Palace, he bade the captain of -the inquisitorial guard fetch Giovanni. He determined that he would once -more put him to extremest tortures, for he remembered the words: “And -now, by my oath, though I knew the secret place of the casket, yet -shouldst thou never know.” But when they reached the house of Giovanni -they found both his son and himself lying dead, side by side, and by the -look of their faces they saw that they had taken poison. And now the -mystery of the casket will never be known. As for the clock, it is said -that it had an evil spirit, and no man cares whether the Inquisition -hath destroyed it or hidden it.’” - -St. Hilary closed the slim little book and gently laid it on the table. -During the latter part of his recital I had risen from my seat and was -walking about the room. Now I sat at the table opposite him, my hands -stretched out limply before me. I stared at him as the Guest must have -stared at the Ancient Mariner. For the Mariner’s story was of things -that were past and done with. St. Hilary’s story was of things to come. - -When I spoke, it was almost in a whisper, as if I were saying something -too extravagant to be spoken out loud. - -“Then you believe, St. Hilary, that the clock holds the secret? You -believe that if you could discover the secret you would have a clue to -the D’Este jewels? I see. Da Sestos was the thief, and when he saw that -he was never to feast his eyes on the glorious fruit of his rascality, -when he knew he was being watched night and day, he sank into the apathy -of despair, until–until––” - -I raised both my arms and stretched them out as if I were groping for -something. - -“Until?” repeated St. Hilary mockingly. - -“Before heaven, St. Hilary,” I cried, laughing loudly, “are you and I -the two maddest men in Venice this evening?” - -“On the contrary,” he answered carelessly, flicking the ash of his -cigarette daintily, “I begin to think I have made no mistake in choosing -you for my companion. But the facts first. You are ready for chapter -three?” - -“Your own theories about this extraordinary mystery? Yes, yes.” - -The little man threw himself back in my armchair, a smirk of -satisfaction on his wizened face. There was something of the actor about -St. Hilary; he loved an appreciative audience, and he was determined to -make the most of the present one. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - - -“Did you see the London Times of–let me see–I believe it was the day -before yesterday?” asked St. Hilary presently. - -I shook my head. The question was apparently quite irrelevant, but I was -accustomed to his sudden and startling changes of front in the -discussion of any question. - -“There was a remarkable robbery mentioned in that issue. A Bond Street -jeweler appealed to his creditors for an extension of time in which to -pay his debts. When he was denied that, he warned them that he should on -a certain day go into bankruptcy. The night before he was to declare -himself a bankrupt, however, when he was in his shop very late at night, -puzzling out his accounts, he was attacked by thieves, and after being -bound and gagged, his safe was blown open and rifled.” - -“A very ordinary robbery,” I commented. - -“Yes. But the thief was his confidential clerk.” - -“Who else should know so well the combination of the safe?” I asked -indifferently. - -“If you would only be a little more patient, Hume, you would not esteem -my words so lightly. There is generally some intention behind them. As I -was saying, he was robbed by his own clerk, but the extraordinary -feature of the case is that the confidential clerk robbed the master -with the master’s consent and at his instigation. Substitute the son for -the clerk, and you have a case of history repeating itself.” - -“Then the Doge was right. Da Sestos was the thief?” - -“Consider for a moment the character of this Messer Giovanni. He is an -artist, but an artist eccentric to the verge of madness. Sanudo again -and again refers to it. Granting, then, that he is mad, in what form -will this madness manifest itself? Essentially in the very traits and -qualities that make up the artistic temperament. These traits will be -developed abnormally. They will be pushed just over the narrow -borderland. How would you define the artistic temperament, Hume?” - -“Answering at random, I suppose the distinguishing traits of Giovanni’s -mind would be love for his work, irrespective of reward or gain, pride -in it, patient thought, boldness in conceiving the idea, and skill in -the working out of detail.” - -“Excellent. These are the traits of the sane artist. Now develop them, -exaggerate them, make them abnormal. To take our goldsmith: - -“For nearly two years he had been working on this casket. It is a -masterpiece. It is his _chef d’œuvre_. He has never made anything -quite so wonderful. Any artist is reluctant to give up his handiwork. -But Giovanni has not merely the egotism of the artist; his is the -egotism of the madman. He can not bear the thought of giving up the -casket. He longs to keep it for himself. He at last decides to do so. -But without the jewels it is but a meaningless thing. It is a mere box. -With them, it is one of the wonders of the world. This longing for the -stones becomes at last insupportable. He must have them for himself, and -at any cost. For, remember, he is not a common thief. If the jewels were -simply precious jewels, however priceless, they might not have tempted -him. But a ring of Cellini’s, a cameo of Domenico’s, a carved gem of -Caradossa, they tortured him, they tempted him, as they tempt me, as -they torture me.” - -“And when once he has determined to possess these jewels, his cunning, -his capacity for detail, his patience, all the qualities of the artist, -serve him now as the thief–is that the idea?” I interrupted. - -St. Hilary nodded affirmatively and continued: - -“The Doge unconsciously furthers his plans by his intense fear lest the -fact that he possesses the jewels be made known. Only da Sestos, his -son, and the Doge, indeed, knew the gems were in Venice. He has been -told the very room in which the Doge is to receive from him the -wonderful casket. He has thoroughly reconnoitered the ground. He knows -that this bed-chamber of the Doge looks out on a court, which, in the -dead of night, will surely be quite deserted. And so, with a coil of -rope about his waist and a dagger beneath his blouse, he keeps the -appointment. - -“The guard, no doubt, was an unpleasant surprise. He did not count on -him. But, after all, he has the advantage, for the guard has no -suspicion of treachery. - -“And so, in due time, he picks his quarrel. He has planned that -carefully long ago. The Doge had written him that he can not make the -last payment until he has disposed of some of the gems. Da Sestos had -professed himself quite willing to wait. - -“But now, when once the jewels are in the box, when once the cover is -closed and it can not be opened for twelve hours, he quite unexpectedly -demands this last payment. - -“The Doge indignantly reminds him that he had confessed himself willing -to wait indefinitely. But he is obstinate. He refuses to leave the Ducal -Palace without his just wage. If that is not forthcoming, he takes the -casket with him. The Doge at last (as da Sestos has foreseen) is -compelled to leave the room, under the pretense of getting the money. -But, as he himself confessed to the Signory, it is really to summon the -guard. - -“Hardly has the cautious Doge drawn the bolts after him, before the -dagger of the mad goldsmith has done its dread work. The rope is -uncurled in the twinkling of an eye. It is lowered over the balcony, and -to it is attached the casket and its precious contents. Below waits the -confederate.” - -“And this confederate?” I asked breathlessly. - -“Again the dagger is lifted,” continued St. Hilary, ignoring my -question. “This time it is against himself. It is worth a little pain, -this glorious plunder. - -“And so his plan succeeds. The jewels are his. After a few short weeks -he will enjoy the reward of his cunning. - -“But, unfortunately, suspicion is aroused in the Doge’s breast. For the -old man, as we know, was not so guileless a fool as the jeweler thought -him. Thief or no thief, da Sestos is imprisoned–at first in a dungeon, -with tortures, then in his own house. He could stand the tortures. He -could endure the awful heat and thirst under the leads of the Ducal -Palace. But slowly came the knowledge, the certainty, that he was -imprisoned, not for a month, a year, but for a lifetime. The vengeance -of the Doge was implacable. - -“Then if he must perish, was the secret of the casket to be sealed on -his lips forever? The egotism of the madman made that thought -intolerable. Then must he confess? Is his enemy to triumph at last? That -thought was equally impossible. But, before he dies, he will indeed tell -where the casket is hidden. Even after his death the secret shall be -told. It shall be told daily, hourly; but so cunningly that though all -the world listen, it shall not understand.” - -“But the confederate?” I interrupted again. - -“It was his son, of course. He knew. He had helped to make the casket. -He had helped to purloin it, and he it was who had hidden it. But not -even to his faithful son would the mad jeweler leave the jewels. His -cunning plan had become infinitely dear to him; and because this son -knew, he must be sacrificed. So that after he had worked side by side -with his father on the clock, and had returned from his last errand in -summoning the Doge, it was only to meet death at last. For we can not -doubt that the father poisoned his son as well as himself. And so the -hiding-place of the casket and the jewels is hidden in the clock for no -man to guess unless he be such a man as da Sestos–one who has something -of the very madness of desire and cunning that possessed the goldsmith.” - -“Unless–unless that son played the father false! There, there is the -doubt on which your ingenious fabric totters!” I cried. I felt myself -grow pale at the thought. - -“You fool,” he answered violently, “do you think I have not thought of -that? But one never has a certainty in this world. One must take -something on trust. And, by heaven, I am staking all on that son’s -loyalty to his mad father.” - -He sat in my armchair, huddled up, his face very pale and haggard in the -dim candle-light. But his eyes were burning like those of the jeweler -Giovanni. Then he roused himself and began to walk slowly about the -room. At last, in the most commonplace tone in the world, he asked: - -“Do you know anything of automaton clocks?” - -“Nothing, except that they do extraordinary things.” - -“Things most extraordinary. You have never heard perhaps of the clock -made by Le Denz?” - -I shook my head. - -“Really? That was a _chef d’œuvre_ of the bizarre and wonderful. An -automaton child wrote everything that was dictated to it–everything.” - -“Impossible!” - -“I am telling you facts, my dear fellow, that you may verify for -yourself in any cyclopedia. Then there was a man called Vancouver, who -amused himself making a clock whose figures at certain hours played on -the _tambour de flacque_–droll, very droll, that.” - -“An affair like that I saw once at Maskelyne’s, I suppose,” I said with -assumed indifference. “I remember it was an automaton figure called -Psyche, a whist-player. I played a game with her myself one dull -afternoon.” - -“Tut, tut,” exclaimed St. Hilary irritably, “I am not speaking of the -tricks of the music-halls. There’s the chess-player, for that matter, -but all the world knows that a human being is concealed inside of those -clumsy toys. I am speaking of veritable automatons, such as the clock -you are to show me presently. Then there was a crazy genius who made an -automaton that would lull him to sleep with an air as gentle as spring -zephyrs, and awaken him with a crashing march. There are automatons that -sing and dance and talk without number. And one clock-maker wrote a book -of instructions for keeping the mechanism of his clock in order after -his death.” - -“All this, I take it,” I said, lighting my cigar, which had repeatedly -gone out, “is apropos of our clock. At every hour, as old Luigi said, it -tells its secret.” - -“That is it,” replied St. Hilary. “And when you and I, Hume, shall have -mastered those twelve secrets, we shall know where our jewels are -hidden. And now, have you still curiosity to know whether this is a -legend or a fact?” - -“Yes.” - -“Then you will help me to look for it?” - -“Yes.” - -“Good. We may fail.” He looked at me keenly. - -“Of course.” - -“I like your monosyllables. I believe you are really in earnest.” - -“Yes; I am in earnest.” - -“Good again. Then we pool our interests. If we are successful, we share -alike. Is that fair?” - -“It is more than fair.” - -“That’s settled then. And now let us have a look at your clock.” - -“Marruchi, the clock-maker on the Piazza, has it. I left it with him to -see if it could be repaired.” - -He settled himself in the armchair, and pulled a rug over his knees. - -“Marruchi, my boy, will be able to do nothing with it. It is a job above -his caliber. And now to sleep, to sleep. You and I have a long journey -ahead of us to-morrow.” - -“A journey? Where?” - -“I shall be off to Amsterdam; you, to St. Petersburg. Good night.” - -“St. Petersburg?” I demanded stormily. “St. Petersburg! Why the devil -St. Petersburg?” - -But St. Hilary was already asleep–or pretended to be. - - - - - CHAPTER IX - - -The sun was just tipping the dome of the Salute as I fell asleep in my -chair. My compact with St. Hilary promised great things. It meant -action–a fascinating clue to follow, whether it led us to the jewels of -the Doge or not. And if this dry chronicle of the past should prove to -be no colorless legend, but a living fact, palpitating with human -interest, I should have material for a book indeed. A legend of the -Renaissance reincarnated in the twentieth century–that must appeal to -Jacqueline no less than to me. Besides, the solving of this mystery, if -solution there were, or the proving it to be but an empty fable, would -certainly demand those qualities she believed I lacked so sadly. In -everything this quest must be to my advantage. - -It was eight o’clock before I could get St. Hilary into a gondola. As we -were rowed rapidly to the Molo, an indescribable elation of spirits -buoyed me up. Three years had slipped from my shoulders–three years of -inertia and weariness. I was happy, and I did not play the fool and -analyze too deeply my happiness. - -Perhaps the warm, delicious breeze that came in puffs, laden with the -scent of oleanders and roses from the royal gardens, had its influence; -and the deep-blue sky, with the pearly clouds drifting slowly over San -Giorgios, and the glorious sun, flashing on every tip and spire, and -reflected silver-gray and rose-colored in the millions of little waves -that danced and sparkled in a very ecstasy of color. For the rain had -ceased. The sullen clouds were gone; the muddy streams; the discolored -damp stones. Venice was again the enchanted city of fairy architecture, -floating in the intangible air. - -One would have thought it difficult to believe this wonderful story in -the full light of day, on the Piazza here, flooded with sun, with the -gondoliers smoking and breaking out into snatches of song, with the -tourists already astir, and the guides from San Marco’s already on the -alert for them. Last night in my chambers, with the curtains drawn and -the lights of Venice shining mystically in the distance, there might -have been an excuse for one’s imagination getting a little the better of -one. But with the morning should have come sober skepticism. I can only -say that there were two reasons that forbade that: one that I wished to -believe; the other, that St. Hilary did believe. - -A dozen steps on the Piazzetta, and we saw that Marruchi was not yet -opened, so we strolled toward Florian’s for our morning coffee. As we -passed under the Arcade, St. Hilary paused at a bookseller’s shop -beneath the Libreria Vecchia. I noticed carelessly in passing that the -window was filled with copies of a book just published. - -“Have you looked into that book yet?” asked St. Hilary, as he bowed to -the bookseller within. - -“No,” I answered, taking my seat at one of the round tables. “I did not -even read its title.” - -“It is called Annali dell’ Inquisizione in Venezia. It was published -about a month ago. Organia and Rosen have had it in their windows for a -fortnight at least.” - -“I have no doubt that that fact has some pertinency,” I said irritably. -“But before you explain just in what way, suppose you answer a few -questions that naturally occurred to me while you were asleep in my -chair last night.” - -“Well?” - -“Why the deuce do you want me to go to St. Petersburg? Why do you intend -going to Amsterdam? How did you come to know about the Diary of Sanudo? -How did you guess that the clock was in the da Sestos palace? Or did you -not guess? Surely we are not the first to attempt to solve the secret of -the hours? And even if no one has yet attempted it (and that seems -incredible), is it not possible that the clock may be beyond repair, so -that we can not fathom the significance of the automata, if there be any -significance? And, lastly, how do you know that you have _the_ clock?” - -“If you had read that book in the shop there, some of your questions -might have been answered,” retorted St. Hilary placidly. - -I held the coffee-pot suspended in mid-air. “It mentions the clock?” - -“It does.” - -“Then it’s there for all the world to read–the duke, for instance!” - -The thought was rather startling. - -“I suppose so. Had I known before I saw you last night that you were to -be my criminal partner in pursuit of the casket and the gems, I should -have brought that book as well as the Diary which I happened to have in -my pocket. As it is, you might just step over to Rosen’s and buy a copy. -You will find it an amusing book during your long journey to St. -Petersburg.” - -I looked at him with some annoyance. - -“You take so much for granted,” I remonstrated. “I shall need some -persuasion. You know, I suppose, that it’s quite necessary for me to get -a passport to travel in Russia. And as to our criminal pursuit, I take -it that findings are keepings.” - -“Very true,” he answered, looking at me cynically. “Beatrice, who wore -some of our gems when she went into that cathedral over there, is dust -these four hundred years and more. The line of the D’Estes and Sforzas -is extinct. There is not a man or woman in Venice or Italy who may boast -that a drop of the Doge’s blood runs in their veins. Legally, I suppose, -the state––” - -“Oh, the state!” I sniffed contemptuously. “I don’t mind putting my -claims against the state!” - -“Brave man! But let me remind you, my squeamish friend, that it may be -necessary for you and me to use the jimmy before we get possession of -those gems. Do you think we shall find them on the pavement? Hardly! -They are hidden in one of these hundreds of palaces, and they will not -be given up for the asking.” - -“I suppose not,” I admitted reluctantly. “All the same, it has an ugly -sound, the word criminal.” - -“I warned you that this was no task for the dilettante.” - -“Yes, yes, I know,” I replied hastily. “But I am going to show you that -I can be a bit unscrupulous, as well as you, on occasions.” - -“That’s better,” replied he, grinning at me. “Now about that book. As I -said, it mentions da Sestos and his clock. But the Inquisition of -Venice, I need not remind you, concerned itself not so much with the -religious conscience of the individual as with affairs of the state. It -is da Sestos, the criminal, who comes into this book; and only -incidentally, da Sestos, the atheist, who made a clock that was -inhabited by an evil spirit.” - -“And the story of Sanudo is substantiated?” - -“Fairly well. And in this book we learn what became of the clock after -his death. It was forfeited by the Inquisition as a thing unclean. It -was hidden away in the Ducal Palace for nearly two hundred years.” - -“And afterward?” - -“In a long foot-note the editor of the Annals tells us that at the entry -of Napoleon it was looted by a captain of artillery, who afterward sold -it to a dealer in Paris. It remained in the shop of the dealer for -nearly half a century, when a learned antiquarian, who was writing an -elaborate monograph on automaton clocks, came across it. This -antiquarian, our editor tells us, bought the clock and studied it. How -it came into the possession of the uncle of the present Duke da Sestos -is not known. This uncle, as the duke himself told us the other day, -lived in Paris. He recognized the timepiece as that made by his remote -ancestor nearly four hundred years ago.” - -“Recognized it? But how?” - -“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. - -“And he lives at Amsterdam,” concluded St. Hilary complacently. “And -now, perhaps, you understand, Hume, why it is necessary for one of us to -go to Amsterdam?” - -I hesitated. I remembered how he had attempted to obtain possession of -the clock by subterfuge. How could I be sure that his sending me off to -St. Petersburg was not a ruse to get me conveniently out of the way? -Meanwhile he would have the clock, and when he had mastered its secret, -he could return it to me with the assurance that it was but a myth after -all. “Why should I not go to Amsterdam, and you to St. Petersburg?” That -was the question that I might very pertinently have asked him. But I did -not. I had promised to trust him. I trusted him now. - -“Can you catch the afternoon express, Hume? It leaves at three-thirty -and makes connections for St. Petersburg.” - -“I suppose so,” I admitted reluctantly, “though I hardly relish our -rushing off to the ends of the earth in this way.” - -“Oh, you of little faith,” he cried testily. “If you are really going -into this affair heart and soul with me, you will need a great deal more -patience than a journey to St. Petersburg involves. As to my going to -Amsterdam, you heard Marruchi say there is just one clock-maker in the -world clever enough to take our clock to pieces and put it together -again without bungling.” - -“Very well,” I assented soberly, and led the way to the Bureau -Internationale des Wagon-lits to secure my sleeping-berth. But I must -say St. Hilary’s characterization of me was justified. I had faith -enough to be curious about the clock here in Venice. But long and -tedious journeys to Amsterdam and St. Petersburg–that was quite another -matter. - - - - - CHAPTER X - - -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. - - - - - CHAPTER XI - - -I saw no reason why I should inform either Mrs. Gordon or Jacqueline of -my little trip to St. Petersburg. I greeted them both as if I had just -come from Venice, and had duly received Mrs. Gordon’s invitation. It may -be readily imagined that I was curious to know why Jacqueline had added -her urgent telegram in addition to her aunt’s note. - -But Jacqueline was never a primer to be spelled out with simplicity and -accuracy. She met my anxious and significant glance–and I took care not -to ask questions–with smiling and open-eyed composure. She was evidently -relieved to see me, but she made no effort to see me alone. Rather, she -seemed to avoid me; at least, until my visit drew to a close. That close -was sudden and startling. My departure from the Hotel Grande Bretagne -was nothing less than a dismissal. - -It was not until after dinner that Mrs. Gordon gave me any clue as to -why she had asked me to spend a few days with Jacqueline and herself at -Lake Como. Just how long my visit was to last I was in dubious -ignorance. I was smoking my postprandial cigar on the terrace, wondering -how I might tactfully sound the formidable Mrs. Gordon for this -information, when she appeared with her niece. Jacqueline was reading a -letter from home. Mrs. Gordon held up a jeweled hand impressively, and -waved it significantly toward her. - -“My dear, will you fetch me my shawl? Pray do not throw away your cigar, -Mr. Hume. Be seated. I am anxious to have a talk with you.” - -My heart thumped ridiculously. Had Jacqueline confessed to her aunt her -love for me? - -I professed myself properly at her disposal. She cleared her throat and -folded her arms across her ample person. Unconsciously she was assuming -the airs of one of the Council of Ten. But that was Mrs. Gordon’s way, -and I waited expectantly. - -“It is a great pleasure to have you with us, Mr. Hume,” she began with -ponderous cordiality. - -I hastened to assure her that there was no place more beautiful than -Como in April, and looked wistfully after Jacqueline, who had brought -the shawl, and was now strolling about the shrubbery. - -“You are the only person to whom I can turn in perplexity, that is, -while we are here in Italy. It so happens that I am sadly in need of -advice and information.” - -I assured her that I would do all in my power to help her. - -“It is with regard to Jacqueline.” - -I was careful to show nothing more than a friendly interest. One needed -to be wary with the worldly Mrs. Gordon. - -“Or, rather, it is with regard to Duke da Sestos.” - -“The Duke da Sestos!” I exclaimed, startled. “I can not see, Mrs. -Gordon, how a matter touching the Duke da Sestos can affect your niece,” -I said after a pause. - -“No?” She looked after her niece thoughtfully. “But if I tell you that -the duke is in love with her, Mr. Hume?” - -“And–and, her feeling toward the duke?” - -“I have reason to believe that Jacqueline’s wishes will coincide with -mine,” she answered complacently. - -Jacqueline’s wishes would coincide with hers! There was little doubt as -to what her wishes were. So the worst had really come. I looked out -toward the lake, hardly trusting myself to speak. The tender blue of the -still waters; the purple mountains; the song of birds; the cries of -children; the toll of a church-bell; and Jacqueline, in white, slipping -through the green trees–everything had charmed me only a moment ago. But -now I saw only Jacqueline–not the laughing Jacqueline, my Jacqueline, -who waved her hand back at me smiling, but the Duchess da Sestos, -neglected wife, scorning her husband, and hating him, doomed to a slow -and wretched death in life, sacrificed by this miserable old worldling. - -“I could imagine nothing more unfortunate than that she should feel any -interest in Duke da Sestos,” I said with feeling. - -She looked at me anxiously. - -“Do you know anything derogatory to him, Mr. Hume?” - -“No,” I answered bluntly, “I know nothing of him.” - -She sighed out her relief. - -A large person, with an English accent carefully modulated, Mrs. Gordon -was not easily moved to anxiety. Her nerves were padded in leather. One -could not prick them with anything less formidable than a pitchfork. But -my remarks had ruffled her complacency for the moment, that colossal -complacency as immense as her wardrobe, and silly and moveless as her -pride. But even she would hesitate to encourage the duke’s suit if I -could show her it was quite impossible. Could I do that? At least, I -intended to try. - -She pondered a moment. “So you know nothing. But it would not be -difficult for you to make inquiries. Understanding Italian life, as you -do, living in Venice so long––” - -“Make inquiries, Mrs. Gordon?” I interrupted coldly. I should have -thought my cool stare would have disconcerted her somewhat. - -“And,” she continued frostily (evidently the stare had been wholly in -vain, then), “it seems to me that my appeal to you should be received in -the light of a duty. You are one of our oldest friends. You ought to -have Jacqueline’s interests at heart.” - -“God knows I have her interests at heart,” I cried bitterly. “But I fail -to see––” - -“Of his rank and station,” she continued, waving my protest aside, “I -can judge for myself. I am told he is a personal friend of the king. His -family antedates the very founding of Venice. I know not how many -quarterings his coat of arms may boast. As to his finances, that, -naturally, is a serious question. I could not, as a matter of duty, -permit myself to ignore that important phase of the case. Still, -Jacqueline’s _dot_, if she has due regard to my wishes, will not make -his lack of means an insurmountable obstacle. But, Mr. Hume, his -character, that is of importance.” - -“Yes,” I said significantly, “it is.” - -“I do not mean,” she hastened to add, “that–er–he–er–may not have been -guilty of some of the indiscretions of youth. That is to be expected of -a nobleman of his rank.” - -“Then, Mrs. Gordon, may I ask just what you do mean?” I inquired -suavely. - -“That at least there must have been no scandal, Mr. Hume, no open -scandal. I could not permit dear Jacqueline’s position to be in any way -equivocal.” - -“Your concern as to that is most sensible,” I said sarcastically. -“Still, I am in ignorance as to just how I may help you.” - -“Really, Mr. Hume, you are strangely heedless of my words. Did I not say -a moment ago that I looked to you to make certain inquiries for me?” - -“In other words, Mrs. Gordon,” I said coldly, “you are asking me to be -your private detective, are you not?” - -She held up her hands in horror. - -“An office that I can not undertake, even for you or your niece. I can -think of no marriage for Jacqueline that could possibly be more -distasteful or more disastrous.” - -“If you know nothing about Duke da Sestos, how can you say that his -possible marriage with my niece could be a misfortune? I may be very -dense, but I fail to follow your reasoning, Mr. Hume.” - -“But, Mrs. Gordon,” I said earnestly, “can you not guess something of a -man’s character without knowing all about him?” - -“If I could,” she answered slowly, “I should say that you do not appear -to me to be quite disinterested in your statements.” - -“And if that is true, Mrs. Gordon?” I flung away my cigar and my -caution. “If I confess that I am not disinterested, as you call it? What -then? Say that I love your niece, and I suppose it is right that you -should know that. My love for Jacqueline is great enough not to grudge -her happiness, even if that happiness is to be with another man. But to -see her persuaded into a marriage that every instinct tells me is wrong, -that I know must prove unhappy–I can not allow that to be done without a -protest, though in making that protest I have betrayed my own love for -her. Mrs. Gordon, if I know nothing of Duke da Sestos, I do know -something of his class. Can I say nothing that will influence you?” - -She gathered her shawl about her, and looked at me with stony -indifference. I might as well have appealed to the little waves that -lapped the shore. But I continued desperately: - -“I can not help it that you misjudge me. I must speak. I must plead -Jacqueline’s cause for her, even though she should resent my doing that, -for I am pleading for her happiness. You lay emphasis on the rank of -this Duke da Sestos. He is a duke. But, Mrs. Gordon, there are seventy -ducal houses in Sicily alone. There is no law of primogeniture in Italy. -Titles carry no distinction with them. Princes, dukes, marquises, -counts, they are infinitely more numerous in Italy than decent men. - -“As to the character of this aristocracy–you ask me of the duke’s, I -will tell you the characteristics of most. He is an officer in the -cavalry, therefore he lives beyond his pay. He is a gambler, a -spendthrift. His property is mortgaged to the hilt. A rich marriage is -his only hope. He hunts, shoots, wears English clothes, and that is as -far as he approximates the manly habits of the Englishman. The Italian’s -idea of a sportsman is to ride to the meet in a dog-cart with a fat -poodle at his side. The smaller the pony, the fatter the poodle, the -more of a sportsman he is. Cards, gossip, his mistress–they make up his -life, his real life.” - -“And supposing that all this is true, I do not forget that you are -speaking of a class and not of an individual, Mr. Hume.” - -“I am only imploring you to be very careful.” - -“After you have refused to make inquiries? You are inconsistent.” - -She rose and confronted me with a placidity as obstinate as if I had not -spoken. - -“All that you have said I will try to put to the best of motives, but -you have not shown a generous spirit. In my turn I must appear -ungenerous, I fear. I must protect Jacqueline, and unfortunately, in my -opinion, her marriage with you would be quite as disastrous as you -pretend hers would be with the duke.” - -“I did not mean to speak ungenerously, Mrs. Gordon,” I said humbly. - -“And, as I was about to say, though it may appear ungracious, I am -compelled to withdraw my invitation that you remain our guest here. -Unless, of course, you will give me your promise that in no way––” - -“I understand,” I said stiffly. “I should not feel happy to stay under -those circumstances. I shall leave to-night.” - -I bowed. Then I turned to her for a last appeal. - -“Mrs. Gordon, it is natural that you should listen to me with suspicion, -but try to believe that I speak disinterestedly. Do all you can to -discourage Jacqueline. She is very young. She is romantic, like so many -girls. It is so easy for her to make a mistake, if there is no one to -guide, to advise. Take her away from Italy, at least for the present. -Will you?” I held out my hand. - -“Mr. Hume,” she retorted spitefully, “in these affairs of the heart each -must decide for oneself.” - -“Yes, yes,” I cried eagerly. Then something in her strange smile made -the words die on my lips, and I faltered, “Jacqueline has already -decided that–that she loves the duke?” - -“I have reason to believe so. The duke himself assures me that she has -given him encouragement. More than that, Jacqueline herself does not -deny it.” - -“Thank you,” I said miserably, and went into the hotel to pack my -things. The worst had come, then, for, much as I disliked Mrs. Gordon, I -did not do her the injustice to suppose that she was lying. - -Perhaps I ought to have trusted Jacqueline more. I should have known -that no good woman listens lightly to a man’s declaration of love; and -she had listened to mine. But, again, Jacqueline had given me no -assurance whatever that she returned my love. She had found it difficult -to make up her mind, not only as to whether she really loved me, but -whether I were really in earnest in declaring my love for her. And so -that evening I walked very soberly toward the steamboat-landing, -followed by the porter with my bag. - -The little steamer had given its warning toot, my bag was aboard, I was -about to follow, when I turned, hoping for one last glimpse of -Jacqueline. To my surprise, she was running toward me. She was in -distress. In an instant I was at her side. - -“What, what does it mean, you going away like this?” she panted. - -“I am going back to Venice, Jacqueline,” I answered her gravely. - -“To Venice!” she cried, dismayed. “To Venice this evening, and without -saying good-by to me? Why?” - -“I have had a tiff, dear Jacqueline, with your aunt, and she has ordered -me off. I leave the field,” I added a little bitterly, “to a handsomer, -and I wish I could say to a better, man.” - -She withdrew the hand she had given me, and flushed angrily. Then her -face became very pale. - -“Forgive me, Jacqueline, I did not mean to hurt you.” - -“And what has my aunt told you?” she almost whispered. - -“She has told me, Jacqueline, that Duke da Sestos has asked you to be -his wife. She wishes you to consent. She believes that you have not -refused him.” - -Her color came and went. She drew in a little breath, and her brown eyes -looked over at the mountains beyond Cadenabbia. Tears gathered in them -and began to fall slowly down her cheeks. - -“But it is not true,” I cried, and seized her hand. “It is impossible -that you should have done that.” - -“It is quite true,” she said almost impassively. “He has asked me to be -his wife. I have encouraged him.” - -“Then there is nothing more to be said. Good-by, dear Jacqueline.” - -She caught my coat in her eagerness. - -“Listen, Dick. It is because of that I telegraphed you. You must help -me. I need you. Would you do something for me that was quite -useless–that would give you infinite trouble–that would bring you no -reward except my thanks?” - -“I think it quite possible,” I said, smiling. “What is it?” - -“It is so difficult to make you understand,” she cried, distressed. - -“I will wait till to-morrow.” - -“No, no; if you are to help me in this, you can not do it too quickly.” - -We began to walk toward the boat, which had emitted another piercing -wail. - -“I told you that Duke da Sestos has asked me to marry him, and that I -encouraged him. I did. But, oh, so unconsciously.” - -“You encouraged him unconsciously? Impossible!” - -“It is true, Dick,” she insisted tearfully. “I wished to show him how -impossible it was that I could ever care for him–that nothing but a -miracle could make me love him. It happened that the steel chest he gave -me from the Palazzo stood on the drawing-room table. Quite impulsively I -said: ‘When you bring me the casket that fitted into that steel box, I -will listen to you.’ I said it lightly, Dick, as a bitter jest. I -thought I was asking him to do something quite impossible. To my -surprise, to my dismay, instead of being indignant or angry, he took my -words quite seriously. He refused to see that I had asked him to -accomplish an impossibility. In that intense foreign way of his, he -kissed my hand, bidding me good-by for the present, but he promised me -that, sooner or later, he would return with the casket. I was so -astonished I could say nothing. Before I could recover myself he had -gone. And if he should find it! Oh, Dick, if he should!” - -I laughed joyously–happily. “He shall not,” I cried, “because I am going -to find it myself. And if I do find it, Jacqueline?” - -“I shall be so glad,” she said shyly. - -“But my book of legends,” I said with affected seriousness. “Am I to -give up writing the legend of the clock? I thought I was to persist in -my task. Nothing was to turn me from it.” - -“But I am giving you this new task, Dick,” she said, laughing happily. - -“Yes, yes,” I said, as I leapt aboard at the last moment. “I think I may -find time to do this new task for you, and my legend of the clock as -well.” - -Not until the boat touched the farther shores of Lake Como did it occur -to me that Jacqueline would think this promise but a half-hearted one. -That there was any connection between the clock and the casket she had, -of course, no idea. - - - - - CHAPTER XII - - -I reached Venice by the midnight express. St. Hilary was waiting for me -on the platform. - -“St. Hilary!” I cried with affected gaiety, “what brings you here at two -o’clock in the morning?” - -“Ah, what!” he grumbled. “Have you no imagination? But wait till we are -in my gondola. You are going to your rooms, I suppose?” - -We were scarcely seated when he turned eagerly toward me. His yellow -face was haggard for want of sleep and lined like an old carved ivory, -but in the pale light of the lamps of the landing I saw his eyes gleam. - -“You are in good enough spirits to have good news. Come, no one can hear -us now. Tell me of your little trip to Russia.” - -I recounted to him the story of my fruitless journey. He listened to me -in silence. When I had finished, he drew aside the curtains of the -gondola and looked out. - -“I might have known that you would have just such ill luck,” he said -bitterly, and did not again speak until we had reached the Giudecca. - -We entered the Grand Canal. One thinks of the Grand Canal as a _mise en -scène_ for endless processions of tourists. Your true _flaneur_ shuns -it. He keeps, as far as possible, to the cool blue shadows of the little -canals. - -But to-night this majestic waterway laid a fresh spell on me. It awed -me. This silent stream, black as death, was full of mystery. A menace -lurked in the deep shadows of the great palaces, pallid and ghostlike in -the darkness. The steel prow of our gondola, curving upward proudly, -dipped and glided through the inky waters. Is there in the whole world -anything inanimate so graceful, so almost alive, so light and so cruelly -sharp and strong as the prow of a gondola? It is the very incarnation of -the spirit of the Venetians of the Renaissance. - -To-night, as we penetrated the gloom that was absolute, except for the -light of a tiny lantern on the deck forward, I could put myself back in -the middle ages. I could see the black barge of the _Fante_, the captain -of the inquisitorial guard, swiftly rowed with muffled oars to the -palazzo of the unhappy wretch who had offended against the laws of -Venice. The barge stops at his door; the bolts are slipped by a spy -within; the messenger of torture and imprisonment, somber as the night, -makes his way to the bedside of the doomed man. He starts from his deep -sleep; he is beckoned silently down the echoing stairs; he seats himself -in the black barge; and so, shivering, he goes to his end. - -We shot into one of the narrow, crooked little canals. And now our -gondola scraped the very walls of the window-barred store-houses that -once overflowed with the wealth of the Orient. It was impossible to -think of myself as a simple gentleman with a letter of credit at my -bankers. St. Hilary and I were marauders, adventurers, brawlers, and -this prosaic umbrella between my knees was a long, keen blade, ready for -a lively bout with the watch. - -We were in the Giudecca now, dodging this chain and that of the shipping -moored along the Fondamenta della Zattere. As we made for the shore -opposite, the rain, which had been coming down in a gentle drizzle, fell -smartly, and St. Hilary shouted to the gondolier to row faster. - -Giudecca quarter is anything but fashionable. Gondoliers repeat the word -twice with scorn when the tourist expresses a wish to go there. Steamers -from Greece and America, laden with corn, are anchored along its quay. -From early dawn to night, hundreds of barefooted stevedores, each with -his sack on his shoulder, patter up the narrow plank that spans ship and -shore. An instant they poise their burden on the scale that stands at -the doorway of the magazines, while an official from the customs-house -jealously notes that it is full weight. Then shouldering it again, they -are swallowed up in the cavernous interiors. - -Most of the old palaces of the Giudecca have degenerated into these -store-houses. But here and there, as a thing so insignificant that it is -overlooked, one finds a low-ceiled _trattoria_, where at the noon hour -the stevedores drink the strong wines of Chioggia and shout out their -lusty songs; or it may be an infinitesimal shop, where sharp-faced old -women sell fish and cheese and cherries. - -All day long children sprawl and quarrel and play on the sun-baked -pavement; and artists paint endless pictures of the red and orange sails -drifting slowly by, with the Salute and Ducal Palace for a background. -Yes, the Giudecca quarter is the quarter of the people. But to me the -stevedores, the children, and the haggling old women have a charm all -their own. And here, at the Casa Frollo where I lived, no red-booked -tourist sets foot. - -Our gondolier, winded with his long pull against wind and tide, steered -for some steps a hundred feet this side the Casa Frollo. I called to him -to row farther up the quay, but St. Hilary irritably declared it easier -for us to walk the distance than for him to row. - -“But why walk in the rain?” I expostulated. “And how are you going to -return to your hotel on the Riva if you dismiss your gondolier? -Gondoliers hereabouts at two o’clock in the morning are as rare as -horses on the Piazza.” - -“It happens that I don’t intend to return to-night to my hotel. As a -matter of fact there will be no bed for you, my dear Hume.” - -“No bed? It is not possible that you have already brought back our -clock?” - -“It is not only possible, it is true. I returned this evening in time to -get your telegram and to meet you.” - -“You have had it repaired in a week?” - -“Yes; so far as it could be repaired.” - -“Then there could not have been much the matter with it.” - -“As it happened, there was not.” - -“Then it seems to me that your trip to Amsterdam was not so very -remarkable after all?” I grumbled. - -“Sometimes,” quietly replied St. Hilary, “one has to go to a great deal -of trouble and expense to get a merely negative result. Sometimes it is -necessary to find out simply what a thing is not.” - -“And have you found out that it is not, after all, an automaton clock?” - -“My dear fellow, be reasonable. In the first place, this clock had to be -set going. It was too intricate a piece of mechanism to entrust to any -blundering workman. Are you going to find fault because it has been set -going without any trouble or delay? Every wheel of its works had to be -taken apart.” - -“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.” - -“Indeed?” I said indifferently. I was fumbling for my night-key. I had -insisted on that essentially Anglo-Saxon convenience, and the door had -been fitted with a lock at my expense. I glanced up carelessly at the -windows of my sitting-room, after the manner of one who has been away -from home for a few days. A light was shining through the chink of the -shutters. I pointed it out to St. Hilary. - -“I remember you told me that you had brought the clock to my rooms. You -left the lamp burning, I see.” - -“I? No.” - -“Then who can have been in my rooms?” - -I heard St. Hilary chuckle in the darkness. - -“Rather, say, who is in your room? _Pianissimo, mio caro._ It will be -amusing to surprise this midnight guest. No, no; not a light, and -silence.” - -My rooms were on the second floor. We had to pass through the sala, a -huge apartment, at least forty feet long, a T-square in shape, and it -extended from the canal to the garden at the rear, the smaller part of -the T-square running along the side of the canal. The ceiling of immense -beams stretched from wall to wall. Once these beams had been gaily -decorated with geometrical designs; now they were dingy with a faded -coat of whitewash. The room was lighted by the feeble rays of a -night-lamp in a niche of the wall. - -We tiptoed across the cold floor. Softly, very softly, I pushed down the -straight handle of the door leading into my room. I drew this door -cautiously toward me. A second door still hid us from the intruder, if -intruder there was. Cautiously I pushed it ajar, and looked through the -crack, St. Hilary squinting over my shoulder. - -Duke da Sestos was seated in my room, and on a table immediately in -front of him ticked the clock. A lighted candle stood on either side of -it. He sat huddled in the deep armchair, his head sunk on his breast. -But he was not asleep. His elbows rested on the arms of the chair; his -legs were comfortably crossed. A box of cigarettes was at his elbow, and -at his elbow, too, a decanter of brandy–my brandy. - -I closed the door, and at that moment we heard very faintly from within -an exquisite chime of silver bells. Then the hour of one was struck. - -“By Jove, St. Hilary,” I said savagely, “is that brute to amuse himself -all night, drinking my liquors, listening to the chimes of our clock, -unmolested?” - -“Not unmolested,” chuckled St. Hilary softly. - -“Ah, then, we stop his little game!” - -“With all the pleasure in the world.” - -He took off his cloak. It was very thick and dripping with moisture. He -nodded at me, smiling. - -“Yes, yes, you get the idea? Could a troublesome guest cry out -indignantly if this fine cloak kept his head warm, do you think?” - -He spread out the cloak on one outstretched arm, and tiptoed to the door -again. I followed at his heels. - -“But is this necessary?” I expostulated. “Why not throw him out without -any ado?” - -St. Hilary looked at me with contempt. - -“Do you forget the fourteen pages? We must see them. The chances are -they are in his pocket. We are to be burglars for the nonce, dear Hume, -and this cloak is to go over his head so that he won’t be too noisy.” - -I nodded. “And the program?” - -“It is very simple. His back is toward the door. When the next quarter -chimes, I push open the door softly. I give a twist to my good cloak, -and, _voila_, we shall have caught our prey. Blow out the candles, then -help me. We shall wrap the cloak comfortably about his head, so that he -can not see or hear. Then I go through his pockets. If the stolen pages -are there, very good. If not, his keys may be useful. Have you a rope? -We must fasten his arms and legs.” - -“Yes, a trunk-strap.” - -“Good. _En garde_, then. I am extremely thirsty. My poor lips ache for a -smack of that good liqueur.” - -The clock chimed the half-hour sweetly. St. Hilary, holding the dripping -cloak before him like a shield, pushed open the door. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII - - -St. Hilary did not bungle; and the cloak served admirably. The duke was -no mean antagonist. As I placed my knee on his spine and twisted his -arms back, while St. Hilary adjusted the bonds and the gag, I made up my -mind that I should have to train down a little. - -“And now?” I whispered, when we had trussed him up, for all the world -like a fat fowl. It seemed to me rather useless and silly, all this -fuss, and yet, I confess, I found it exciting. - -St. Hilary shook his head for silence. One of the duke’s cigarettes -drooping at the corner of his mouth, he deliberately went through da -Sestos’s pockets. As I watched him, I shook with silent laughter. St. -Hilary played his part with such boyish gusto. They made a picture, -those two: the duke straining frantically at his bonds; St. Hilary, deft -and cool, quite to the manner born, tapping this pocket and that, and -emptying the contents of each in a little heap on the table–money, keys, -letters. When he had glanced through the last, he conscientiously -returned each article to its respective pocket. Except the keys and the -copy of a telegram. The keys he calmly transferred to his own pocket; -the telegram he handed to me. I read it curiously: - -“Please tell Mr. Hume that he is by all means to give you the clock at -once.” - -It was signed by Mrs. Gordon, and was directed to the duke. I looked at -it thoughtfully. - -“Supposing, St. Hilary, that while reading this telegram the candle’s -flame happened to catch it. Naturally, I should let it go–like this,” I -whispered, and stamped on the burning paper. - -“Wise young man,” commented St. Hilary. “And now I am going to return -the call of the duke. We are going to play our little game of tit for -tat.” - -He put on his cloak, then, drawing its folds about him, he beckoned me -out into the sala. - -“Yes, I am off to our comedian’s apartment. We must have those fourteen -pages, if possible. Do you keep your eye on the duke there until four -o’clock. Then let yourself down-stairs softly, very softly. Return -noisily, very noisily. Imagine you have been dining, as the poet says, -not wisely but too well. You will then be horrified to discover that our -lord duke is blindfolded, strapped, and gagged. You release him with -cries of concern. You are all sympathy. We have done our work skilfully -enough so that he can not know we are the aggressors. It is true, he may -guess. I shall return here to-morrow morning, probably not before noon. -We shall need a few hours’ sleep. I hope I shall bring those fourteen -pages with me, then we can amuse ourselves with our clock.” - -“But our beast of prey in there. Though he can not see or move, don’t -forget he can hear. Keeping still until four o’clock in the morning does -not appeal to me in the least. Why not shut him up in my coat-closet -until it is time to release him?” - -“Excellent.” - -We entered my room again, and, in spite of his struggles, stood the duke -upright in the narrow closet. Then, leaving him standing there like a -mummy, we turned the key on him and left him to his reflections. - -“Now I’m off,” whispered St. Hilary. - -When he had closed the door behind him, I took the seat in front of the -clock. I waited for the clock to strike the hour of two. - -The silver bell struck the three-quarter-hour. The minutes dragged on. -As I sat there, staring at the clock, my eyes on its face, it seemed a -thing sinister, half alive. Its yellow face took on a look that was half -human. It made faces at me. It mocked me. - -And then at last a spring whirred. The little silver bells, sweet as an -elfin chime in fairyland, shocked me into rigid attention. It was two -o’clock. I watched the doors eagerly. - -At first I thought none of the twelve doors had opened. I forgot for the -moment that the door of the second hour was at the side of the clock. I -moved the candle to the side. Yes, the door was wide open. I thrust the -rays of the candle at the little doorway, and I saw–what? - -A circular platform was being pushed slowly forward. On this platform -was a tiny throne in silver. At the foot of this throne a bronze figure -crouched abjectly. Another figure stood upright at the base of the -throne. In his two hands the upright figure clutched a sword. As the -clock struck twice, the sword was raised high above his head, with a -droll, mechanical jerk. It descended twice on the neck of the crouching -figure. Then, very slowly, the platform retreated into the doorway. The -door closed. - -That was all. A dollar cuckoo clock is hardly less impressive or more -ridiculous. A figure hacks with a sword at a figure complacently -kneeling to receive the blow–that was all! But was it all? Was there -not, behind the little figure, a background of bronze, a drop-curtain, -so to speak? And on the background was there not something in -bas-relief? I felt quite sure that there was, though the two automata -must be the principal actors in the foolish scene. I jotted down as much -as I could remember, and waited for three o’clock to strike. - -But if the previous hour was disappointing, this was maddeningly so. -This time I had the two lighted candles standing at the third door, that -not a fraction of a second might be wasted. - -Again the whirr of the spring and the chime of bells. The third door -opened slowly. The circular platform was pushed out again. A single -figure this time. I watched it, breathless, and it did–nothing. It stood -there motionless. But at the second glance I saw that it was designedly -motionless. It was not an automaton. It was simply a piece of bronze -cast in the shape of an old man in a flowing robe. The Doge’s cap was on -his head. His right arm was lifted as if gesticulating. And as the hours -struck, there appeared from the rear of the platform, in quick -succession, tiny round disks. They sprang into line from within one -after the other. Before the door closed I counted ten of them. They -stood in a row, facing the immovable figure. There was again a bronze -plate at the back. At first I thought it was ornamented with a -geometrical design. But as I looked at it more closely, I saw that it -was a gate. This scene was more tantalizing than the last. When the -clock had been in perfect repair the ten disks must have been the basis -for ten automata, much after the fashion of the Noah’s Ark men of our -childhood. Naturally, the ten figures suggested the Council of Ten, and -the single figure the Doge. But one would need some imagination to guess -their significance. The clock might have a wonderful secret to tell, but -it would take a genius or extraordinary luck to puzzle it out. - -The clock ticked complacently. It seemed to jeer at me with its clacking -rhythm. I lighted one of the duke’s excellent cigarettes. My nerves had -been spurred to an ecstasy of excitement. I had expected wonderful -things to happen. Nothing had happened. Nothing, I said to myself, was -going to happen. I was very sleepy. The irritating tick-tock sounded far -away. I nodded in my chair. - -The whirr of the spring and the silver chime aroused me. I leaned -forward languidly, cynically, rubbing my eyes. The first of the six -doors in front opened. This time no automaton appeared. In the -background I made out some monster, a well-curb, and a tree. The door -closed slowly. I laughed aloud. St. Hilary and myself had been mad to -dream that after almost five centuries the clock could tell its secret, -if indeed it had a secret to tell. - -I yawned, blew out the candles, put on my overcoat and hat, and slipped -down-stairs. It was time to let the duke out of his box. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV - - -I walked a few rods from the house, hugging the wall. Returning noisily, -I pulled the bell half a dozen times. True, I had my key in my pocket, -but just now it would have been as well to have left it at home. All the -world must know I had just returned from my journey. - -I had to wait five minutes before the frowsy head of my housekeeper -peered over the balcony. In the meanwhile, I discovered another head -looking at me from over the edge of the quay. By the rays of the lantern -at my door I recognized the face staring at me intently as that of the -man whom we had seen smoking under the bridge. He was the duke’s -gondolier. He was waiting for his master. - -Then he knew the duke was in my rooms. That was awkward. Had he seen me -come out of the house? Nothing was more likely. What if his master -should question him, presently, if he had seen any suspicious characters -about? What if the man told his master that he had seen me come sneaking -out of the house one minute, to return noisily the next? When he -described me, what would the duke naturally infer? And if, still later, -the duke discovered that St. Hilary had paid this midnight visit to his -room? Well, at any rate, he would be assured that we were really in -earnest. He would know that if the casket was to be found, he was not -the only one who was looking for it. - -I stepped into the hall and banged the door after me. I stumbled up the -stairs. I clattered across the sala. I sang. I lurched into a table. I -fell with a crash against the closet-door in which the duke was -imprisoned. There was no doubt about my having come home this time. Even -the duke in his narrow box must have heard me. I lighted a candle, and -taking off my coat and waistcoat, I held them in front of me with one -hand and flung open the closet-door with the other. I was prepared to -express surprise. I had an exclamation conveniently on my lips. It so -happened that my surprise was genuine. As I opened the door the duke -toppled over limply into my arms. He had fainted. - -I let him slip to the floor. I unbound his wrists and legs. I tore off -the gag. I chafed his hands. I poured water over his face. Upon my word, -between us we had well-nigh smothered the chap. - -He opened his eyes presently. Sitting up, he blinked at me. Slowly the -pallor left his face. He glanced about the room; he shook himself -together, rose to his feet, laughed lightly, and, walking over to the -table where his cigarettes lay, he lighted one, and inhaled it deeply. - -“Ah, my friend Hume, that was not a pleasant half-hour. I must thank -you, my deliverer.” - -I shook hands rather guiltily. I noticed that he was curiously examining -his cigarettes. - -“The thief has been helping himself,” he said carelessly. - -“Thief?” I cried, alarmed, and rushed to my bedroom. I threw out the -contents of a drawer or two, and came back into the sitting-room, the -picture of despair. - -“Yes, thieves,” I said feebly, as I sank into a chair. “A diamond -scarf-pin, a watch, a few hundred lire–all stolen.” - -“_Mio caro_,” he cried hypocritically, seizing my hands. - -“But how did you get into my closet?” I demanded. - -“My dear Mr. Hume, do you think I walked in there?” - -“I suppose not,” I answered dryly; “but I suppose you walked into my -sitting-room?” - -He was voluble in his excuses. He had come on a little errand. He must -have fallen asleep. He remembered nothing till he was seized and bound -and robbed. - -“So they have robbed you, these thieves?” I asked indiscreetly. - -“Yes; they have taken my keys,” and he looked at me keenly. - -“Your keys!” I expostulated. “What would they do with your keys? You -must have left them at home.” - -“Perhaps. _Eh bien_, Mr. Hume, I must bid you good night. I must walk, I -suppose, to the Tragetto Ponte del Piccolo for a gondolier. Why, my -friend, do you dwell in this barbarous Giudecca?” Then his eyes fell on -the table, where the clock ticked loudly. “Ah ha, my old clock, and it -goes. Capital! I had quite forgotten my errand.” - -“And that is?” - -“To deprive you of my clock, my friend. Do you forget that we were to -telegraph Madame Gordon in St. Petersburg? Oh, la, la, you did not wait -for me at the bureau, I remember. That was not the act of a sportsman.” -He shook his head reproachfully. - -“I thought it was you who did not wait for me,” I said dryly. “And have -you yet received an answer to your telegram?” - -“But yes. Behold!” He fumbled in his breast-pocket, and sorted rapidly a -package of letters and papers. “_Accidenti!_” he cried, “it is not -here.” - -“No doubt you left it at home with the keys,” I said coolly. - -“Eh? At home with the keys?” He looked at me with half-shut eyes. - -“Why not?” I asked, yawning, and casting a longing eye toward my -bedroom. - -He began to laugh boisterously. “It is a matter to laugh over that -thieves should rob one of a telegram and one’s keys, _hein?_” - -“Decidedly,” I said uneasily. - -“But it will be the simplest thing in the world for me to get another -telegram,” he cried mockingly. “The thieves will not inconvenience me in -the slightest. And as to their going to my rooms, bah, I am not so big a -fool as to leave anything of interest there for an intruder to gaze at. -No, Mr. Hume, not so big a fool as that. By the way, did you find your -bibelot, that rare bibelot in the Imperial Library, interesting?” - -“I did not take the trouble to go back for it,” I lied carelessly. “A -telegram from Miss Quintard recalled me to Bellagio.” - -I startled him as I had intended to. His face darkened. He looked at the -clock again. - -He had heard the spring whirr metallically. The bells began to strike. -Instinctively we both turned, and watched the fourth door open slowly. -Again the figure on the platform had been broken off. What the -background was I could not see. I dared not show too great curiosity -before the duke. - -The door closed. The duke and I looked at each other. - -“It is interesting, all the same, my droll old clock.” - -I shrugged my shoulders. - -“I see that you have had it repaired.” - -“I was wondering if that fact would dawn on you,” I said. - -“Am I to understand that because you have had the clock repaired, my -right to it is the less real?” he inquired, an ugly gleam in his blue -eyes. - -“You are to understand precisely that,” I replied. “And permit me to -remind you, first of all, that this clock is not yours. It is now Mrs. -Gordon’s. She has asked me to keep it for her. I shall take whatever -steps I may think necessary for its safe keeping. I am beginning to -think that it is valuable when people break into my rooms to observe -it.” - -“Break into your rooms?” He looked at me angrily. - -“I beg your pardon,” I said suavely. “I was thinking, of course, of the -thieves.” - -He bowed. “A very natural mistake. _Felice noce._” - -“Good night, duke.” We pressed each other’s hands warmly. - -But at the door he turned. - -“Mr. Hume, do you not think that when people resort to the extreme -measures of binding one and shutting one up in closets they must be -decidedly anxious that one shall not see things?” - -“Without a doubt,” I retorted airily. “As, for instance, when they tear -leaves out of library-books.” - -Again we bowed. So we understood each other. - -I threw open my shutters and looked out. The duke was stepping into his -gondola. Evidently he saw it was useless to sail longer under false -colors. He waved to me familiarly. - -It was a superb morning. The rain had been blown away. Venice had robed -herself in glory, and proudly enthroned herself as the great -enchantress, the magician of the seas. - -I threw myself wearily on my bed for a few hours’ sleep. The clock might -strike as it would. I was disgusted with its antics. - - - - - CHAPTER XV - - -It was long past noon when I was awakened by St. Hilary. - -“Well,” I asked sleepily, “have you had any luck?” - -“None whatever. The duke’s belongings were packed. His rooms were -dismantled. If you remember, he has been living at Bellagio the past few -days. He has a villa there.” - -“So you have no trace of the missing papers?” - -“No trace,” he replied gloomily. “But tell me of your own adventures -with the duke.” - -“It appears,” he said ruefully, when I had finished, “that the duke has -had the advantage of us after all. But at least we have the clock.” - -“Yes,” I echoed sarcastically, “we have the clock. But it seems to me -that the childish contrivances one sees sold on the boulevards of Paris -for ten sous are as ingenious. I have heard it strike four of the hours, -and each hour’s results were more disappointing than the last.” - -“Did you expect to find its secret on the surface, like the pebbles on -the sea-shore? There are pebbles on the shore, yes. But, my friend, a -poet has said we must dive for the pearls.” - -“The automata are all more or less broken,” I grumbled. “We gained -precious little by our trips to Holland and Russia, I think.” - -“I don’t call my trip a failure.” - -“But your Dutch clock-maker didn’t repair the automata,” I insisted. - -“Very true. But he was able to assure me what I had already guessed and -hoped might be true–that the antics of the automata, even when the clock -was in perfect order, could never have amounted to much. Their various -movements, however droll and amusing, were too simple to have much -significance.” - -“The automata have no significance!” I repeated testily. “Why, I thought -the fact that the clock as an automaton clock was precisely the -significant point. If the automata amount to no more than a row of pins, -how the devil is the clock to tell its secret?” - -“My dear Hume,” returned St. Hilary quietly, “they may amount in the end -to a row of diamonds. I did not say that the automata have no -significance whatever. On the contrary, they are perhaps the principal -actors of each scene. But the chorus of each scene is to be found in the -bas-reliefs that appear on the bronze plates forming the backgrounds. If -we grant that, the office of the automaton figures is chiefly to -identify the twelve scenes in the bas-relief.” - -“But if that is true, shall we be able to identify the scenes in the -backgrounds when the automatic figures are missing?” - -“It will be difficult to do so, certainly. But I believe these automata -have a purpose more subtle than that. If my theory is correct, the mad -goldsmith would not tell his secret by the uncertain means of a lot of -dancing and gesticulating figures. The mechanism would be too intricate -and delicate to stand the test of wear and time. It is most probable -that the automatic figures, while serving the subsidiary purpose of -identifying the various scenes in the backgrounds, are really a bluff. -They are a blind to rob the backgrounds of their significance. They are -designed to catch the attention of the unwary. The unthinking man, held -by the movements of the figures themselves, would look no farther.” - -“That is a really ingenious theory, St. Hilary,” I said admiringly. - -“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.” - -“Since the automata are useless, and, in most of the hours, are missing -entirely, why should we not take flashlight snap-shots of the twelve -backgrounds? We could then study them at our leisure.” - -“Excellent. But the camera?” - -“I have a very good one with an admirable lens. I can take the pictures -myself. These photos we can always carry about with us on our person. -There will be no danger of the duke’s stealing those. But the clock, we -can’t keep guard over it all the time. The duke will surely insist on -its being given up to him sooner or later. If necessary, he will call in -the police.” - -“Hume, you are an inspiration. What’s your idea for getting rid of it?” - -“If I shipped it to America for Mrs. Gordon, ought she not to be -grateful to me for saving her that bother!” - -“But the duke could readily prevail on her to cable to America to have -it sent back to her. The ruse would give us a month’s start, it is true; -but what if we shouldn’t find the casket in a month?” - -“I have thought of that. If it were sent to a wrong address, by mistake, -or to your shop, for example? And if you sent instructions that the box -was to be put carefully away until your return?” - -“My dear fellow, you are a jewel of thoughtfulness. Take your -flash-lights immediately; and when you have made twelve perfect -pictures, we will pack the clock, and see ourselves that it is safely -started on its long journey to America. Until then, one or the other of -us must guard it day and night.” - -I took the twelve flash-lights. They were a perfect success. Two days -later the clock was boxed, labeled “Glass, with care,” and on its way to -Genoa, whence it was to be shipped to New York. - -On the same steamer was a letter from the dealer to his partner, -advising him that a box containing an article of value had been shipped -that day, and instructing him to have it stored away carefully until -further orders. All information concerning it was to be absolutely -withheld. - -We acted not a day too soon. Our duke appeared again; this time armed -with legal authority. I expressed the profoundest regret, but how could -I dare to keep so valuable an antique longer in my possession, since I -had reason to know that thieves had already forced their way into my -rooms to steal it? The duke stormed and threatened. I smiled at him -blandly. When he asked me where I had sent it, I informed him that I had -despatched it to New York, in the care of St. Hilary’s partner. As to -the instructions St. Hilary had given his partner, the dealer in -antiques would doubtless tell him what they were, since he had written -them. St. Hilary lied, cheerfully and absolutely, asserting that he had -sent orders to his partner promptly to surrender the clock to any person -bearing a signed note from Mrs. Gordon. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI - - -For a week St. Hilary scarcely left my room. He ate little; he smoked -boxes of cigarettes; he consumed pots of black coffee. Such sleep as he -had he snatched for an hour at a time in my armchair. And always in -front of him were the photographs of the backgrounds of the twelve -hours. - -As for me, I waited on him hand and foot. I was a hewer of wood and a -drawer of water. Now I went to Rosen’s to buy some volume, now to -Organia’s to borrow a collection of rare prints, now to the Museo Civico -to consult the director. The archives of the Frari, the Academy of Arts, -each of them saw me often. In the morning, perhaps I looked at a picture -of Carpaccio or Bellini; in the afternoon I explored an obscure -_canaletto_. - -I was content to take the humbler position. St. Hilary had a right to -command. His had been the discovery that made the search possible. -Again, it seemed fit that his quicker brain should catch the fire, the -inspiration. I did not doubt but that sooner or later from the mass of -lifeless evidence, which he was heaping about him, he would surely draw -forth the secret. - -But now, after a week of fruitless searching, his chin a reproach, his -hands trembling, and his temper a thing to be respected, he leaned back -in the chair and despaired. - -“It is useless,” he sighed. “The thing is not to be done in a day or a -week. I have not the art of divination. Sometimes I feel that I am on -the right track. I grope; I touch something; I clutch at it, but it -eludes me, always. There stands the ticking, mocking braggart. It laughs -at us with its brazen wheels; it mocks us with its silver tongue. I -believe that the spirit of the mad goldsmith actually dwells in its -hollow sides.” - -And yet, in spite of St. Hilary’s despair, we had accomplished -something. - -Of the original automata of the twelve hours we had found four only to -be in actual working order. In three of the hours, some of the figures -were intact, and some were broken. In the five remaining hours, the -figures were completely lacking. - -To consider the four hours with the figures intact, namely, 1, 2, 6, 7: - -1.–A robed figure and a lion. The lion nods once. - -2.–A figure standing over a kneeling slave in an attitude of menace, -twice strikes the neck of the slave with a sword. - -6.–A dancing figure advances ten steps forward and retreats ten steps. - -7.–A dove appears at the window of a tower. - -In hours 3, 8, 9, some of the figures were intact, some broken: - -3.–A robed figure seated in a chair. Before this figure, designedly -motionless, ten disks appear in succession, and are ranged in a row. The -figures are broken off the disks. - -8.–A crowned figure standing on a dais before a throne. A second figure -at the foot of the throne is broken off. - -9.–A seated figure with a scepter. - -In hours 4, 5, 10, 11, 12 there was not the slightest fragment of the -figures remaining. - -So much for the automata. - -The scenes of the bas-reliefs of the backgrounds were as follows: - -1.–A palace, plainly the Doge’s palace. Seven arches of the palace are -seen. Beneath six of these arches groups of men are standing–ten figures -in each group, or sixty in all. - -2.–A hanging. - -3.–A gate. - -4.–Three trees; a beast of burden, probably a camel; a well. - -5.–Badly mutilated. - -6.–Two figures seated on the balcony over the doorway of San Marco. One -figure wears the Doge’s cap; the other is crowned with a wreath of -laurel. - -7.–A barge on a stormy sea. - -8.–An empty room in a palace. The door is open; no figures are seen. - -9.–Thirteen kneeling figures with outstretched hands. - -10.–Six gondolas in procession; tritons spouting. - -11.–Mutilated. - -12.–Three figures holding out bags. - -Such were the automata and the bas-reliefs in the backgrounds of the -twelve hours. - -As to the scenes they represented, St. Hilary had made a rough guess at -most of them. Four or five of the scenes he thought he had identified -unmistakably. All twelve of them were scenes out of Venetian history. -When I urged him for the results he had gained so far, he declared at -first that they were too meager to be suggestive. But I was not to be -balked. - -“I have been running your errands for a week, St. Hilary,” I reminded -him. “I have been your obedient messenger–an intelligent messenger, if -you will–and I have left you to do the piecing together of the different -parts of the puzzle. Now I want to know what you have accomplished.” - -“There is very little to tell,” he said sulkily. “Scene one represents -St. Mark and his lion, the tutelary saint of Venice. As to the second -scene, the story is in every guide-book. The artist Gentile Bellini -visited the Sultan of Turkey, and painted for him a picture of the -daughter of Herodias bringing in the head of St. John the Baptist on a -charger. The Sultan objected that the neck was not rightly drawn–that -when a man was beheaded, no neck appeared at all, in fact. The artist -disputed the point. To prove himself in the right, the Sultan struck off -a slave’s head.” - -“And the third hour–the ten disks arranged in a row?” - -“The Council of Ten, I suppose.” - -“Well, well, the fourth, St. Hilary?” I cried sharply. - -“Perhaps you know its significance. I don’t. The camel doesn’t figure in -Venetian history, so far as I know. It is true, Marco Polo traveled to -the Great Khan of Cathay. The scene might have been a chapter out of his -life. But after wading through his travels I have failed to find it.” - -“And the next, I suppose, is too badly mutilated to be identified?” - -“Absolutely,” he grumbled. - -“And the background of the sixth hour?” I asked, studying the photograph -through a powerful magnifying-glass. “Have you been able to identify -either of the two figures seated on the balcony?” - -“Both,” he replied with more animation. “The figure with the Doge’s cap -is Dandolo. The figure crowned with a wreath of laurel by his side -represents the poet Petrarch, who was his guest. The automatic figure -that dances the ten steps forward and backward symbolizes a festival -held on the Piazza after Venice had subdued her enemy Crete.” - -“The seventh hour represents,” I ventured, “the legend of the Doge -receiving news of victory by a carrier-pigeon. Every child who feeds the -creatures on the Piazza knows that story. The tower must be the -Campanile.” - -“Quite right. The scene of the eighth hour,” continued St. Hilary, “you -discovered for yourself in the Academy this morning. The room of the -palace in the background is an exact reproduction of the palace seen in -the painting of Carpaccio.” - -“And the ninth?” I demanded, feeling that our information was meager -indeed. - -“Here, again, we can only guess. The broken figure may be Carmagnola, -the soldier of fortune. The thirteen figures kneeling in the background -no doubt typify his conquered enemies. The procession of the gondolas -and the spouting tritons in the tenth probably represent the going of -the Doge in his bucentaur to wed the Adriatic.” - -“And the eleventh hour must be quite hopeless. The automaton is missing -and the plate at the back is battered beyond all recognition,” I said -moodily. - -“The twelfth is almost as obscure,” concluded St. Hilary. “The figures -holding out the bags are perhaps conquered Genoese offering ransom.” - -“It is not very promising,” I confessed, “Have you any theory whatever -as to the meaning of these scenes?” - -“I have a dozen. But they are all equally impossible.” - -“Let me hear one of them, at least,” I urged. - -“Well, then, if I repeat to you the numbers 10, 4, 7, 21, 1, 10, 3, 40, -of what do you at once think?” - -“A cipher,” I cried eagerly. - -“That is the theory that seems to me the most hopeful at present. The -numbers I have mentioned are the figures of the different successive -scenes. It is barely possible that these numbers, either alone or -combined with other numbers, might bring us to the hiding-place of the -casket. The trouble is that not every scene has figures in the -background. The eighth, for instance. And in hours five and eleven, the -backgrounds are so mutilated that, even if this theory were true, we -should lack those numbers to make our cipher complete.” - -“And yet the existence of a cipher seems the only possible way by which -the riddle may be solved.” - -“I believe that is true. There are twelve hours, that is, there are -twelve different steps–twelve different links to the whole chain. -Beginning at hour one, so many steps, paces, or what not, ought to bring -us to hour two. There, beginning afresh, so many steps, paces, and so -forth, again ought to bring us to hour three, and so on. Do you get the -idea?” - -“It sounds reasonable,” I replied thoughtfully. “But since two or three -scenes are missing, I can not see much promise in this theory.” - -“I told you that they were all impossible,” growled the dealer. “So far -we are quite at sea. To-morrow, perhaps–” he sighed wearily. - -“To-morrow perhaps we shall have better luck,” I said cheerfully. “It is -always darkest before the dawn.” - -“_Pas de banalités._ I am not a Sunday-school scholar to be preached at. -Come, let’s to dinner.” - - - - - CHAPTER XVII - - -Three weeks passed before we made any further progress. A clue, but -always an imaginary clue, would prick us into feverish activity, which -invariably led us nowhere. - -But toward the end of the third week of our search, St. Hilary came to -my rooms one afternoon, triumphant. He had actually made a discovery. -And this discovery proved, beyond the peradventure of a doubt, not only -that the clock had a story to tell, not only that the twelve hours -actually did constitute twelve links of a chain, but that somewhere, in -the background of each hour, there was some mark corresponding to a like -mark in some part of Venice. - -“It is only a little clue,” he said with affected modesty, “a very -little one. But who knows that it may not be the wedge that shall pry -open our treasure-box?” - -“Produce this wedge by all means,” I said skeptically. - -“This morning, about half past ten, I found myself in the Campo San -Salvatore–you know it, the little square with the house of the gaily -painted balcony and the roses on the north side. At the left of the -square, going toward San Marco, perhaps you remember, there is a boys’ -school. You may have observed a respectable old servant who walks -solemnly up to the big bell on the left of the door, leading a little -boy by the hand. He always rings the bell at eight o’clock in the -morning. When the door is opened he hands the school-books to his -charge, shakes his finger at him, and toddles off to the seller of -sweetened water at the corner for a drink.” - -“Has this respectable old man anything to do with your precious -discovery?” I asked impatiently. - -“A great deal to do with it. This morning, as I was saying, I caught -sight of my old man and the young gentleman. My eyes dwelt on them -affectionately while the servant rang the big bell, and shook his -forefinger at the smiling boy. Now observe, my dear Hume; if I hadn’t -met my old man, I should have hurried through the square. In that case I -should have missed the boy with the fish.” - -“Oh, there is a boy with a fish, is there?” I remarked. - -“Yes,” he said severely, “there is a boy with a fish. While I stood -watching the old man, a stream of curses and abuse in the Venetian -dialect disturbed my pleasant reflections. I turned, and there, at the -open door of a large house, stood a barefooted boy with a flat basket of -fish. Two servants were shrieking at him like the very devil. The fish -was bad, perhaps, or the boy had given the wrong change. I do not know. -The point is that the old servant, the seller of sweetened water, who -left his stand, and the dark-eyed gipsies at the well, who left their -buckets, came to look on. The bad little boy with the fish didn’t like -this publicity. Especially when a majestic policeman with a long feather -in his round hat––” - -I groaned. “Is the majestic policeman with the long feather in his round -hat absolutely essential?” - -“The majestic policeman with the long feather in his round hat is -absolutely essential”, said St. Hilary with an amused drawl. - -“Even the long feather in the round hat!” I could not resist asking. - -“Especially the long feather in the round hat, as you will see if you -are patient For this majestic policeman came on the bad little boy quite -unawares, and, seizing his ear, he made him a prisoner. Then the -youngster wrenched himself free, only to run headlong into another -policeman who was coming from the Calle San Rosario. The _spighetti_, -compelled to double on his tracks, plunged recklessly into the first -opening that offered. This happened to be the gate leading into the -school garden, that chanced to be wide open. Now, we thought, the -youngster will surely be caught, and when the policeman with the long -feather in his hat languidly strolled after his prey, the rest of the -square pressed respectfully after to see the fun. But the young -ragamuffin had the policeman now quite at his mercy, for he lost himself -immediately among threescore of boys at play. So that presently, while -the policeman was vainly searching the garden for him, the bad little -boy regained the entrance. He cast one cautious eye into the square to -be sure that the second policeman had disappeared, and then, after the -manner of small boys the world over, he held his thumb and fingers -extended at the majestic policeman, and called him naughty names.” - -“A beautiful little sketch of low life in Venice,” I said sarcastically. -“But I fail to see even yet the pertinency of the long feather in the -round hat.” - -“Patience, my friend. When he had sufficiently insulted the majestic -policeman in this manner, he took one of his mullets, and hurling it -with precision–-–” - -“Struck the round hat with the long feather.” - -“–Missed the round hat with the long feather,” corrected St. Hilary with -calm precision, “but struck the long feather on the round hat. It hung -pitifully, a draggled and wobegone bit of finery; and those of us who -had followed him into the court naturally regarded it with respectful -sympathy. And then my heart came into my mouth. The broken feather was -pointing, as it were a human hand, straight to a round––” - -“Not another round hat!” I cried in despair. - -“–Straight to a round stone let into the wall. And on this round stone -was carved a camel’s head, the precise image of the camel’s head in this -photograph of the background of the fourth hour.” - -St. Hilary looked at me in triumph, and, picking up the photograph, -thrust it into my hand. - -“The precise image of the camel’s head in this photograph,” I repeated, -trying to grasp the significance of that statement. “But why should you -think that the clock-maker copied the head of that particular camel in -the background of the fourth hour? My dear St. Hilary, your introduction -was too elaborate for your news to be striking. I expected something -more startling.” - -“But, idiot,” cried the dealer, exasperated, “look at the photograph. Do -you see nothing peculiar about that camel’s head?” - -I took the magnifying-glass and studied the photograph carefully. - -“Nothing–unless it be the eye. Perhaps it is a defect in the -workmanship. But it looks–yes, it certainly does look as if the camel -was blind.” - -“The camel carved on the stone let into the wall of the house is blind -also.” - -“This _is_ news, if it is not the merest chance,” I cried. - -“And before the house was used as a school, it was called the House of -the Blind Camel.” - -“The House of the Blind Camel!” I repeated excitedly. “By Jove, St. -Hilary, does that mean you have stumbled on one of the twelve -landmarks?” - -“Patience. Look at your photograph again. What else do you see in the -background of the fourth hour?” - -“A well,” I answered promptly. “If you have found the well, there can be -no doubt.” - -“And I _have_ found the well. Look at the photograph. What is the design -of the beading round the curb?” - -“A looped wreath with pomegranates between each loop.” - -“The well in the school garden has a beading of the same design. But -study the photograph a moment–look carefully at the second and third -pomegranates from the left. Do you notice anything peculiar?” - -“No, I see nothing peculiar about them.” - -“The more we study the history of this clock, Hume, the more I am -impressed with the fact that the eye is a most unreliable organ. We -rarely see a thing as it actually is; we see it as we expect it to be. -Take the magnifying-glass and look at those second and third -pomegranates carefully.” - -“I see now,” I cried. “They are not pomegranates; they are two -rosettes.” - -“And there are two rosettes between two of the loops of the well in the -garden. You grasp the importance of the discovery, I hope. It means that -we have to study the photographs from quite a different point of view. -All we have to do now is to find in the various backgrounds some -significant mark that is paralleled in the various landmarks about -Venice that lead to the casket.” - -“Are you not a little too sanguine, St. Hilary? These twelve marks are -often most obscure. In the fifth and the eleventh hours there are no -marks whatever.” - -“That is true,” replied St. Hilary thoughtfully. “This discovery by -itself is quite useless. If we could have found the mark of the fifth -hour we could have begun at this fourth hour. But since that is -missing––” - -“And I suppose it is useless for us to think of beginning with the -landmarks of the last hours, even if we could find them in the -background. The last of the landmarks would be almost certainly found -not in the open air, but in the interior of some palace.” - -“There is another difficulty that has just occurred to me,” continued -St. Hilary. “We have been taking it for granted that we start from the -Pillar of San Marco in the Piazzetta. I still think that it is -reasonable that the search begins there. If that be true, we find -ourselves in the fourth hour at the Campo San Salvatore, but the -landmark of the sixth hour brings us back to the balcony of San Marco in -the Piazza again. In the next hour we simply stroll a few feet away to -the Campanile. In that case the mad clock-maker has been leading us -about in a senseless circle. He may have been mad, but he was not as mad -as that.” - -“Then you think the wisest thing is for us to search for the second -landmark? It does not seem particularly promising. So far as I can see, -it is merely a curtain, with a conventional decoration of what appears -to be more like two husks of corn than anything else I can think of. One -of these husks is perpendicular; the other horizontal.” - -“I see no reason why we should not begin with the sixth hour,” asserted -St. Hilary. - -“I think we may begin at any one of them with an equal chance of -success,” I said hopelessly. “This search of ours is like nothing so -much as hunting for twelve needles in twenty thousand haystacks.” - -And it turned out that I was right. For several days we made no farther -progress. We became so utterly fatigued and weary of looking for we knew -not what that we saw nothing. We took to wandering vaguely about the -canals and the streets. A restlessness urged us out at all hours in -search of these vague landmarks. Every morning after breakfast we set -out somewhere. Every evening we returned discouraged. And so a month -passed, and we were no nearer to the da Sestos casket. - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII - - -Jacqueline and I had not written to each other for nearly three weeks. - -When I first returned from Bellagio I had intended to explain the -apparent flippancy of my last words to her–that I could write the legend -of the da Sestos clock, as well as search for the casket. For Jacqueline -was, as I have said, quite ignorant that the casket and the clock were -in any way connected. - -But I had not done so. Partly because I wished to surprise her with that -fact, and partly because success had not crowned our efforts as soon as -I had hoped. I regretted that I had not told her everything; and yet -each day I put off doing so. And so three weeks passed, and still I had -not told her. - -The fact is, this search for the casket had in some subtle way raised a -barrier between Jacqueline and myself. At first I had entered into the -quest with enthusiasm. Jacqueline’s entreaty had given the task a -dignity and a certain sacredness. But, gradually, my motive for finding -it was lost sight of. The madness of St. Hilary had also entered my -veins. I became more and more eager for success purely for its own sake, -and not for Jacqueline’s. The quest had become almost a mania–just such -a restless, haunting, cruel longing as tempts the miner to drag his -aching feet one more burning mile for the gold he covets. That -Jacqueline had asked me to find the casket for her redeemed the search -from folly. But as soon as I cared for the thing itself it became a -degrading passion. - -It was Sunday morning. St. Hilary had insisted upon my going once more -to the Academy of Arts to compare the photograph of the eighth hour with -Carpaccio’s picture, the Dismissal of the Ambassadors, in the series of -paintings known as the Martyrdom of St. Ursula. I was still in search, -of course, of the ever-baffling landmark. - -The bell of the English church was solemnly tolling in the Campo San -Agnese. The doors of the Academy were not yet open, and I began to watch -listlessly the well-dressed throng of English and American tourists -crossing the big iron bridge on their way to divine service. To my great -surprise I saw Jacqueline among them. - -There was a pensive look on her lovely face that touched me. I realized, -now that I saw her, how great had been my folly. My eyes had been bent -on the mire, while the goddess herself was passing by. I sprang up the -steps of the bridge, and met her half-way across. - -“Jacqueline,” I cried, “when did you come to Venice?” - -She looked at me with a sort of gentle wonder. I put up my hand guiltily -to my chin. St. Hilary and myself had grown so absorbed in our search -that we had given little thought to what we ate or drank or what we wore -or how we looked. But Jacqueline, it seemed, was observing my face and -not my scrubby beard. - -“We arrived last night. But you look a ghost, a shadow of yourself.” - -“The hunt for the casket, Jacqueline, is an excellent preventive against -obesity,” I said lightly. - -At this reference to the casket the color slowly left her cheeks, and -her eyes looked into mine wistfully. - -“You–you are still searching for it?” - -“Of course I am!” I answered almost gruffly. - -“I did not know. You have not written,” she said quietly. - -“If I have not written,” I answered, “it is because there was nothing to -write about.” - -“Nothing to write about, Dick?” She smiled dreamily. - -“Not worth mentioning, Jacqueline.” - -“Then you are still in the dark?” - -“Absolutely.” - -“And–and you have little hope?” - -“Almost no hope.” - -Absorbed though I was in my own selfish feeling, I could not but notice -the disappointment of her tone. We were at the church door now. She held -out her hand. To see her pass thus out of my sight, to know that my own -obstinacy was raising this barrier between us, that I had wounded her–I -could not let her go like that, even for a few hours. - -“Jacqueline,” I said firmly, “I wish to tell you about this search. I -know a half street, half campo near here, delightfully shaded with -mulberry trees. There are benches, and one may sit there and talk -quietly. Will you go with me? I will not keep you long.” - -“Well, Dick, what is it?” she asked when she was seated. - -Her hands were clasped loosely in her lap. Her gaze passed me by, and -dwelt on the cage of a thrush hanging on a nail in a doorway. The -feathered prisoner was singing in ecstasy. - -“This mad quest that you have sent me on,” I broke out impetuously, “I -want you to release me from it.” - -She was silent a moment, then drew herself up with a certain hauteur. - -“I release you from it, of course, since you wish it,” she answered with -dignity. - -“No, no, Jacqueline. Not in that way. Do not misunderstand me. I call it -a mad quest not because it seems a hopeless one. It is mad, because it -is useless. The most rigid sense of honor could not hold you to your -lightly spoken word. You love the duke, or you do not. You love me, or -you do not. Surely you do not pit us against each other. This is not a -test of love. And so, I say, this quest is mad. It is leading me surely -away from you. I am beginning to care for it for its own sake. I want -you to release me from it.” - -“It is leading you from me?” she repeated wonderingly. “But you are -doing this for me. Does not that keep me in your thoughts? You say this -is not a test of love. Why should it not be? And if the lover is weary -already of his task–if–” Her lip trembled. - -“Dear Jacqueline, how can I make you understand? I ask you to release me -from this search, not because I am tired, not merely because I think the -casket can not be found. It is the principle of the thing. Supposing -that the duke should bring you this casket, could that possibly alter -your feeling toward him? Could that make you love him more than you do -at present?” - -“Why should it not?” she answered, a little defiantly. “In a sense he -has shown himself a truer lover than you. He is keeping up the search, -cheerfully and patiently. And yet every day he finds time to write me of -his failures and his successes. Apparently, I asked him to remove -mountains. He attempts the impossible gladly, and sometimes I think he -will accomplish it.” - -“The duke has been searching for the casket? Here, in Venice?” - -“Yes, and without a moment’s rest, so he assures me. More than that, he -declares he is on its track–that he will bring it to me soon.” - -I was stupefied. Neither St. Hilary nor I had once seen the duke since -he left my rooms. It seemed incredible that he should have been in -Venice these past three weeks and that we should not know it. - -“He will bring you the casket soon?” I repeated blankly. “And if he -brings it to you, you are going to listen to him? Because I have said -nothing, Jacqueline, have you thought me idle and indifferent? Do you -trust him more than you trust me? If he has the luck to stumble on this -casket, will that prove that he is more worthy of your regard than I? -Will you marry him for that?” - -Jacqueline looked at me a moment in silence. She laid her hand gently on -my arm. - -“Has this quest troubled you so much? I begin to think it a very -childish one. I begin to realize my folly, and yet––” - -She rose from the bench, and shaking out her skirts daintily, opened her -parasol. - -“You are going, Jacqueline? There is no more to be said?” - -“I told my aunt that I was going to church. I think I had better go. But -afterward, if you will walk to the hotel with me, you may stay to -luncheon, and in the afternoon you may take me out on the lagoon again. -Then you shall tell me everything–just what you have done, and just what -you have failed to do. And perhaps–perhaps, I may recall you from the -task that you have undertaken for me.” - -“Jacqueline,” I stammered with joy, “you mean–you mean that you may -marry me without regard to this foolish promise of yours to the duke?” - -“I mean,” she answered slowly, “that I must know everything–everything. -Then I may be better able to judge just what I ought to do, what I wish -to do.” - -“I shall wait for you at the church door. I must first go to my rooms to -make myself presentable. Heavens, Jacqueline, if you could know the -relief I feel at abandoning this mad search. It has been a nightmare; -but now we shall go out into the blessed sunshine again.” - -“But, Dick,” she said wistfully, “you will need to plead very eloquently -this afternoon to convince me that I may withdraw my word to Duke da -Sestos. If only it had been possible to find that wretched casket! I -shall look for you after church.” - -I watched her disappear within the doorway. In half an hour I had been -to my rooms and returned. I slipped into a pew at the rear of the -church. I wished to think–to dream. It seemed incredible that the search -was ended. What would St. Hilary say when he knew that I had abandoned -it? And, strange as it may seem, already I was vaguely sorry. Could I -watch St. Hilary steadily going on with the search and be quite -indifferent as to his success or failure? Should I never have regrets -that I had not kept at it a little longer? Then I looked at Jacqueline, -kneeling devoutly a few pews in front of me, and I smiled joyfully. No, -with Jacqueline as my wife, I had no need of the excitement of a fool’s -errand. - -Out of the stillness of my thoughts, as if from afar off, the text of -the preacher fell on my ears, unheeding and yet strangely receptive. The -text was twice repeated. It was sufficiently fantastic in itself, but to -me it was the finger of fate. - -_It was pointing to the hiding-place of the da Sestos casket._ - - - - - CHAPTER XIX - - -This was the text: - -_Moreover, the king made a great throne of ivory, and overlaid the arms -of it with fine gold._ - -_The throne had six steps, and the top of the throne was round behind, -and there were stays on either side of the place of the seat, and two -lions stood beside the stays._ - -At first, as I have said, the words fell quite idly on my ears. Then, -without any effort on my part, a throne made of ivory, its arms overlaid -with fine gold, seemed to flash before my eyes. I tried to resume the -thread of my thought again, but the vision of the throne of ivory with -the two lions at the side haunted my excited brain. All at once, with a -shock of surprise, I knew why it stood before me with such startling -distinctness. The throne of the automaton of the eighth hour was of -ivory, its arms were of gold, it had six steps, and two lions crouched -on either side. - -At first I was merely astonished at the similarity of the throne of the -Bible and the throne of the da Sestos clock. But other scenes of the -hours sprang before my mind in review. I remembered the hour of St. Mark -and the lion; the Council of Ten before the Gate; the Sultan and the -kneeling slave. The scenes stopped abruptly there. In a flash, almost -without thought, certainly without deliberate reasoning, I had fathomed -the secret of the clock: - -_The scenes of the twelve hours were not Venetian scenes. They were -Bible scenes disguised in an environment that was Venetian._ - -I could parallel each of the three hours that had occurred to me with -familiar stories of the Bible. The scene of the first hour, the figure -of St. Mark and the lion, as we had thought, was really Samson and the -lion; the Sultan and the kneeling slave were David and the prostrate -giant, Goliath. The Doge receiving the news of victory from the dove in -the Campanile became Noah and the dove. But the other scenes–would they -be equally clear? - -I took the first scene that occurred to me, that in which the ten disks -appear in succession, with the gate in the background. I took a Bible -from the rack of the pew and opened it eagerly at the Book of Genesis. -My knowledge of the Old Testament was not profound. I turned the leaves -over quickly, scanning each page. I had to look simply for a passage in -which a gate and ten men figured. I became unconscious of the reverent -worshipers about me. I was heedless even of good form. For half an hour -I patiently turned page after page. I had reached the Book of Judges, -and began to despair. Was this theory that promised so well to be -discarded in its turn like a dozen others? No; I found the passage. It -proved my theory to be a fact beyond peradventure. The passage was in -the Book of Ruth: - -_Then went Boaz to the gate and sat him there, and behold, the kinsman -of whom Boaz spoke, came by, unto whom he said, Ho, such a one, turn -aside, sit down here. And he turned aside and sat down._ - -_And he took ten men of the elders of the city, and said, Sit down here. -And they sat down._ - -Nothing could be more clear. The Doge became Boaz; the ten disks, -representing, as we had thought, the Council of Ten, were the elders of -the city. - -I read the story of Samson and the lion. It was indisputably the scene -of the first hour. The very words were a challenge–a clear statement in -black and white–that he who should solve the riddle of the clock would -have his reward. And he who failed should have his penalty to pay–the -forfeiture of peace of mind and content–a bitter enough wage for -failure: - -_And Samson said unto them, I will now put forth a riddle unto you: If -ye shall certainly solve it within seven days of the feast, and find it -out, then will I give you thirty sheets and thirty changes of raiment._ - -_But if ye solve it not within seven days, then shall ye give to me -thirty sheets and thirty changes of raiment._ - -“I will put forth a riddle unto you!” And a brave riddle it had been. -The mad goldsmith had taken these old Bible stories for his key–a key -that he knew was as imperishable as time itself, and yet a key that -would guard his secret well. To the Catholic of that day the Bible was a -sealed book. - -But if this were true–if these stories were indeed the key–was the -riddle easier of solution? Would the Bible stories be more readily -understood than the Venetian stories? - -The theory of St. Hilary flashed across my mind. The cipher–that was the -clue. In each of the scenes of the background a certain number had been -mentioned. Thirty changes of raiment. Seven days. Six steps to the -throne. Two lions. Thus was my second great discovery made. - -_Each scene from the Bible involved certain numbers._ - -I read the story of David and Goliath: - -_And there went a champion out of the camp of the Philistines named -Goliath, whose height was six cubits and a span._ - -There were the numbers again; six cubits and a span. - -I could no longer doubt. And now, having wrested so much of the madman’s -secret, having surprised from him the key, I should, I felt confident, -solve the rest. I was to cut the last thread that bound this secret to -the grave. - -Suddenly I became conscious of faces turned frowningly in my direction. -In my excitement I had, I suppose, rustled the leaves. It was an unusual -sight to see a man of discretion frantically turning over the leaves of -his Bible during a sermon. - -To sit through the sermon was impossible. I must get a breath of fresh -air. I would wait for Jacqueline outside. - -I walked to the quay of the Grand Canal. I scanned the sweep of the -palaces, from the Salute to the Rialto Bridge. To which of them would -these new clues lead? - -I walked back to the church. The sermon was droning slumberously on. I -wandered restlessly down the Calle San Rio. I found myself at the -steamboat landing. The little steamer was discharging its quota of -passengers. I leaped aboard. My desire to look on the photographs was -intense. I wished to verify the other scenes. I wished to confound St. -Hilary with my discovery. - -Not until the steamer was half-way across the Giudecca did I remember, -with a shock of dismay, my appointment with Jacqueline. - -I persuaded myself that I had time to look at the photographs just once; -I could hurriedly recount my wonderful discovery to St. Hilary; I could -be rowed across to the Molo in three minutes, and be at the church in -another ten. If I failed Jacqueline, she would forgive me when she knew -the extraordinary circumstances under which I had deserted her. Had she -not regretted, with a hint of reproach in her words that still rankled, -that my search for the casket had been so fruitless of results? And had -she not said that the duke was hunting for it without a moment’s rest? -Then there was no time to be lost. - -I did fail Jacqueline. St. Hilary was not in my rooms, and I waited for -him. The temptation to triumph over him proved too sweet. I was not the -first man to risk his precious birthright of love for a mess of pottage. - - - - - CHAPTER XX - - -Two hours had passed since I left the church. St. Hilary and I had spent -the time in a diligent study of the Bible. The result confirmed my -theory beyond a doubt. With the exception of the scenes of the fifth and -tenth hours, we had identified them all as Bible scenes. We had also -found that in each story certain numbers were mentioned. - -“To tell which are the significant numbers, that is the question,” said -St. Hilary. “In two or three of the stories, at least, more than one set -are mentioned. How can we be sure which numbers count, and which do -not?” - -“We can not be sure, I suppose,” I replied thoughtfully. “We can only -guess. But at least we may make a reasonable guess. The goldsmith had -some method in choosing them. What would be the most obvious?” - -“That he should select the numbers that really counted in the various -stories,” replied St. Hilary. - -“I have observed that the important numbers are invariably mentioned in -the first part of the story. We may go on that assumption to begin with, -at any rate. Our search for the landmark of the second hour ought to -begin from the Piazzetta, where the first landmark stands–that is, the -lion of San Marco. Now our first numbers are 7, 30, 30. If we interpret -those rightly, we shall find ourselves at the second landmark. Thence we -may start for the third.” - -“But the meaning of those numbers,” grumbled St. Hilary, “is extremely -doubtful. They may be added to, or subtracted from, or divided or -multiplied by others, and the landmark of the second hour is veiled in -complete obscurity. If it were the landmark of the fourth hour, the -House of the Camel, we should know what to look for.” - -“But it is not,” I said impatiently. “Your precious landmark is quite -useless by itself, because we have not been able to identify the Bible -story of the fifth hour, and so we are ignorant of the numbers that will -lead us to the landmark of the sixth. We are compelled to start at the -first hour. From that point we go on to the second, and from the second -to the third. As to the gap in the fifth hour, we won’t attempt to jump -that until we come to it.” - -The little man yawned. His dogged skepticism was maddening. The fact is, -he resented my having been so fortunate as to make the great discovery. -Because he had not made it himself, or helped to make it, he sulked and -made endless objections. - -“How do you propose to interpret the first numbers, 7, 30, 30?” he -asked. - -“Well,” I answered patiently, “say that they represent blocks of -buildings. We go down the Grand Canal until seven blocks are passed. If -we took the seventh canal to our left, and continued up that canal until -thirty blocks had been passed––” - -“We should find ourselves somewhere out in the lagoon,” sneered St. -Hilary. - -“If we passed seven blocks on our right, then, proceeding up the seventh -canal until thirty blocks were passed, took the junction of the two -canals at this point for a new start until thirty more blocks were -passed, where should we find ourselves?” - -St. Hilary consulted the map of Venice that lay before him. - -“You are a little obscure, my dear Hume. But, so far as I can make it -out, after you had passed your sixty little canals, if you turned to the -left you would find yourself in the Jewish quarter. If you turned to the -right, in the fishermen’s quarter. You may be sure that da Sestos was -not quite so mad as to hide his casket in a part of the city that would -be subject to demolition. You will have to try again.” - -“Thirty changes of raiment and thirty sheets,” I mused. “Thirty plus -thirty; why not the sixtieth palace down the Grand Canal, either left or -right?” - -“Within seven days,” quoted St. Hilary, closing his eyes. - -“I had forgotten the seven days,” I admitted. “Well, then, why not the -fifty-third palace?” - -“Why the fifty-third?” demanded St. Hilary in a bored tone. - -“Within seven of sixty ought to mean fifty-three,” I said quickly. - -St. Hilary opened his eyes. A look of interest dawned in them. He drew -toward him an old map of Venice, La Nuova Pianta di Venezia, it was -called, and was published in 1689. It contained an interesting chart on -which were marked all the palaces of Venice existing at that time. He -began to count these palaces carefully, going down the Grand Canal -toward the Rialto Bridge. - -“The fifty-third palace is the Palazzo Chettechi. Look in that French -monograph, Les Palais de Venise Moderne. See if it is mentioned there.” - -I turned hurriedly to the index. - -“Yes, it is mentioned. But, confound it, the palace was torn down and -rebuilt in 1805.” - -“And down with it tumbles your cunning little house of cards,” commented -the dealer cynically. - -“After all, that solution was too obvious to be reasonable,” I retorted -cheerfully, though I felt the disappointment keenly. “But look here, St. -Hilary”–I was consulting the Bible again–“there are four thirties -mentioned. Perhaps the second couple of thirties has some significance. -Does the fifty-third palace bring us to a corner of the Grand Canal, or -should we find ourselves in the middle of the block?” - -“We should find ourselves at the junction of the Grand Canal and the Rio -di Lucca.” - -“Good! And if you counted sixty palaces up the Rio di Lucca, will that -old chart tell the palace you would arrive at?” - -“The Palazzo Giuliano.” - -“The Palazzo Giuliano might contain our landmark on its wall just as -well as any other.” - -“It might,” he cried, consulting the monograph on the palaces of modern -Venice again, “only it happens that the façade of that palace was -rebuilt in the eighteenth century. Again your little house of cards -crumbles about your ears, my dear Hume.” - -I stared down at the table. In what other way might I read a meaning -into the numbers? I picked up an envelope and began to toy with it -unconsciously. It was addressed to St. Hilary. It was literally covered -with erasures and directions, and had followed him half around the -world. But it had found him at last, though some of the directions were -of the vaguest. We ought to be as clever as a postmaster. Aside from the -extraneous aids of the directory, what methods would a postmaster use? - -Mechanically I began to trace the ordinary and palpable clues to the -destination of any letter. First of all, there is the state or country. -That is as vague as the earth itself. But the state is narrowed down to -the city in the state, and the city to the street–– - -“I believe I have found a solution that will hold water at last, St. -Hilary!” I cried. - -He blinked at me skeptically. - -“Let us hear it by all means.” - -“Take the address on the envelope. It has suggested a possible solution -to the numbers. First of all, there is the country. The country is -narrowed down to the city of the country. Next comes the number of the -street in the city. After that the house in the street. In other words, -the direction of an envelope is narrowed to more and more defined -limits.” - -“An extremely accurate but not a startlingly original presentation of -facts, dear boy. The connection between this envelope, for instance, and -the da Sestos casket?” - -“Call Venice the state; the city, the Grand Canal. Your street will then -be the seventh canal; the number of the street will be the house of the -landmark.” - -St. Hilary’s dark eyes snapped. He was thoroughly interested at last. He -drew toward him the map of Venice again. He pushed it away with an -exclamation of disgust. - -“Ingenious again, but not conclusive. The seventh canal flowing into the -Grand Canal is a _cul-de-sac_. Its length is not a hundred yards, and it -leads merely to the Campo San Stefano.” - -“You are mistaken,” I said calmly. “You are counting the ditch that -surrounds the Giardino Reale. The seventh canaletto is the Rio di Bocca. -And the sixtieth palace from the junction of the Rio di Bocca and the -Grand Canal will be the house of the landmark. What palace is that? -Don’t tell me that that is torn down.” - -“No, this one exists. It is called the Palazzo Fortunato. Come, it is -time for us to do something more strenuous than talking. We will test -your theory, and I think it a fairly reasonable one at last. But first -of all, a bite at Florian’s. It is three o’clock. We may get no dinner.” - -I had unconsciously taken the lead since my great discovery. Now I -hesitated. Though I had broken my tryst with Jacqueline, I had intended -seeing her this afternoon before we actually began our search. But I -could not let St. Hilary begin his explorations without me. A few hours -sooner or later, I persuaded myself, would not make much difference. - -I know now how specious were my arguments. A woman’s love is not to be -treated lightly. It is the most sacred and precious thing in the world, -and she knows that it is. It does not come and go at one’s beck and -call. It burns brightly so long as the flame is fed; to quench that -flame is dangerous, and it is not always easy to revive it. - -“I am quite ready to go with you,” I said soberly. “My gondolier is -waiting below. We will let him take us to the Molo and then dismiss him. -We want no witnesses or possible spies.” - -“Excellent,” he murmured. “And bring along your Bible; that must be our -chart and compass in our voyage of discovery.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXI - - -Venetian Marco Polo himself, wide-eyed and eager, toiling across burning -wastes to the Great Khan of far-off Cathay, was not more imbued with the -very spirit of adventure than were St. Hilary and I that April -afternoon, as we set forth on our little voyage of discovery in a -prosaic gondola. - -We had lunched at the Grundewald. We rose with a certain deliberation, -and walked toward the Molo. The band was thundering out a Strauss waltz. -The Piazza was filled with its usual laughing, chattering crowd, eating -and drinking at the hundreds of round little tables that overflowed a -quarter of the square. - -I could not help thinking what a sensation I should cause if the great -throng was suddenly to be stilled, while from the balcony up there by -the four bronze horses I cried aloud for all the square to hear that we -two adventurers of the twentieth century were about to lay bare one of -the mysteries of Venice–that we were to bring forth to the light of day -a marvelous treasure that had been hid for nearly half a thousand years. -How they would howl me into a shamed silence with their jeers and -laughter! And supposing that I could tell them the very hiding-place, -would one of all those hundreds, even the poorest, take the trouble to -go and see? Would the hunchbacked bootblack in the Arcade there, gnarled -and twisted with the cold of winter and the heat of summer? Would the -Jewish shopkeepers, the antiquarian in the library, the tourists, who -had come three thousand miles to feast their eyes on wonders? Not the -most visionary would stir in his seat. Only St. Hilary and I, it -appeared, in the whole world were absolute fools this afternoon. - -“_E dove?_” demanded the gondolier, after we had taken our seats. - -“_Canalazzo_,” I cried, “_e presto, molto, molto presto._” - -“_Si, si, signore_,” he cried with enthusiasm, scenting a generous tip. - -The sun, just dipping behind the dome of the Salute, blazed fiercely, -but the awning of our gondola was thrown back. Swiftly we swept down the -sun-kissed stream, cleaving the lake of gold. The great palaces on -either side, ablaze with riotous color, seemed as unreal as a painted -picture. What had we to do with this mysterious Venice, this enchantress -of the seas, holding herself aloof in melancholy disdain? Like curious -savages, we were to prowl in her very holy of holies. We were to despoil -her of her last glorious treasure, that she had guarded so jealously -these hundreds of years. - -The fantasy burst as a bubble in thin air. Behind us raced a boatful of -trippers, the two oarsmen exerting every effort to urge on their craft -to the railway station. There were the English _père de famille_; the -comfortable mamma with a chick on either side. And about them were piled -high bandboxes and shawls, portmanteaus and carryalls. It was the -twentieth century after all. It was quite fitting that we should be -seeking to reap where we had not sown. - -We passed the Grand Hotel. Mrs. Gordon, Jacqueline, and the duke were -seated on the balcony. I raised my hat mechanically. The duke returned -the greeting with a flourish. Mrs. Gordon was suddenly interested in the -customs-house opposite. Jacqueline smiled, but her greeting would have -been as cordial to the concierge of her hotel. My face burned. I wished -to tell St. Hilary to continue the search without me, and yet I -hesitated. Even now, one nod to the gondolier and I could be landed at -the steps; but I hesitated, and in five seconds we had passed. Before I -had wholly recovered my presence of mind we were at the Rio di Bocca. - -Our gondolier uttered his weird cry of warning. The gondola turned the -corner sharply. We were in cool depths. The smell of damp mortar, that -indefinable moist smell of the _canaletti_ of Venice smote our nostrils. -We skirted an old wall, bulging outward with decrepitude; a narrow quay, -bathed in sunlight; the barred windows of a palace, blackness and gloom -within. A barge of bricks was poled slowly past us, then a funeral -catafalque. A hotel omnibus just escaped collision. I saw it all, but I -saw it all unheeding. Three years of selfish ease and irresponsibility -had left me incapable of quick decision at this critical moment. And now -another opportunity to become reconciled to Jacqueline had passed. I had -raised one more barrier between us. - -St. Hilary shouted sharply to the gondolier. We came to a sudden stop. - -We were at the sixtieth palace, and its façade was as bare as the sheet -of an unsigned hotel register. - -“So again we have come on a fool’s errand,” he groaned. - -The gondolier leaned forward and touched my sleeve. He had observed our -perplexity. He pointed to a palace we had just passed. - -“Ecco, Signori, the House of the Angel! It is not this one. It is the -third back.” - -“The third back?” I repeated mechanically. I let my glance follow his -outstretched finger. With a twist of the oar he had turned the gondola -again toward the Grand Canal. - -“Behold, Signore, the House of the Angel. Up there, in the niche over -the door.” - -I raised my eyes dully. I had no idea what the man was talking about. -The palace at whose steps we had halted was a magnificent structure of -the fourteenth century, so beautiful that in any other city than Venice -it would have been worth a pilgrimage to see. Over the doorway was a -triangular niche, a kind of shrine. A half figure of an angel was carved -in the niche, and a kneeling child looked quaintly up into the angel’s -face. The gondolier pointed to the shrine reverently. - -“The angel is to drive away the evil spirits, Signore. The evil spirit -of a pig once dwelt in this beautiful palace. I assure the Signore that -I am telling him the truth, though there are many hundreds of years -since the evil soul of the pig was conjured away by the angel and the -little child. The house is now sweet and clean of all evil, and is -called the House of the Angel. But look, Signore, you can see the -unclean pigs that were carved in the wall by the wicked builder. Before -they were broken, the house was called the House of the Pigs.” - -We looked upward. - -The house had a frieze made of a capriciously carved array of pigs. The -posture of each two of the creatures was the same: the one recumbent, -the other erect. The heads and the feet and most of the bodies had been -stricken off. - -“It is very simple,” cried St. Hilary exultingly. “Our husks of corn -have simply become the bodies of pigs. We have found the second -landmark.” - -He held the photograph of the background of the second hour before me. -That background, it will be remembered, was a hanging, and on this -hanging a decorative scheme that we had supposed to be husks of corn. - -I forgot my folly in passing Jacqueline, and her cold greeting. Here was -proof indisputable that we were really on the track of the casket at -last. - -“But why,” queried St. Hilary, knitting his forehead in perplexity, -“should it be the fifty-seventh palace, and not the sixtieth?” - -I opened the Bible, and again read the story. I saw our mistake -immediately. In our haste to test this new theory of mine we had not -read the narrative with sufficient care. - -“There is another verse that we have omitted to read. It follows -immediately after.” I read it aloud: - -_And within three days they could not declare the riddle._ - -“You observe the expression ‘within.’ That is to say, we were not to -look for the sixtieth palace, but for the fifty-seventh, or the third -within sixty.” - -“Ah, that is quite clear,” cried St. Hilary with a sigh of relief. “And -now for the next landmark. Read your passage of the second hour again.” - -_And there went forth a champion out of the camp of the Philistines, -named Goliath, whose height was six cubits and a span._ - -“Six cubits and a span,” he mused. “What the deuce are the six cubits -and a span?” - -“Let us look around.” I motioned to the gondolier to rest on his oars. - -We drifted slowly past the House of the Angel. The next house was a -warehouse–an ugly four-story building, set some five paces back. The -upper stories projected over the lowest story, and were supported by -pillars. - -“There are six of those pillars, and there is a door. Can that be your -cubits and a span?” - -I shook my head. “Those pillars are of wood. This warehouse could not -have been built when the goldsmith made his casket.” - -“True; and it would be a senseless proceeding to lead us past the -fifty-seventh palace, only to land us at the fifty-eighth.” - -“But look, St. Hilary, we have been so close to the forest that we have -failed to see the trees. Do you observe those circular windows just over -our heads? There are just six of them. As for the span, isn’t a span -half a cubit? The top of that squat door let into the wall there is -semi-circular in shape; the semi-circle, the exact counterpart of the -upper part of the windows. Nothing could be more clear.” - -“My only fear is that it is too clear to be true,” he said anxiously. - -“We shall soon determine that.” - -I stood upright on the seat of the gondola, and, reaching forward, -pulled a rusty bell that hung beside the low door. Our gondola, at a -sign from me, had been rowed up stream once more. - -In response to my vigorous summons a servant appeared at the main door -of the House of the Angel. - -“What may the Signori desire?” he inquired. - -“We are architects,” lied St. Hilary glibly. “We are very desirous to -see your garden. We understand that it is a very curious old garden.” - -The servant in the shabby livery shook his head. - -“The Signori Inglesi are mistaken,” he answered politely. “The -interesting garden belongs to the House of the Camel just behind this -palazzina. Our garden has only artichokes and asparagus and beans and -things.” - -“The House of the Camel!” I exclaimed involuntarily. - -St. Hilary pinched my arm for silence. “But there is a passage through -your garden that leads to the garden of the other house, is there not?” - -He jingled insinuatingly some loose coins in his pocket. - -“Ah, yes, Signore, that is true. A long, long time ago, a great -nobleman, dwelt in this house, and his daughter lived in the house -behind. He had a gate made in the wall that divides the two gardens. The -gate is still there.” - -“Excellent! And you will lead us into the garden of the House of the -Camel by that gate?” - -Without further parley, St. Hilary leaped lightly ashore. I followed his -example, and tossed our fare to the gondolier. - -“Thoughtful of you to send off that chap. We can’t be too careful,” -remarked St. Hilary as we followed the servant in the shabby livery into -the hall. - -This hall, as in all Venetian palaces, ran through the house from front -to rear. At its end was a glass door. The door unlocked, we were in the -garden. A path turned to the right, joining a broad walk fringed with a -well-trimmed hedge of box. This walk led straight to the gate–our gate -of the third hour. There was no need to refer to the photograph. It was -unmistakable. - -“The Signori are of course expected?” asked the servant hesitatingly, as -he unlocked this gate. - -“Naturally,” replied St. Hilary, dropping a piece of silver in his palm. - -The gate was locked behind us. - -“How are we to find our way out?” I demanded. - -St. Hilary was staring about him as one who knows his ground. - -“My dear Hume,” he grinned, “I know my way out perfectly. Allow me to -point out to you the Well of the Pomegranates and the Loops, and -immediately over the doorway there the Sign of the Blind Camel. We are -at the landmark of the fourth hour.” - -“And the ten figures on the disks of the third hour are represented by -these busts built in the wall–five in either wall. We are getting on. -But why, I wonder, did da Sestos lead us to this landmark by the way of -the House of the Angel? He might have brought us here directly by the -Campo San Salvatore.” - -“Because,” commented St. Hilary, “the way by land would have -necessitated a dozen directions. By water we have come without undue -perplexity in three. But here, I am afraid, our voyage of discovery must -end for to-night. We shall have to puzzle out the fifth hour before we -can go farther.” - -I had opened the Bible that I had brought with me from the gondola, and, -supported by the curb of the well, I rested it on my knee, turning to -the Book of Genesis. I read the verse of the fourth hour: - -_And it came to pass, as the camels had done drinking at the well, that -the man took a golden earring of half a shekel weight, and two bracelets -for her hands of ten shekels’ weight of gold._ - -“This is obscure enough,” I said ruefully. “This jargon of a golden -earring and of half a shekel weight and two bracelets of ten shekels’ -weight will take some time to reason out, especially as we have no idea -what to look for.” - -“And I think.” St. Hilary remarked, “we are to be interrupted. Here -comes one of the priests of the seminary to see what business we have in -his garden.” - -“Gentlemen,” asked the padre politely, as we bowed with an assurance -that belied my feelings at least, “you are looking for some one? I saw -you admitted a moment ago by the gate yonder.” - -“Yes,” boldly lied St. Hilary once more. “We were about to ring your -bell. We went to the House of the Angel by mistake. We are architects, -and we have heard that you have a wonderful old dial. We are making a -study of the curious dials of Venice. Would you show us yours?” - -St. Hilary’s question was not so idle as might appear. He was ignoring -the existence of the fifth landmark, and was asking for the sixth -landmark, which we had identified in this way. The Venetian scene of the -sixth hour, it will be remembered, was that of the Doge and the poet -Petrarch seated in the balcony of San Marco, overlooking the Piazza, and -watching the festivities below, symbolized by the dancing automaton -figure, that advanced ten steps to the front and ten to the rear. The -parallel story in the Bible we had found by a rather roundabout process. -Some days before I had accidentally made the discovery that the face of -the Doge bore a remarkable resemblance to the prophet Isaiah as depicted -in one of the mosaics of San Marco. Naturally, then, when we hunted up -the Biblical stories of the hour, after my return from church, we looked -for a story in which the prophet Isaiah figured as one of the -characters. The concordance at the back of my Oxford Bible referred us -to the story of the Jewish King Hezekiah, who, sick unto death, went to -the prophet Isaiah for a sign that he should recover his strength. And -this was the verse: - -_And Hezekiah said to Isaiah, What shall be the sign? And Isaiah said, -Shall the shadow of the dial go back ten degrees or shall the shadow go -forward?_ - -The little automaton figure advancing and retreating ten steps -symbolized plainly the going forward and backward of the shadow. This -was significant in itself, and might have made us tolerably sure that a -dial was to be the landmark. But when, in the light of this story, we -looked carefully at the railing of the balcony as photographed in our -snap-shot, we noticed at once that the ironwork of the railing was of -intertwined circles, intersected by diameters drawn through each of -their centers. The circles, then, stood for the dial; the diameter, for -the needle of the dial. We might be reasonably certain that our search -would be narrowed to more and more defined limits. Even without the -landmark of the fifth hour, by which we should be able to discover the -locality of the dial for ourselves (provided always that we could -interpret the numbers aright), it was not an extravagant hope of St. -Hilary’s that the padre might direct us to the landmark of the sixth -hour. I waited breathlessly for his answer. Let the gods be propitious; -let fortune smile! - -The gaunt but handsome face of the young priest was lighted up with a -charming smile. - -“But it will be an honor,” he said, “to show our curious dial to the -American gentlemen.” - -“English, pardon me,” corrected St. Hilary readily, and he pinched my -arm. “We leave Venice for London in an hour or so. This is the last and -most curious dial we expect to see.” - -What a polished and delightful liar the dealer in antiquities was! But a -cautious one withal. For aught we knew, we might be prowling about these -premises with a jimmy and dark lantern before many more moons, and it -might be convenient to prove an alibi. - -I had expected the priest to lead us to an obscure corner of the garden. -To my surprise and disappointment he took us directly to the house. Of -what use could a dial be under a roof? The good fathers of the seminary -had taken it from the garden, in all likelihood, and placed it within -doors as an interesting curiosity for their pupils to gape at. - -“Perhaps you know, gentlemen,” said the priest, as he led the way up a -broad and dreary stairway, devoid of ornament, but scrupulously clean, -“that this was once the house of the Venetian astrologer, Jacopo Bembo. -Here, some two hundred years ago, came the flower of the Venetian -aristocracy. They came to consult him–one for a love philter; another -for a talisman against the plague; another, perhaps, for a deadly potion -to still the beating of a rival’s heart. Some strange and dark scenes, I -suspect, have taken place in the laboratory of Messer Bembo. And this is -it.” - -We had ascended to the third story. He threw open the door of a large -room. There were some maps on the wall, desks, and chairs. It was -evidently used now as a school-room. - -“But the dial?” I cried impatiently. - -“Oh, the dial is on the roof. Have you ever heard of a dial being in so -strange a place before?” - -“It is precisely that,” I cried joyously, “that makes it so unique in -interest for us.” - -“And this dial on the roof will make our collection of curious dials -quite complete,” added St. Hilary gravely. - -We walked a few steps down the echoing landing. The worthy padre opened -a door. A narrow wooden stairway led to the roof. - -“If you will pardon me, I will precede you, gentlemen. There is a -trapdoor at the top.” - -“And did the great astrologer Bembo have to climb out of that hole -whenever he wished to consult the hour of day?” I asked jocosely. - -“You will see,” answered the priest smiling. - -When first we stepped out on the roof, the glitter of the fierce sun on -the leads blinded us. We looked in vain for the dial. The priest walked -to the parapet where a stone bench stood and pointed to a large circle -cut deep in the leads at the foot of the bench. - -“Ecco, Signori, your curious dial, and the Signs of the Zodiac also. The -needle of the dial is not the truly original one. That was broken long -ago. But the one we have replaced it with is precisely similar to the -antique.” - -St. Hilary and I sank on our knees to observe it the more closely and to -whisper to each other without the good father overhearing us. The dealer -traced a line tremblingly with his forefinger. - -“Here,” he whispered, “is where the shadow falls at twelve o’clock. Ten -degrees before that, it must point in this direction.” - -He squinted along the imaginary line. It led him over the parapet, and -in either direction it directed us to nothing more definite than the -blue sky. - -“But at ten degrees after twelve,” I whispered hoarsely, “it points with -absolute directness to that square tower, the tower of Noah and his -dove, depend upon it. We have found the seventh landmark.” - -We stood upright and brushed the dust from our knees. St. Hilary -produced a note-book, and began to scribble notes and to sketch the dial -with every show of professional interest. - -“Yes, it is a great curiosity, this dial,” purred the priest with -satisfaction. “Here, in the cool of summer nights, when the sirocco has -been blowing all day, I often come to sit and ponder the issues of life -and death, as, no doubt, the old astrologer did before me.” - -“You have a splendid view,” I remarked carelessly. “What is that square -tower over there? It appears to be the tower of a palace.” - -“Yes, signore, it is the tower of the Palazzo Cæsarini. If you are -architects, you ought to see that palace. It is full of interest.” - -“The Cæsarini Palace, you said, I think?” inquired St. Hilary, still -scribbling. - -“Exactly, and it is known popularly as the Palazzo degli Scrigni.” - -“The Palace of the Iron Safes!” I cried, startled. - -“The signori Inglesi must understand that, very long ago, when the house -of the Cæsarini was the most powerful in Venice, as it still is one of -the richest, the Prince Cæsarini had two great iron safes built in the -walls of his cellars to keep his treasure in. These safes were contrived -by a certain goldsmith called da Sestos. Yes, the palace is worth -seeing. But do not attempt to see it until after Wednesday, because a -grand _bal masqué_ is to be given on that evening, and they are busy -making great preparations.” - -“Ah, yes, we must have a look at it some time,” said St. Hilary -carelessly. “A thousand thanks for your courtesy, father. _Buona sera._” - -“_Buona sera, signori._” - - - - - CHAPTER XXII - - -A clock in the church of San Salvatore was striking the hour of seven as -St. Hilary and I, after bidding good night to our friendly priest, -crossed the Campo. Our search for that night was ended. I was free to -see Jacqueline at last. Promising to call for my friend early the next -morning, I hastened to the Grand Hotel. - -It had been a wonderful day. After weeks of futile wandering, we were -going straight to the goal. But Jacqueline? Would she forgive me for -breaking my appointment, even though I was at last to bring her the -casket? I had well-nigh drawn from her the gentle confession of her -love. She had left the gate of Paradise ajar. She had looked at me in -such a way that the very look was an invitation to enter when I should -reappear. And I had failed her. - -It was in vain that I tried to reassure myself. If I had not kept that -sacred tryst, was it not because in failing to do so I was really -serving her? When once she knew the circumstances she must forgive me. -She had asked me to find the casket for her. She had dreaded the -possibility of the duke’s finding it. Could she find fault, then, -because I had taken her at her word? - -But because she had asked me to find it, I should have gone to her at -once to tell her that the forlorn hope had become an actual possibility. -Instead of doing that, I had thought of myself first–of my own petty -triumph. I had yielded to the cheap excitement of putting my theory to -actual test. I had seen her in the duke’s company on the balcony of the -hotel only a few hours ago. What if she had turned to him for the -sympathy and confidence that I had failed to give her? Could I complain -if she had done that? Only a few hours ago I had insisted upon the -uselessness of the search. I had begged her to bid me relinquish it. I -had told her that she had no right to rest her happiness on the shifting -foundations of chance; that if she loved the duke, there was nothing -more to be said; but that, if she loved me, she had no right to permit -him to misconstrue her idly spoken words. Let her cut the Gordian knot -by yielding herself to me. - -I had said all this to her, and my actions this afternoon had belied my -words. Could I explain away this apparently glaring inconsistency? I -should find it difficult to prove to her that I was the loyal lover I -had claimed to be. I hardly dared hope that she would listen and -forgive. - -I was prepared for reproaches, for tears. It was not unlikely, I -thought, that she would even refuse to see me. But she came into the -reception-room of the hotel almost immediately after my arrival, and she -was smiling. - -“Jacqueline!” I held her hand clasped in mine. I pleaded for forgiveness -with my eyes. - -She withdrew her hand gently–not with impatience, or embarrassment -either, but quite naturally, with a frank smile that was altogether -friendly and affectionate. - -“What do you think of me, Jacqueline? That I should have failed you?” I -murmured. - -“I must suspend judgment until you tell me precisely why you have failed -me,” she cried cheerfully. - -I took heart. I plunged into my story. I did not make light of my -offence. I did not exaggerate it. I told her the truth, but I spared her -details. I was too eager to hear her say that she forgave me to bother -now with long and elaborate explanations. I told her that I had come -across unexpected clues that had led me so far unerringly toward the -hiding-place of the casket. The existence of these new clues had -occurred to me, very strangely, in church while I was waiting for her. -Just how they had dawned on me, how I had traced them out, I would tell -her later. For the present, it was enough that I had found them. I had -not met her after the church service because I had yielded to the -temptation of putting them to the test. This latter task had taken me -all the afternoon. I reminded her that she had urged the great -importance of haste in accomplishing this task. Every moment was -valuable, if I was to anticipate the duke. Because I had taken her -precisely at her word, surely she would not find fault with that? Surely -her strong common-sense must help her to understand, even though I had -caused her some annoyance, perhaps vexation. - -This was my plea. But even as I made it I felt its weakness. The fact -remained that I must have wounded her. The fact remained that love is -not logic. It is a thing so fragile that, like a sensitive plant exposed -to the cold blast, it withers if not guarded tenderly. It withers none -the less surely because one’s carelessness may not be deliberate. And I -knew that my carelessness in a way had been deliberate. My vehement -protestations did not ring true. - -She heard me through without speaking. At the end of my story she -sighed, and I fancied that for the first time her cheerfulness gave way -to pain. - -“You forgive me?” I asked humbly. - -“Yes,” she answered slowly. “If you can say quite honestly that you feel -that there is nothing for me to forgive, I forgive you.” - -I was silent. - -“It would be unreasonable that I should blame you for doing only too -well what I had asked you to do,” she said gently. - -“Only too well, Jacqueline?” I repeated anxiously. - -“A year ago, Dick, I was at a luncheon given by one of my friends to -announce her engagement. There were twelve of us present. The talk at -the table drifted to a play that most of us had seen. It was a mediæval -play, the hero a knight, who had had a task given him–a difficult, -seemingly an impossible task, by the woman whom he professed to love. -Some one asked what the man of the twentieth century would do if such a -task were given him by the woman he loved. Would he obediently attempt -it? Or would he ridicule it? It was a question of character, you see.” - -The discussion seemed to me rather silly, but I nodded gravely. - -“And some one suggested,” continued Jacqueline dreamily, “that it would -be interesting for one to apply this test. It would be a test of love. -If the man really cared, he would undertake even the impossible.” - -“So you applied this interesting test to me!” I exclaimed. - -“When, some weeks ago,” she went on, “you told me that you loved me, I -could not help remembering that conversation at the luncheon. You did -not put yourself in the most favorable light. You confessed that you had -been living only to please yourself. You acknowledged that you had no -ambition, and no energy to fulfil an ambition.” - -“That I _had_ no ambition before I met you, Jacqueline,” I interrupted. - -“To apply such a test to you would be childish, I thought then. But I -did suggest that you should do something. In the meantime,” she added -very slowly, her chin resting on her clasped hands, “Duke da Sestos came -into my life. He, too, professed to love me.” - -“I see. You saw in him the manly traits you found lacking in me. He was -ambitious; I was not. He was bold and confident, while I was only too -conscious that I had made rather a muddle of my life so far. I can -imagine that the contrast between us was not favorable to me.” - -She looked at me pleadingly. - -“Do not make it too hard for me, Dick. The duke interested me, I confess -it. I liked him. Perhaps I even admired him. Every day I saw something -of him. He was untiring in his devotion. I began to wonder, at last, if -he did not really love me.” - -“Had you never been sure that I really loved you, Jacqueline?” I asked -sadly. - -“No; not sure,” she answered steadily. “How could I be? You neglected -me. You went to Rome without excuse. You did not even write to me. And -then the duke asked me to be his wife, and this in spite of every -discouragement I could throw in his path. For if I admired him, I was -careful not to show him that.” - -She drew herself up proudly, and looked at me with a calm dignity. - -“You know how, quite involuntarily, I asked him to do what seemed an -impossible thing. If he would bring me the casket that belonged to the -chest he had given to me, I would listen to his declaration of love, and -not until then. Too late I realized that he had taken my words to be a -test of his devotion. I was terrified at the encouragement I had -unconsciously given him. I had not dreamed that he would take the -challenge seriously. And yet I wondered at his earnestness. Any woman -would be touched at such faith and courage. Here actually was a man who -dared to undertake the impossible! Then I thought of you.” - -“Would I do as much? Is that what you mean?” - -“I asked myself naturally that. And it seemed fair–I wished you to know -what I had said to the duke. I wished you to, because––” - -“You wished to apply a similar test to me,” I prompted. - -“And so,” continued Jacqueline, very pale, “I threw the whole issue into -the hands of fate. I sent for you. I told you that you must also try to -find this casket for me. And how did you receive this request? So -lightly that the last words you said were these: ‘Perhaps I shall find -time to write the legend of the clock as well as to find the casket.’ -You failed to realize that the finding of this casket was a real crisis -in my life and in yours. You wrote twice, and only the shortest and most -unsatisfactory of notes. Not unsatisfactory because you were -unsuccessful, but because you were pursuing the search in so negligent a -manner. And when, at last, I saw you this morning, you met me with -reproaches. You were weary of the search. It was actually degrading you. -It was leading you from me.” - -She paused, and looked at me imploringly. I was silent. - -“You urged me to release you from it. But you wished me to understand -that it was only reasonable to do so. I was willing to listen. I wished -to understand that so much myself. I was ready to believe it–oh, so glad -to believe it. I waited for you eagerly. You failed to wait for me. What -was I to think? I do not reproach you for doing too well what I had -asked you to do. But, Dick, if you could have done it in a different -manner!” - -“In a different manner?” I repeated obstinately, though I understood -only too well what she meant. “What does the manner signify, so long as -the thing is being done, and being done successfully?” - -“It signifies to me, Dick,” she insisted gently. “Right or wrong, I have -the right to put on the facts just the interpretation that seems to me -fair.” She turned to me with sudden passion. “Supposing I _was_ foolish, -even heartless, in imposing this test, reckless and foolish in putting -my happiness in the hands of fate, yet if it ennobled the one, and -degraded, by his own confession, the other, why should I not let the -results plead for themselves? Why should I not abide by the decision of -fate? You have driven me, you see, in spite of myself, to this -question.” - -“Oh, if it has ennobled the duke!” I could not help saying. - -“Yes, ennobled,” she answered defiantly, “if constant love is ennobling. -Don’t, please, sneer at that. I fought against him. I could not help -feeling a prejudice against him, perhaps because he was a foreigner. If -he interested me, it was in spite of myself. He had every barrier to -break down. And, I repeat, we women are not indifferent to a man who -sets to work patiently and courageously to break down these barriers–or, -at least, to attempt to break them down. Every day, almost every hour, I -have been reminded that he cared for me. A hundred little -thoughtfulnesses and kindnesses that could not but appeal to a woman he -has unceasingly shown me. While you, Dick, while you––” - -There were tears in her eyes. Unconsciously she stretched out her hands -to me. If I had not been blind–if I had only taken those dear hands and -drawn her to me–I might have been spared hours of pain. I might have -conquered then. But I was hurt, indignant, proud. She had not judged me -fairly. I forgot that I had not given her the opportunity to do that. - -“And I?” I said quietly, “I have been doing what you asked me to do, -perhaps not in the most approved way, not so tactfully as Duke da Sestos -has conducted his discreet search, doubtless; though how he can have -been looking for the casket here in Venice, while he has found time to -play the lover in Bellagio, I fail to see.” - -We arose. Jacqueline looked at me indignantly. - -“You are unjust,” she cried proudly, “and you are quite mistaken. For -not only has Duke da Sestos found time to show me that he loves me, but -this afternoon he brought to me the casket that belonged to the steel -chest.” - -“He has found the da Sestos casket! Impossible! It is impossible,” I -stammered. - -“It stands on the table there,” she said with quiet dignity. - -I walked unsteadily to the table she indicated, and I saw the casket. - -It was an exquisite thing, a jewel-case worthy of holding a prince’s -diadem. It was about as long as my two hands interlocked, and a little -broader than the palm of my hand. Two medallions were in each of the -front and rear panels, and a medallion at either end. The design of the -medallions was the loves of the gods in silver-gilt, _repoussé_. The -cover rose to an apex, and on the apex was a nymph embraced by a satyr. -The material was ebony, thickly inlaid with silver of a quaint design. I -lifted the cover. There were several layers of little drawers. But I saw -no sign of the springs. I saw no compartments that held the more -precious of the Doge’s jewels. As I looked at it more carefully, I saw -that the workmanship was not Venetian, but French. In no way did it -answer to the description of the casket in the Diary of Sanudo. - -I understood. The duke had despaired of finding the casket. It was so -much simpler to pretend that he had found it. Jacqueline would believe -that this was the casket as readily as if he had brought the real one. -Even if she had any doubts, how could she prove them? He was a clever -rascal, my lord duke. Unfortunately for the success of his ruse, he had -not counted on my intervention, or perhaps he despised me too much to -care. - -Jacqueline watched me with parted lips, a slight frown of anxiety on her -forehead. Her eyes seemed to plead with me. What did she wish me to say? -To tell her that the duke was a liar and a cheat? Or did she wish me to -say that this was indeed the casket? Would she be glad to hear that? Had -he conquered her so surely? - -“It is very beautiful,” I said indifferently. - -“You are convinced?” she asked, almost timidly. - -“It is worthy of any museum in Europe.” - -“You think it is really the casket?” she persisted. - -“I imagined that there would be gems in the da Sestos casket,” I said, -smiling at her. - -“You are not answering my question.” - -“Will you tell me how the duke happened to find this–this pretty toy? -Did he honor you with so much information?” - -“He brought it to me only this afternoon. I was so–so overwhelmed–I -should say, astonished–that I could say nothing. Presently, I suppose, -he will tell me.” - -“And now that he has brought it, Jacqueline?” - -“If this is the da Sestos casket, I must keep my word.” - -“Then I do assure you that it is not. Do you hear me, Jacqueline? I -swear to you that this is not the da Sestos casket. I will prove to you -that this Duke da Sestos is the liar and cheat that I have long -suspected him to be.” - -She looked at me without speaking, but her face was suddenly -transfigured. My courage came back by leaps and bounds. I felt -instinctively that the day was not yet lost. - -“And how will the ingenious Mr. Hume accomplish that delightful task?” -demanded a cold voice. The duke walked in. - -“How shall I do that, Duke da Sestos?” I repeated passionately. “I shall -do that by bringing to Miss Quintard the real da Sestos casket before -the week is over.” - -“You are promising a great deal, my friend,” he sneered. - -For the second time since we had met on the Piazza we looked steadily at -each other. It was to be the last grapple now. - -“Will you wait that week, Jacqueline, before you listen to Duke da -Sestos?” I pleaded. - -The duke made a gesture of entreaty. “Miss Quintard can not do that -without showing that she doubts my word.” - -Jacqueline looked slowly from me to the duke, and then again at me. She -smiled–that same grave smile that had puzzled me so much the last half -hour. - -“I shall wait that week,” she said. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIII - - -That night I could not sleep; and, indeed, I had enough to think about -as I lay in my troubled bed. - -Now I remembered with joy that strange smile of Jacqueline’s, a smile as -vague and inscrutable as the immortal smile on the lips of the divine -Gioconda, that withholds so much. My dear Jacqueline had promised that -she would not pledge herself to the duke for a week. That assurance was -infinitely heartening. But I had made my promise before the duke, and so -it was but a foolish boast after all. If he had been villain enough to -attempt to impose upon her in this way, he was quite capable of setting -spies at my heels who would dog my every movement for the next eventful -few days. That would make my promise more difficult of achievement. -However, the words were spoken. There was nothing for it now but to bend -every effort to find the casket. I must make good my word at all costs. - -If the casket were actually in existence, and in Venice, I would do -that, be the difficulties what they might. The foppish mantle of the -dilettante had slipped off my willing shoulders. I was aroused at last. -We should see now who was the better man–this Latin with feline, -sheathed claws, or the Anglo-Saxon with bulldog grip. - -When I knew that sleep was quite impossible, I put on my dressing-gown -and went into the sitting-room to read. But it was impossible for me to -keep my attention on the book. I threw open the heavy shutters and -looked out. - -The lights of Venice the mysterious glowed dimly in the distance. The -newly risen moon shone on campanile, dome and spire. Here and there a -gondola, a black speck in a lake of silver, drifted slowly by. I heard -the plash of the oars, the fragment of a song. Then my attention was -drawn to the fondamenta immediately beneath my window by the sharp, -persistent bark of a dog. - -A white poodle was leaping in an ecstasy of joy at its master, who was -doing his utmost to quiet the beast. He cursed the dog volubly by the -evil spirits of his father and grandfather and all his numerous -relations and ancestors. At first this little scene only amused me, but -my idle amusement gave way to an eager interest when presently I heard -my name mentioned. Leaning far out, I saw that Pietro, my gondolier, was -conversing with the dog’s master. I tried in vain to hear what they were -talking about, but almost immediately the dog and his master slunk down -the quay, hugging the shadow of the wall. I had not seen the fellow’s -face, but something in his gait seemed familiar. I whistled to attract -Pietro’s attention, and beckoned to him. Before he had entered my room I -had made up my mind that I knew who this prowler was. I was convinced -that it was none other than the duke’s servant, whom St. Hilary and I -had seen that night the duke had paid his memorable visit to my rooms. - -“Pietro,” I said, looking at him steadily, “I have had you in my service -ever since you left the penitentiary a few rods down the quay. It was an -affair of stabbing, I believe.” - -Pietro nodded with unblushing countenance. - -“Yes, monsignore, it was an affair of stabbing. But that I was innocent -as a three-years-old babe, I swear to you by all the holy saints in the -calendar, including the Blessed Virgin herself.” - -“Pietro,” I continued, “I have been a fairly good master. You have -earned many a _buona lira_.” I paused suggestively. - -He was voluble in his gratitude. Heaven was witness that he had been -faithful and honest. - -“Then will you tell me who was talking to you a few minutes ago? Will -you tell me exactly what he said to you?” - -Certainly he would, and with an ease born of years of careful -cultivation he lied as cheerfully and fluently as St. Hilary himself. - -“The man, monsignore, is the cousin of the husband of my sister. He is -the concierge of the Pallazzina Baroni on the Rio Santa Barbara. Perhaps -you have seen, monsignore, the wonderful poodle that is the property of -the Principessa Fini, who lives in that palace. I assure you, -monsignore, that the Principessa adores the poodle with the woolly coat -that hangs in strings at the tail with a devotion that is as great as if -the wonderful poodle were her own son. But this poodle, you must -understand, is of an intelligence that is marvelous and a badness that -is lamentable. He is always running away from his dear mistress. -To-night he went for a ride on the steamboat–oh, he is of an -intelligence that is truly remarkable, and came to our fondamenta to -visit another dog, but a dog of so plebeian a birth as to be -disgraceful. And so the concierge has come swearing after the wicked -beast, and no doubt the monsignore heard the barking.” - -It was useless to get anything out of Pietro. He lied because he loved -to lie, and then there had been the money that had crossed his palm. - -“That will do,” I said gravely. - -I did not inform St. Hilary the next morning of my foolish boast to the -duke. Nor did I tell him that the duke had already been bribing my -servant to spy on me. Hearing that, he would, I was sure, insist upon -our postponing the search for the casket until the week was over. That -would not suit my plans at all. But I did tell him of the duke’s pseudo -casket. He was delighted at this turn of affairs. - -“So our friend the comedian has discovered a casket all by himself,” he -exclaimed, rubbing his hands with joy. “His object, of course, is to -gain the consent of Miss Quintard to marry him. Now that he has obtained -that, he will cease to bother us, if, indeed, he has concerned himself -about us at all. But I forgot,” he added hypocritically, seizing my -hands. “You, my dear Hume, do not consider this good news at all.” - -“If it were true that Miss Quintard were actually engaged to the duke,” -I replied indifferently, “I should tell you and the casket to go to the -devil. But I happen to know that she will wait a week, at least, before -binding herself to him or any other.” - -“Capital, my dear Hume, capital! In a quarter of an hour I shall be -dressed. A cup of coffee and a cigarette, and we will continue our -search. It is early, but not too early to interview a servant mopping a -doorstep.” - -The Palace Cæsarini, as every tourist knows, is one of the most -beautiful and historic in Venice. Its distinguishing mark, however, is -the square tower that stands at its rear. The campanile, as bare of -ornament and as stolid as one of those towers of defence one sees at -Regensburg, is no more than a case for the stairway inside. Ugly as it -is, it serves to bring into more striking contrast the lightness and -delicacy of the Gothic jewel-work of the façade of the palace. Five -arches, richly carved with foliage, support the upper stories. The -loggia beneath is exquisitely proportioned. The broad marble steps, -leading to the water’s edge, extend the whole width of the palace front. -The pointed windows, Moorish in the profusion of their carving, are -noticeable because of the quaintly grotesque beasts, with monstrous -tails and protruding tongues, that are carved in niches between each -window. - -Our interest in the palace, however, was centered in the tower. From -this tower we expected to be led to the eighth landmark. We thought it -most unlikely that the iron safes had any significance. For no -imaginable reason, surely, could the clock-maker have chosen so public a -hiding-place. Indeed, the casket might not be in the Cæsarini Palace at -all; yet we expected to find it there. At first thought this seemed -unreasonable. Why should he have hidden the gems in another house? The -existence of the iron safes suggests the answer. - -St. Hilary had read in the Annals of the Inquisition that the last work -Giovanni had undertaken was the building of these safes. When once he -had determined to steal the casket he must have thought of a -hiding-place. He knew that his own house was impossible. The mechanism -of these safes was intricate and delicate. They would require constant -attention and repair. The clock-maker would have, therefore, frequent -access to the palace, and provided that he was successful in once hiding -the casket there, he could take away the stones at his leisure. Here, -then, if this theory was correct, the son had hidden the casket. For as -his father’s assistant he would naturally have had access to the palace. - -St. Hilary and I rang the bell at the side door of the palace on the -Calle Bianca Madonna. It was a less conspicuous entrance than that on -the Grand Canal. The majordomo, summoned by us, peremptorily frowned on -our modest request to be permitted to see the curious tower and the -safes. - -“No, signori,” he protested, swelling out a chest resplendent with gold -braid, “this is no time for tourists to visit the palace.” - -“Tourists!” cried St. Hilary indignantly. “Have I not told you we are -distinguished architects?” - -“Because,” continued the majordomo patiently, closing his eyes, as if he -had not heard the interruption, “all the palace is in confusion. -To-morrow night the Princess Cæsarini gives the famous _bal masqué_. You -can understand, then, that this is no time to visit our palace.” - -“But we could at least see the safes. They interest us particularly.” - -“The safes, signore! Pooh, pooh, they have been made into furnaces long -ago.” - -“But the tower–we can visit that without troubling you. We are writing a -book on curious towers.” - -The man shrugged his shoulders obstinately. “After to-morrow night, -perhaps. I do not know. Certainly not till then. And even then our -princess may not care to have the gentlemen come. She goes to Paris the -day after, and the palace will be closed.” - -This was alarming news. - -“Closed!” persisted St. Hilary, and it was impossible to mistake the -note of satisfaction in his voice. “Closed! And does no one stay to take -care of it?” - -“But certainly,” replied the servant suspiciously, “I stay and all the -servants; and then, let me tell the gentlemen, unless the princess -commands, no one, not even the king, has admittance.” - -I thought St. Hilary’s eagerness most indiscreet, but he was in no way -abashed. - -“It is to be a very exclusive ball, I suppose.” - -“Of an exclusiveness that will exclude all _Inglesi_ and _forrestieri_,” -cried the servant maliciously, and shut the door in our faces. - -“Do you think your suspicions and vulgar curiosity quite apropos, St. -Hilary?” I demanded vexatiously, as we turned from the door. - -“Oh, thick of head and slow of understanding,” he retorted in wild good -humor. “Do you think that I asked my questions without reason? I wanted -to know if it were not better for us to postpone our explorations till -after this precious ball. I have learned definitely that it would be -quite useless. If Madame La Princesse goes to Paris immediately after, -it is not likely that she will bother her head giving tourists or -architects permission to explore her palace. As to forcing our way in -afterward, you heard what the man said. For my part I prefer to enter -the palace as a guest. We must resort to the jimmy and the dark-lantern -as a last extremity. Certainly we must go to that ball.” - -“Without an invitation, and costumes?” - -“Assuredly not. And the costumes I have in my mind’s eye for you and -myself will fit our figures to a marvel. You, the stolid pig, shall be -resplendent as the Doge. As for me, I shall be bravely clad in doublet -and hose as the captain of the guard. And behold, in that room yonder -probably repose our costumes this very moment.” - -St. Hilary had tossed his head to a window of a pretentious apartment on -the second story. - -“We are going to hire costumes from a shop?” - -“What!” he cried in horror. “You have lived in Venice three years, and -mistake the apartments of one of the most aristocratic families of -Venice for a costumer’s shop. Fie, fie!” - -“You are not going to steal the costumes and the tickets?” I cried in -dismay. St. Hilary’s methods were always so beautifully direct and -unscrupulous. - -“I am not going to steal them. I am going, as it were, to squeeze the -costumes off the noble backs of two gallant cavaliers I know slightly, -and the tickets out of their pockets. Oh, they will gladly oblige me, -those young gentlemen.” - -“But why?” - -“Why, my friend? Because it so happens that I hold a little note that is -signed jointly in the writing of the noble youths. Now if I were to -postpone the necessity of their paying those notes for a month or two, -or if I removed the necessity of payment altogether, would they not be -duly grateful?” - -As I have said, St. Hilary’s methods were always so beautifully direct -and unscrupulous. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIV - - -St. Hilary and I were smiling at ourselves before the pier-glass in my -bedroom. It seemed to me quite impossible that we could be recognized. - -As a captain of the Inquisitorial Guard St. Hilary was inimitable. His -black eyes, as bright and piercing as any swashbuckler’s, glowed through -the velvet mask with a ferocity that was startling. His leanness and -agility, the stiff carriage of his compact and sinewy little body, the -gray goatee and mustachios, all distinctive of St. Hilary, were quite as -distinctive of the part he had taken. Nothing could be more thoroughly -foreign, more Italian. - -He was pleased to approve of me. A magnificent robe of old Genoese -velvet, bordered with ermine, the Doge’s cap, with one great stone -glowing in the front, made of me a most imposing personage. The velvet -mask completed my disguise. We might or might not be mistaken for the -two gallant young noblemen whose costumes St. Hilary had “squeezed” from -them, but at least we were not ourselves. - -And so, seated stiffly upright, not to crush our gorgeous costumes, we -started late in the evening for the ball at the Cæsarini Palace. - -Propelled with vigorous strokes, we swept down the Grand Canal. It was -impossible not to enter into the adventure with spirit and abandon. Our -going to the ball was audacious enough. But the ball itself was a mere -bagatelle to us. We were about to loot a palace. It is not every day -that one has such big game to key one’s nerves to fighting pitch. - -We glided silently and swiftly down the broad stream. Glimmering -lanterns of other gondolas danced about us. Every moment we overtook and -were passed by guests. Every Rio poured forth its tribute, a doge, a -monk, a queen, a knight. As we neared the palace the gondolas almost -touched, so dense was the throng. A compact mass, we drifted toward the -blaze of light pouring from the open hall of the Cæsarini Palace. - -Slowly, one by one, the gondolas were deftly guided to the marble steps. -St. Hilary grasped my arm. He whispered his last instructions. I was not -an adept at this sort of thing. - -“We must keep together as much as possible. But first, we shall have to -separate. To find our way to the tower, that is the main thing. If you -find the way clear thither, you must indicate it to me by resting your -forefinger lightly on your thigh. I shall show you I have found it by -resting the same finger on the hilt of my dagger. Once in the tower, we -can determine our next move. The chances are that it will be open to the -guests from the garden. A dark tower is an admirable retreat for a -couple to make love in.” - -As St. Hilary was whispering these words in my ear, my attention was -distracted by the gondola floating by our side. Its oarsmen were vainly -attempting to cut across our bows. Our own gondoliers were unwilling to -give way. Before I could interfere, we had jammed the other gondola -against the variegated red and blue posts placed before every Venetian -palace. Instantly the curtains of the felsa of the neighboring gondola -were drawn aside. The head of a cardinal was thrust out. Forgetting that -I was in costume, I drew back to avoid being seen. The cardinal was Duke -da Sestos. He had doffed his mask while he shouted to our men to make -way. Awed by the ducal coronet on his gondola, our oarsmen paused. The -other shot forward and drew up at the steps of the palace. Alighting -there, the duke handed out two ladies. I recognized them as Mrs. Gordon -and Jacqueline, in spite of their masks and disguise. - -In our turn we paused at the water’s edge. Servants dressed in the -costume of the gondoliers of the fifteenth century stood in a row to -receive us. Two of them steadied the gondola; another placed his little -platform of green baize; the fourth offered a deferential arm. I -gathered my robe about me, and we stepped from the platform to the -crimson carpet. Surrendering our tickets to our friend the majordomo, -who bowed to us much more courteously than he had done the day before, -we advanced slowly down the hall, glowing with a thousand candles. I -noticed with satisfaction that the doors of glass leading into the -garden were wide open. We should have no difficulty in entering the -tower, then, unless its gates were locked. The full moon fell with a -soft radiance on the playing fountain, the statues, and the bare -whiteness of Italian seats. But we dared not enter the garden. - -With a Mephistopheles crowding me close on one side and St. Hilary on -the other, the train of a Lucretia Borgia dragging in front, and the -lance of a Don Quixote poking me in the back, I ascended a stairway, -impressively noble in its proportions. Along its entire length at -intervals were placed busts of some great ancestor of the House of -Cæsarini. They stood in niches of the wall and on the balustrade of each -turn of the stairway. - -The grand staircase ended in a great square hall. A full-length portrait -of Prince Cæsarini on horseback looked down on us. A row of servants -stood at the two open folding-doors leading into the sala. On either -side of the sala were the usual reception-rooms and card-rooms. - -This sala of the Cæsarini Palace, one of the most impressive in Venice, -both in size and plan, is a square apartment, one side facing the Grand -Canal, the other, a little side canal. Quite two-thirds of the room is -raised above the rest of the floor, and is ascended by three marble -steps. The effect on entering was indescribably brilliant. Dancing had -already commenced on this immense dais. Every moment a couple descended -and ascended the marble steps. The air was heavy with perfume. The -strange costumes were reflected in a score of mirrors sunk in the walls -at intervals between the tapestries. Through the velvet masks gleamed -dark and languorous eyes that beckoned and challenged seductively. -Already here and there a nymph fled with light laughter; a satyr pursued -with eager eyes. One felt that license would go far before these masks -were removed at supper. - -I missed St. Hilary almost immediately. Jacqueline and the duke were -dancing. I watched them gloomily. On what mad errand were St. Hilary and -I bent to-night? We had forced ourselves here by browbeating two weak -young fools, who were no doubt quite ready to turn and rend us. If we -were exposed! And before Jacqueline! We were absolutely no more -respectable than two thieves whose eyes are fixed greedily on the silver -spoons. - -My arm was jogged. St. Hilary stood beside me. His eyes danced. His -forefinger rested lightly on the hilt of his dagger. I strolled after -him. He led the way directly to one of the _camerini_. He paused before -a Titian. I stared at a Giorgione. He sauntered on. I kept him just in -sight. We passed through half a dozen of the square little rooms. We -entered the last of them, where several men were gathered about a -punch-bowl. St. Hilary dropped into a chair in the corner. I occupied -the chair next to him. Presently, when a burst of loud laughter came -from the men at the punch-bowl, he leaned forward and picked up an -imaginary pin. “I know where the casket is.” - -I started violently. - -“I have traced it from the tower.” - -“You have traced it from the tower!” I repeated incredulously. - -“To this room,” he whispered. “You remember the scene of the seventh -hour?” - -“_And in the seven and twentieth day of the month was the earth dried_,” -I murmured. - -“Precisely. The twenty-seven steps from the summit of the tower bring -one to a door that opens on a passage. The other door to that passage is -just to the right of your chair.” - -“And how do you know that?” I demanded, staring at it. - -“A lady fainted a few minutes ago. She was carried through that door to -the landing for air. While the door was open I made good use of my -opportunity, and I have taken the precaution to put the key of the door -opening on to the tower into my pocket.” - -I looked about me eagerly for the eighth landmark. The four walls were -not suggestive. - -“The painted ceiling,” prompted St. Hilary. - -I looked upward. The decoration of the ceiling represented a king rising -from his throne in the act of greeting a woman who made obeisance before -him. I recognized the figures as those of King Solomon and the Queen of -Sheba. The throne had six steps. At the base of the steps crouched two -lions. - -“And now that we have found the eighth landmark?” I asked quietly. - -“The numbers are 6 and 2,” he whispered. Then aloud, in Italian, “Shall -we go into the ball-room?” - -I took St. Hilary’s arm. We passed through a succession of -reception-rooms, and as we entered each room I felt the familiar and -significant pressure. Passing through six of these rooms, we were in the -sala again. - -The decorous dancing of an hour ago had given way to a rout, a pageant, -a scene of childish abandon and folly. The younger of the aristocracy of -Venice had each assumed some classic character. Arm in arm, a wild -procession of shepherds crowned with chaplets, bacchantes, and goddesses -romped across the stage. There was Jason with his golden fleece, Thetis -with her sea-nymphs, Orpheus with a pair of loving-birds on his wrist. - -Round and round the great ball-room, up and down the marble steps, swept -the procession. Presently it stopped abruptly. With a wild shout, they -swept down on the laughing spectators; each Jack chose an incongruous -Jill. Apollo made captive Catherine di Medici; Pomona, Falstaff; Hebe, -Mephistopheles. - -Too late, St. Hilary and I turned to flee. A chain of flowers deftly -tossed by white arms made us prisoners, St. Hilary to Diana, myself to a -Mermaid. The grotesque mob again formed in procession. To the flourish -of trumpets and the beating of drums, after encircling the ball-room -once more, they proceeded to the supper-room. There, of course, each was -expected to unmask. - -It was impossible to retreat. Every step brought us nearer to exposure -and disgrace. This knowledge, disagreeable enough in itself, was made -doubly embarrassing when my fair jailer whispered coyly in my ear that -not all the disguise in the world could deceive her. It was evident, of -course, that she had taken me for the man whose costume I wore, and that -tender passages had passed between the two before now. I muttered some -incoherent reply. I followed miserably after St. Hilary and his -inamorata. - -But even at the eleventh hour came a reprieve. St. Hilary had guided his -fair unknown past the supper-room, down the stairway. I followed his -example. At the foot of the stairway we turned to the right, and so made -our way into the moonlight of the garden. The shades of Elysium are not -more grateful to perturbed spirits than was to us the dark bower -overgrown with yellow jessamine and honeysuckle. But the girl at my side -had become suspicious. I had spoken no word. She drew back in alarm. At -that instant St. Hilary’s Diana discovered her mistake. There was an -hysterical cry from each of the girls. Together they fled down the path -to the palace, while St. Hilary followed them with mocking laughter. -Then we plunged into the arbor. We were saved. - - - - - CHAPTER XXV - - -A moment we listened. St. Hilary lighted a cigarette. - -“Idiot,” he chuckled, “to intrude on a doting couple. There might have -been kisses, who knows?” - -“But why did she not recognize you sooner?” - -“Because I happen to have a figure that is not unlike her swain’s, I -suppose. As to my voice, have I not heard many times the squeak of the -noble Conti, and am I not a mimic on occasions?” - -“But surely I do not resemble the other noble Conti?” - -“In that bulging robe, with that beard and mask, you might be equally an -angel of light or the very devil himself. I am glad you had wit enough -not to speak.” - -“And now?” I asked impatiently. - -“After we have slipped the bolt of that little gate in the garden wall -over there, we will make our way up the tower and hide until the guests -have gone. We dare not trust ourselves in the palace again after our -escapade. That gate opens on the side street. We shall be glad to avail -ourselves of it later.” - -We were about to leave the arbor when a Punchinello strolled down the -garden path, a poodle at his heels. He was humming a French song, his -hands thrust deep into his pockets. He passed by a pergola of grapevines -without once turning in our direction. Recognizing the dog, I guessed -the identity of the clown. It was the man who had been tampering with -Pietro’s honesty a night or two before. His presence at the palace was -alarming, but I said no word to St. Hilary of my fears. Spies or no -spies, I was going to find that casket to-night! - -When the garden was again deserted I drew the bolts of the gate, then -followed St. Hilary up the steps of the tower. All the guests were at -supper, and we met no one. - -At the summit of the tower the sides were wide open to the sky. A low -parapet ran around the sides. The roof rose to an apex some ten or -twelve feet above. Two broad timbers, just out of reach, stretched -across the roof. Rusty rings were still embedded in them. In former days -this had been a bell-tower. I pointed out the timbers to St. Hilary. - -“There is our hiding-place if any one comes. Could you reach those beams -if I gave you a back?” - -He did not answer. He was looking down the dark stairway. He rose and -leaped on the parapet. - -“It is time to make the attempt. People are coming up the stairs.” - -In five seconds we were lying side by side. - -“Whatever happens, you must not betray yourself. If you do, remember, -you betray me, and you promised to stand by me, no matter what -happened.” - -I nodded; then, peering over, I saw my mask lying on the bench where I -had thrown it down. I pointed it out to St. Hilary. - -“Shall I risk jumping down for it?” - -“No, no. There is no logical clue between a mask on a bench and two -gentlemen playing eavesdroppers a few feet above.” - -There was a rustle of silk; a faint sigh of a woman catching her breath; -then a ripple of light laughter. - -“We are not the first, duke, to enjoy this wonderful view,” cried a -clear voice. - -I leaned recklessly over. Jacqueline was holding my mask toward Duke da -Sestos. And they were alone. - -I had just given my promise to St. Hilary, but I had not reckoned on -this. To leap down now would mean that I must betray him; to remain, -that I must listen. I was in an agony of indecision. Again I hesitated, -and again I was to pay a bitter penalty. - -“Oh, it is worth the climb,” cried Jacqueline enthusiastically. “That -blaze of lights is the Piazza San Marco, of course. And the long line to -the north?” - -“Are the lights of the Riva,” answered the moody voice of the duke. - -His tone frightened me. I felt that he was regarding her with burning -glances. Jacqueline must have noticed it had she not been enraptured -with the fairy scene before her. - -“The little splashes of light here and there are the campos, of course. -But the Grand Canal! I never dreamed of anything so wonderful. Look, it -has just one broad band of moonlight across its gloom. How fearfully -tragic it must look on a cloudy night! But now, it is beautiful. And the -tiny flickers of dancing light from the lanterns on the gondolas make -the effect magical. Is it any wonder that, after all, one is a slave to -the beauty of this Venice? Perhaps,” she added dreamily, “one might have -more ignoble dreams and ambitions than to live always in the midst of -this beauty. I believe there is nothing on earth so beautiful as this -scene.” - -“There is yourself,” a hoarse voice broke in on her revery. “There is -yourself, and to-night you are more beautiful and exquisite than the -very citadels of Paradise.” - -I trembled. It was to come, then, this declaration of love; and I must -listen. It was now too late to descend. I could only pray that they -would soon go. To my joy, this time Jacqueline did recognize the danger -of her lingering. - -“And below, what a mass of gondolas! How little did I think that I -should ever go to a ball in a gondola! I can not thank you enough for -bringing me here. But my aunt is waiting at the next landing. She will -be wondering.” - -“No,” broke in the duke’s hoarse voice, “she will not.” - -“And why not, please?” demanded Jacqueline. - -“I have told Mrs. Gordon that I must see you alone. You have avoided me -all the evening–all the day–ever since Mr. Hume insulted me by denying -that I had found the casket. And now that I have my opportunity it shall -not escape me.” - -“If my aunt has given you permission to detain me here against my will, -she has gone beyond her right. That she is not waiting for me makes it -still more necessary to descend.” - -“You must not go. You will not be so cruel. You shall not go. You shall -not go, by heaven until you have told mo why you refuse to listen to -me!” - -“Do you think that my regard for you will grow stronger because you -detain me here against my will?” Jacqueline asked indignantly. - -“My glorious one, you are beautiful when you are angry,” he cried -passionately. “I do not forget that you are only a nun for the hour. -Beneath those funereal robes beats a heart of passion and fire like -mine. Like mine, do you hear? It is time you were wooed and won.” - -“I hardly understand you, Duke da Sestos.” - -Even now there was no fear in her voice. - -“Oh, you understand, my white dove,” he continued in a tone that made my -blood boil. “You understand perfectly. Even in America, I suppose, young -girls do not climb towers alone at night without first of all counting -the cost.” - -I had heard quite enough. St. Hilary and his casket might go to the -devil. I gathered up my cumbersome robes. St. Hilary, his black eyes -glowing into mine a few feet away, made a fierce but cautious gesture to -lie still If I did so it was not because of St. Hilary, but -consideration for my own dignity. Jacqueline would never forgive me if I -appeared now, I thought. And by his next words the duke seemed to have -come to his senses at last. - -“Heavens,” he cried despairingly, “I am mad! I have angered you. Forgive -me. Say that you forgive me. You shall go when you have said that.” - -“If I forgive you,” answered Jacqueline in a cold voice, “it is because -I have failed to understand you.” - -“But tell me, before we go, why have you promised only to deny? I have -been patient. I have endured all. But now, to-night, under this soft -moonlight, under these burning stars, with Venice, the Queen of Loves, -to listen, I tell you that I love you. Pledge your love to -me–here–to-night.” - -“I insist that you let me go.” - -“In one moment. Tell me why you refuse to keep your word? Is it because -that Mr. Hume made me ridiculous before you? If he had not interfered, -you would have loved me. I would have made you love me.” - -“Really, Duke da Sestos, to be quite exact, you should say if _you_ had -not interfered.” - -“But when once you know what I know, when I have told you that he is a -thief––” - -“Thief!” cried my dear Jacqueline with scorn. - -“Is he not a thief who breaks into your rooms, who binds you hand and -foot, who steals from you––” - -“You dare say that he has done that?” cried Jacqueline, lingering in -spite of herself. - -“I dare say to his face that he has done just that,” replied the duke -hotly. “He has done more than that. He has stolen your heart from me, -and for that I shall never forgive him. Never. But I shall yet win you. -You are mine. Give me my reward. I implore you. I command you. You are -in my power. One kiss, and you shall go. I swear it. No, no, you shall -not escape me.” - -She screamed. I lifted myself on my elbow to leap down. It was -impossible to stay there longer. My robe caught on a nail. While I -struggled to free myself the duke saw me, and as I alighted he struck me -a violent blow. - -He flung himself upon me and pinioned my arms. I struggled furiously, -but he had me at a disadvantage. I was down. The moonlight fell on my -face. He recognized me. - -“Bah, it is our American friend; it is your Mr. Hume,” he cried, with a -contempt that was too careless for indignation. There was almost a note -of good-nature in his contempt, as if I were a loathsome but amusing -species of reptile. - -I rose panting to my feet. Hell itself can have no greater torment than -I suffered then. - -“Eavesdropper!” cried the duke, regarding me cynically. - -Jacqueline looked at me in horror. “You were listening? And you made no -effort to help me?” - -The words were not spoken in reproach. It was as if she had uttered a -simple truth that was convincing, hopelessly convincing. - -I was silent. I could say nothing without betraying St. Hilary. - -“Is every one low and despicable? Is there no honor in any one? You–my -aunt–” she groped her way toward the stairs. - -For the third time the duke and I looked into each others eyes. He was -smiling still in his amused, cynical way, but thoughtfully, too. - -“So,” he said at last, “you really were listening? Or had you other -motives?” - -“No,” I said, quite truthfully. “You know perfectly well that I was not -listening.” - -“I thought so. I am so sorry that I have disturbed Mr. Hume. And now -to-night, I suppose, it is useless to keep an eye on him longer. There -will be no adventures to-night, I am afraid.” - -There was a note of real regret in his voice. Had he really known that I -was here, or was he lying as usual? In any case, if I could convince him -that for to-night, at least, I should make no further attempt to find -the casket, he would leave St. Hilary in peace. - -“You have beaten me to-night, it is true, but there are other nights. -Remember that there are yet five days.” - -We descended the tower. I walked deliberately through the palace. The -duke pretended not to watch me, but I knew that I should be followed. It -was some minutes before my gondola came; for the last of the guests were -leaving. I went at once to my rooms. I lighted the gas and exchanged the -mummery in which I was clad for a suit of tweeds. Then, with an ulster -and golf-cap for St. Hilary, I turned out the gas, made my way out into -the garden at the rear, and in ten minutes had pushed open the little -gate in the garden wall. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVI - - -The garden was dark. Only the bloom of a cherry tree and a line of -lilies planted the length of the pergola showed white against the gloom. -The waning moon hardly touched the top of the garden wall now, but fell -full on the palace windows and the tower. - -No light was to be seen. The last guest had departed. The Princess -Caesarini was grand enough lady to have her own ways in spite of those -of the world; and one of them was to be in bed by two o’clock. - -The question was, where should I find St. Hilary? I should look for him -first, of course, in the tower. It was barely possible that he had -waited for me. Scarcely half an hour had passed since I left the palace. - -He was seated on the parapet, quietly smoking. He greeted me grimly. - -“Well, you have made a nice mess of things. I should have known that -failure is always the result of one’s mixing up business and sentiment. -There can be no search for the casket to-night. Come, let’s be going.” - -“Nonsense, St. Hilary,” I cried sharply. “You know very well we shall -finish our search to-night. It is natural that you should feel some -annoyance–not with me, but with circumstances. I promised you I would -not betray myself; but could you have lain quiet in my place?” - -“Of course I could,” he mumbled. - -“As to there being no further search, why did you wait here if you -intended to relinquish it? Why did you not go on with it alone? You have -waited, hoping I should return.” - -“But you deliberately told the duke that you were hiding, waiting for a -chance to find the casket. At least you hinted as much. He understood -you to mean that. For aught we know he has put the palace on its guard.” - -“Yes,” I answered angrily, “I told him that–deliberately. What else -could I do? He must have guessed. But after discovering me, would he -think it likely that I should return to continue the search? No. He has -seen me leave the palace. He has followed me, or had me followed, to my -rooms. He thinks that I am in bed. I am certain that no one has followed -me here. He has seen me go out of the palace. He has not seen me return. -There is the matter in a nutshell.” - -“But has he seen me go out?” demanded St. Hilary. - -“Are you sure he knows you were at the ball?” - -“Ah, that’s the question. I think we ought to fling up our search for -to-night.” - -“I do not. The finding of that casket is my only chance for happiness -now. Where is the key?” - -“It is quite useless. It unlocks the outer door of the passage, but the -inner door defies this key and some skeleton keys I have with me. -Confound these old Italian locks! That round window over your head is -the only chance. If you give me a leg up, I think I can pry it open and -squeeze through.” - -So that was why he had waited! He had attempted, then, to carry on the -search without me; he had waited for me only because he had found my -help absolutely necessary. Suddenly, I mistrusted St. Hilary. It seemed -difficult for his mind to work in normal grooves. Deceit and lying were -as natural to him as breathing. And yet, with one exception, he had been -fair and generous with me. Was it only to discard me when I was of no -further use? - -“But where does the window lead?” I demanded. - -“We must take our chances as to that. I am the slighter. Let me go -through first.” - -I stooped down and braced my arms against the wall. He lightly sprang on -my shoulders. I felt him strain and tug at the casement. Then I heard a -crack. Waiting a moment to be sure that the slight noise had not aroused -any one, he spurned my shoulders, and leaped upward. For an instant his -body hovered comically in mid-air. Then it disappeared. - -I stood motionless against the wall, listening with all my ears. Five -minutes passed, and I began to wonder if he had deserted me, when his -head appeared through the window. - -“I am standing on a bench. Jump, and catch my hands. This is the only -chance to get into the palace that I can see.” - -I measured the window with my eye. I kicked a bit of mortar from between -two stones in the wall. Edging my toe in, I sprang up. Twice I failed to -reach his outstretched arms, but the third time I was successful. A -strenuous minute, and I stood panting beside him. - -We entered a draughty passage. St. Hilary went confidently to the door -at the end, and pushing it open, he struck a match. We were in an -anteroom. Huge presses ran up to the ceiling on three of the walls. The -fourth wall was paneled, and in spite of my excitement, or perhaps -because of it, I saw that it was covered with names carved in the oak. -In other days this had undoubtedly been the page’s room. And now I had -another proof of St. Hilary’s keenness. He opened the door of what I -supposed to be one of the presses, and we were in the sala. The air was -yet heavy with the smell of perfume and crushed flowers. - -“Shall I light one of these candles?” I whispered. “Is it safe?” - -He nodded, and I took one of the candles from its sconce. St. Hilary -stood by the great fireplace, where two lions crouched. - -“These must be the two lions of the eighth landmark,” I said. - -I held the candle high above my head. As the light flared, vague -spectral forms seemed to spring out of the darkness and to vanish. Our -shadows, gigantic and monstrous, danced grotesquely on the polished -floor. In a dozen mirrors our figures were dimly reflected. - -“The ninth hour?” demanded St. Hilary hoarsely. - -“_And Joseph said, Behold, I have dreamed a dream, and behold, the sun -and moon and the eleven stars made obeisance to me_,” I answered. - -He clutched my arm. He pointed far above the mantel. - -At first I did not understand. In front of us yawned the great -fireplace. Two bowed and wearied giants supported the hooded marble -mantel, their feet braced fantastically against the two crouching lions. -The polished breasts and thighs of the figures glowed in the faint -candle-light. Above, the space from the mantel to the very ceiling was -filled with paneling, dark and somber with age and smoke, all richly and -delicately carved, a design infinitely confusing with its entwined and -intricate figures. A medley of chariots and horses, armored warriors and -banners, all impossibly crowded together, like a frieze in a Greek -temple–that is my vague impression of the carving. - -“The sun and the moon and the eleven stars,” muttered St. Hilary, still -pointing. - -Suddenly I understood. It was the scene of Joshua going forth to battle, -commanding the sun and moon to stand still. On the right shone the sun, -its rays naively depicted; on the left shone the moon. Joshua held a -banner in his hand, and on the banner were eleven stars. - -“There must be a spring concealed in the paneling. If we strike one of -those stars––” - -St. Hilary did not finish his sentence. He carried a console table -toward the mantel. For once I was the quicker. I caught the mantel, -braced myself on one of the giants, and so lifted myself up on it. - -I struck each of the stars in turn sharply with my palm. - -“Here–the dagger,” cried St. Hilary, and taking the dagger he wore from -his belt he tossed it up to me. Again I struck each of the stars with -the hilt of the dagger. One moment I was staring at the paneling; the -next, the paneling to the right of the chimney had slid noiselessly up -and I was looking into a square hole big enough to admit one’s body. - -A clock somewhere in the palace struck the hour of four. - -“It is the hour,” I whispered, staring down at St. Hilary. “We are to -inherit Time’s legacy at last.” - -St. Hilary did not answer. He was scrambling up on the table. - -I waved him back imperatively. His lack of self-control restored mine. -Now that I was here I had no intention of giving way to him. - -“Get down,” I cried. “Are you mad? One of us must keep watch. Before I -crawl up into the shaft I shall lower the paneled door. Push away the -table there. If any one should come––” - -The sentence died on my lips. His sallow face, lighted by the feeble -flicker of the candle, was flushed with intense excitement. One thinks -of the taper as standing before holy altars, shining on meek-eyed -Madonnas and saints. But the candle he held before him revealed -something of the cunning greed of the miser in his glittering eyes, -something of the fierce desire of the madman. He stood perfectly -motionless, gazing upward at the ceiling. One might have thought he was -in a trance. - -“St. Hilary! St. Hilary!” I cried, shocked at this display of emotion. -“What is it, man?” - -His lips tried hard to speak, but no words came from them. Then he -pointed upward to the beams above his head. I followed his tense gaze. -Then I understood his strange excitement. - -As in all Venetian palaces, the ceiling of this _sala grande_ was made -of massive beams stretching from wall to wall. The space between these -sunken beams was covered with boards nailed on top of them. - -In one of these sunken beams da Sestos had hidden the casket. I could -see it as I stood on the mantel, just out of my reach. - -The spring that had released the paneling must have opened at the same -time a tiny door at the side of this beam. As I moved my candle, I -caught the gleam of shining metal. We had found the casket. The last -three scenes of the hours, then, were meaningless. - -I crawled into the shaft. I stood erect. My head was on a level with a -space hardly more than a foot high between the ceiling of the sala and -the floor of the apartment above. I drew myself painfully along this -narrow interstice, St. Hilary’s dagger in one hand and the candle in the -other. When I had reached what I thought to be the location of the -casket, I brushed the dust away, and I saw several brass nails driven -into the boards, forming a small circle. I struck at the circle with the -sharp dagger until I could thrust my arm through the aperture I had -made. I felt along the beam immediately below, and I touched the cold -metal. My fingers traveled lovingly over its smooth surface. Slowly and -carefully I drew the casket from its hiding-place. It was -heavy–incredibly heavy. Very faintly I heard St. Hilary utter a cry of -joy. I closed the little door of the beam, then I lowered myself into -the shaft again, the precious casket clasped in both my hands. But the -shaft was too narrow for me to leave it and still hold the casket. I -must hand it first to St. Hilary. I stooped down and held it out. I had -heard him step from the table to the mantel. - -“Here it is, St. Hilary,” I said hoarsely. - -It was clutched, brutally, out of my lingering grasp. A sharp blow -struck my hand, then there was darkness. The paneled door had been -closed. I heard the spring click as it shut tight. St. Hilary had played -me false. Too late I thought of my distrust of him. - -I pulled myself up into the shaft again to fetch the dagger I had left -on the floor above. I struck the paneling along the edge of the top -until I had located the spring. Then I hacked at the hard board till I -felt it give way. I raised it cautiously and stepped out on the mantel. -It had taken me half an hour to free myself. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVII - - -Closing the panel door after me, I sprang lightly to the floor. I did -not dare attempt to escape from the palace by the way of the tower. I -stole across the polished floor out to the landing. I listened at the -head of the stairs. In the hall below I could hear the clatter of wooden -pattens on the marble flags. There was the swish of a broom. A door -slammed, then all was still. I descended the stairway rapidly. - -To my joy the double doors of glass leading out into the garden were -open. I might be seen from the window of the palazzo while crossing the -garden to the little gate, but I had to take the chance. I stole out -into the garden. I gained the shelter of the pergola. I reached the -gate, slipped out into the street, and closed it behind me. In two -minutes I had lost myself in the market crowd in the Campo San -Bartolomeo. - -And now what should I do? It was impossible to avail myself of the -ordinary channels of the law. I had no more legal right to the casket -than had St. Hilary. I must rely on my own wits. - -Would he already have left Venice? Perhaps. In that case it would be a -stern, almost a hopeless, chase. But if he had not done so, how would he -attempt to escape from me? - -I looked at my watch. It was not quite five. I knew that the next train -leaving Venice was at eight-thirty. A boat sailed to Trieste three times -a week. One left Venice this evening at seven. At twelve a P. and O. -liner sailed for Brindisi. These were the regular means of travel. But -nothing could be more simple than for him to hire a craft. If one pays -enough, one can go anywhere. The search seemed almost hopeless. - -Obviously, the first thing for me to do was to go to St. Hilary’s hotel. -I was not so simple as to expect to find him there, but I might learn if -he had made any plans beforehand to leave Venice. - -His hotel was on the Riva, not far from Danielli’s. The concierge knew -me well, and in answer to my careless inquiry as to whether St. Hilary -had been in his rooms since last night, he went up-stairs to inquire. -There was no answer to his knock. I bade him open the door, and told him -I would wait for my friend. He did so, and I entered. - -My worst fears were realized. Two heavy trunks were strapped and -labeled. The address was simply in the care of a forwarding agent in -London. - -His razors and hair-brushes, however, were still on the dressing-table, -and an open bag on the chair. If he had planned returning to his rooms -he would not imperil the loss of the casket by bothering about these -paltry toilet articles. That was my first thought. But even as I was -closing the door behind me I paused. Would he not, indeed? He was still -in the fancy costume of the ball. True, he had my ulster and golf cap, -but the day promised to be warm. Could he travel thus without attracting -attention? Unless he were to leave Venice by private boat, he would be -almost sure to change his clothes. I abandoned my intention of going to -the railway station. I would remain here at his rooms. And yet I must -send some one. Whom could I trust? There was Pietro, of course; he knew -St. Hilary. But Pietro had played me false; he would play me false -again, unless I made it worth his while not to do so. I must make it -worth his while. I sent one of the hotel servants to fetch my man. In -twenty minutes he arrived, smiling. - -I had taken the precaution the night before to put a considerable sum of -money in my pockets. I did not know what emergency might confront us -before the dawn, or how soon it might be convenient for us to leave -Venice. I dangled a hundred-lire note suggestively before Pietro’s nose. -I assured him that I knew he was an arrant rogue. I sympathized with him -(or pretended to) in his determination to sell his rascally services to -the highest bidder. I hinted that this hundred-lire note should not be -the last if he could only make up his mind to obey me implicitly for a -few hours or days. - -Pietro gulped with emotion. He swore by all his hopes of heaven and with -tears that he loved me dearly. He could not take my money. He would -cheerfully murder any enemy of mine out of sheer gratitude for my -kindness to him; but he could not take the money. No, no, not for -himself, but–for expenses, yes. He pocketed the note with an oily smile. - -My directions to him were simple. He was to betake himself to the -railway station. He was first of all to assure himself that St. Hilary -was not on the eight-thirty train. If he were not on that train, Pietro -was to keep watch for him on the landing of the railway station until -six o’clock in the evening. If the dealer was on the eight-thirty train, -or if he appeared later, Pietro was to go where he went, if that meant -to the ends of the earth. But, above all, he was to keep out of sight. - -I had still the P. and O. liner and the boat to Trieste to watch. The -liner I could take care of myself from St. Hilary’s window, or better -still, a seat on the Riva under the hotel awning. She was anchored not a -hundred feet away, and I could readily make out every passenger who -boarded her. As for the boat to Trieste, it did not go until seven in -the evening, and I could recall Pietro from his post at six if -necessary; for there was no train between six and nine. - -I could do nothing more at present except keep a watchful eye open for -St. Hilary, and that, as I have said, I could do as well, or even -better, from the Riva below. And now that I was forced to inaction for -the present, I was conscious that I had had nothing to eat since the -evening before. - -I locked St. Hilary’s door after me. I settled myself at a little table -under the red-and-white striped awning, where, quite inconspicuous -myself, I could see every one who entered or came out of the hotel. - -The sun rose higher and higher over San Georgio’s. The golden angel on -the campanile grew brighter and brighter, until she seemed a thing -alive, quivering in her eagerness to spring into that deep lake of blue. -The dazzling whiteness of the pavement toward the Molo gradually became -alive with moving spots of variegated color. The teeming life of the -broad street amused me for a while. But now that the excitement was -passed, now that I was very near despair, though I would not acknowledge -it, I found it difficult to be alert. It seemed useless to make any -pretence at watching at all. I felt very sleepy. - -The heat of the early afternoon became almost intolerable. I struggled -and fought against an almost overpowering drowsiness. Suddenly I was -wide awake. Duke da Sestos had just come out of Danielli’s. He was -walking toward me. He saw me. He raised his hat, and smiled. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVIII - - -“Ah, it is my friend Hume,” he purred. “I had thought that Mr. Hume had -left Venice.” - -I ignored the left hand he extended negligently toward me. He had as -many changes of front as a Russian diplomatist. Then I laughed. His cool -effrontery was downright amusing. - -“And why should I have left Venice?” I asked easily. “Did you think you -had frightened me off last night?” - -“Ah, ha,” he twirled his mustache with the utmost good-nature, “I know -my friend Hume too well to think that he is so easily frightened. But it -is a pity that your wit, my friend, is not as great as your courage.” - -“And how is my stupidity manifesting itself just at present?” - -He threw back his head and laughed silently–at least, insofar as a cat -can laugh. Then he lowered himself into a chair by my side, leaned -forward, and tapped me lightly on the shoulder. - -“I am clairvoyant. _Par example_, you are waiting for a friend, _n’est -ce pas_? Oh, I do not mean myself. Shall we call that friend Mr. St. -Hilary?” - -“And then––” - -“And then,” he continued jocularly, “if this Mr. St. Hilary should not -come–if he had not a notion of coming?” - -“I should be a fool to sit here–is that the inference?” - -His shoulders shook, as if he found the joke amusing. But how should he -know anything of St. Hilary’s movements? Or, guessing them, that I could -be seriously affected by them? - -“Am I to understand,” I demanded, sitting upright, “that you have -information as to Mr. St. Hilary’s whereabouts?” - -“Very precise information, I assure you, my friend,” he cried, his blue -eyes dancing. “When one sees a gondola racing to the railway station, -with two rowers, so great is the hurry, one may reasonably infer that -the gentleman who sits under the felsa smoking a cigarette is on his way -to take a train, hein?” - -“So you saw Mr. St. Hilary on his way to the railway station?” I said -slowly. “And the time?” - -“It was not so late as seven, and certainly not before half-past six.” - -My worst fears were realized. Pietro had let him slip through his -fingers at the eight-thirty train. But at least I would not give this -Italian the satisfaction of seeing the consternation the news gave me, -and I answered indifferently: - -“A little trip to Milan, I suppose. If he had been going far I should -certainly have seen him before his departure.” - -“But, Mr. Hume,” cried the duke in triumph, “when the gondola is piled -high with boxes, is it reasonable to think that our friend simply runs -off to Milan? No, no; Naples, perhaps, or Paris, or London.” - -“What! You saw his trunks?” I cried. - -The duke held up his five fingers. - -“So many.” - -I turned easily in my seat and looked him over coolly. I had every -reason to believe that St. Hilary possessed only two trunks, and that -these two trunks were in his room up-stairs. - -“Yes, it is strange that he should not have said good-by to me,” I said -musingly. - -“_Is_ it so strange?” queried the duke, and again he tapped me on the -shoulder. “Come, come, Mr. Hume, have I not said that I am clairvoyant?” - -“Your proofs have not been convincing. Suppose that you give me a better -illustration of this remarkable gift of yours.” - -“Well, then, I could have told you yesterday that your friend would bear -watching.” - -“You seem to know a good deal about the character of Mr. St. Hilary,” I -said, and rose from my seat with a yawn. - -The duke rose and took my arm. He had not yet done with me, it appeared. - -“You walk toward the Piazza? Permit me to walk with you. Yes, yes, I -know a good deal of your friend’s character. We have had many -interesting talks together before now; and, let me tell you, Mr. St. -Hilary did me the honor of bidding _me_ good-by.” - -“And is that the reason you are so happy?” I asked, staring at him. My -question had been put seriously. For the first time this afternoon I was -interested in his answer. - -“So happy?” he retorted, shrugging his shoulders; then, with apparent -frankness, “But I am to see Mr. St. Hilary again. Yes; I am to join him -presently at Naples, perhaps, or Paris, or London. By the way, you have -yet three days in which to prove me a liar,” he added good-humoredly. - -“And three days are a long time sometimes,” I said curtly. “Good -afternoon; I take a gondola here to my rooms.” - -“Adieu,” he purred, but he still held my arm. “Do you remember that -charming afternoon we spent, all four of us, in my poor palazzo? I -presented to each of the ladies a little souvenir. To Mrs. Gordon I gave -the useless old clock; to Miss Quintard, the chest that once contained -the casket I have found and given to her. But to you I gave nothing. Our -dealer, I have reason to think, has consoled himself. To you alone, my -friend, I have been remiss.” - -“Your regret is touching,” I murmured. - -“But there is a little book I came across the other day when I was -packing up my few belongings. It is only fourteen pages, but these -fourteen pages are interesting. I have known travelers go all the way to -St. Petersburg to consult them. Would it amuse you–this little souvenir? -Or am I to infer that since the departure of your co-laborer in -antiquarian studies you are no longer interested in curiosities?” - -If I could have flung him into the muddy waters of the canal I should -have been a little less miserable, but I affected the utmost delight. In -the first place, I was really interested in seeing those pages. Again, I -hoped to understand a little more clearly the drift of this afternoon’s -talk. His reference to St. Hilary mystified me. - -“I shall be charmed to receive it,” I cried. - -The duke had watched my momentary indecision with evident anxiety. Now -he seized my arm again and squeezed it in the warmth of his -satisfaction. His face was radiant. - -“Good! Good! My rooms are but a few feet from the Capello Nero.” - -“So St. Hilary informed me,” I said pointedly. - -“Ah, he is a wonderful man, your friend. Such resource, such -imagination! And always on the lookout for himself, hein?” - -The duke’s apartments were almost empty of furniture. There were no rugs -on the floor, no belongings of a personal nature in sight. The pictures -were covered, and the chairs formally ranged about the walls. The clock -on the mantelpiece had stopped. Some old newspapers and magazines heaped -on the library table were the only sign that the room was lived in. -Otherwise the room was bare. - -“You must excuse the appearance of my poor chambers; I leave Venice this -evening.” - -“All the world seems to be leaving Venice to-day,” I observed lightly. - -“Absolutely. First of all, your friend Mr. St. Hilary, and now Mrs. -Gordon, her niece, and myself. My poor friend, you will be lonely, I -fear.” - -“Your concern touches me,” I said, and walked to the window. “When I -have received from you my souvenir, I am going to my rooms to make -preparations for leaving Venice myself.” - -The duke was turning over the magazines and papers on the library table. - -“Everything is in confusion. I can not find my little book. Old Luigi is -an imbecile. Perhaps he has destroyed these precious fourteen pages. May -I trouble you to ring the bell near that window? We will ask Luigi.” - -I was puzzled, I confess it. Why had he brought me to his apartment? -Simply to gloat over me? Or had he some purpose more useful than that? - -There was a knock at the door. Instead of bidding the servant enter, the -duke himself answered it, stepping out in the hallway, closing the door -carefully after him. - -I walked over to the table, and turned over carelessly the papers and -magazines. The glint of steel caught my eye. He had hidden a revolver -under the rubbish while pretending to look for the fourteen pages. In -two seconds it was in my pocket and I had taken my stand at the window -again, one hand in my coat pocket, the other pulling at my mustache. - -“That imbecile Luigi had put away the pages for safe keeping in a -portfolio. But he is to fetch the portfolio at once.” - -He seated himself carelessly on the table, swinging one leg. He picked -up an illustrated weekly. - -“Are you interested in horses? Here are some capital snap-shots of good -riding during the manœuvers at Asti.” - -I crossed the room and looked over his shoulder. When we had exhausted -the magazines he bethought him of the pictures hanging on the wall. He -lifted the muslin coverings and showed them to me, one by one, -expatiating on their beauties. Evidently he was trying to kill time. -Unconsciously I glanced at the clock, a modern timepiece about three -feet high, standing on the mantel. I had forgotten that it had stopped. -The hands, I noticed, stood at half-past six. - -The duke now took up his position at the window, while I stood with my -back to the mantel. It just reached my shoulder. For the first time it -occurred to me that he had wished to get me away from the window. He -wished the post of observation for himself. I wondered if it were worth -while for me to join him. - -For perhaps thirty seconds there was silence between us. I say thirty -seconds, and I measured that interval by thirty ticks. At first I heard -them listlessly. They were faint, muffled, and strangely slow. Then I -remembered with a start that the clock had stopped. It was impossible -for them to come from the watch in my pocket. They sounded close to my -ears, and my ears were not two inches away from the clock that had -stopped. - -For a moment the strange phenomenon bewildered me. Then I understood. -The casket was inside the clock; and the mechanism that would release -the cover in twelve hours had been set going. - -As if the duke were the clairvoyant he had mockingly pretended to be, he -turned sharply on his heel. I was gazing up at the ceiling. - -“Luigi is a long time,” he muttered. “It is possible that the thieves -who broke into my rooms some months ago stole it after all.” - -“Thieves!” - -“Yes, my friend, thieves. But I am taking precautions for my safety in -the future.” He laughed shortly, and looked out of the window again. - -That hint was as foolish as my boast a few days before. So he had sent -old Luigi for the gendarmes. He was holding me here. Well, I hardly -cared to see the gendarmes just now. It was time for me to act. - -I reached swiftly up. I lifted the clock from the mantel to the floor. -The jar of the wheels as it touched the floor made him spin about like a -mechanical toy. I was pointing the muzzle of his useful weapon at him -over the clock. - -“Sit down,” I said quietly. - -He clutched the edge of the chair, his mouth drooping. - -“And quickly!” I cried sharply. - -He sank into the chair behind him, his hands trembling violently. - -“But–but–this is an outrage!” he gasped. - -“My dear duke, you are not the only clairvoyant. In my poor way I can -see through a wooden case. But this propensity of yours to play the cat -with the poor little mouse is dangerous. Sometimes the little harmless -mouse turns out to be a rat. And rats sometimes bite.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXIX - - -For the second time I held the casket in my hand, but even now it was -impossible for me to look at it. I had to keep my eye on the duke. I -picked it up and walked to the table near which the duke was seated. - -“Tell me,” I asked laughingly, “did you bring me to this room for the -sheer joy of gloating over my nearness to this toy that I have been -struggling to possess for the past month, knowing how impossibly far it -was from me? Did it afford you so much pleasure to play with me, to -tease me, that you pushed your game so dangerously far? If so, you are -an artist, my dear duke.” - -“Mr. Hume is generous in his compliments.” - -“Or,” I continued, thrusting my face nearer to his, “am I mistaken in -thinking that most of your words and deeds are spoken and acted with -some purpose in view?” - -“For example?” he asked lightly. - -“For example,” I repeated, “it was hardly for love of me that you spoke -to me this afternoon.” - -“Hardly,” he sneered, pale with rage and disappointment. “Rather because -I hated you so much that I wished to amuse myself at your expense.” - -“Or is there a third possibility?” I continued scornfully. “That you -wished to avenge yourself? While you were taunting me with St. Hilary’s -perfidy, or his supposed perfidy, the idea occurred to you that if you -could induce me to come to your rooms, if you could hold me there while -you sent Luigi for the gendarmes, you might have me committed to jail -for assault, perhaps, or complicity in breaking into your rooms. On the -whole, I am inclined to think that this view of the case is the most -reasonable.” - -“As you will, Mr. Hume,” he answered, his lips white and trembling. - -“Now listen to me, Duke da Sestos. Granting that I am correct, the -gendarmes will be here presently. Luigi has been gone some time. Before -they come, I wish to put the case clearly before you. This casket and -these jewels belong neither to me nor to you. They are the property of -the state. When your gendarmes come, be sure I shall make that clear.” - -“Pooh! I have always known that you were a fool,” he cried -contemptuously. - -“Ah, I thought you would listen to reason,” I said quickly. “Now tell me -frankly: Why have you been so keen on this hunt for the casket? Was it -to please Miss Quintard or to please yourself?” - -“Why not both? In pleasing myself perhaps I should be pleasing Miss -Quintard.” - -“And perhaps not,” I replied drily. “A truthful answer, duke, if you -please. We have no time to lose–if you care anything for the baubles in -this casket.” - -“Well, then, for myself,” he said, looking at me curiously. - -“And if I had not surprised you just now, you would have taken your -casketful of jewels to London or Paris to dispose of them at leisure?” - -“Perhaps,” he assented insolently. - -“Or would you have taken this casket to Miss Quintard and apologized for -making a slight error?” - -“Why could I not have done both?” he cried. “Yes, Mr. Hume, even if you -give it to the gendarmes, the casket is mine–legally and morally. The -state will grant my claim, and then––” - -“That is the point I was coming to. Supposing you were offered a share -of these baubles–I do not say how great a share–is it possible that you -could be induced to give up the casket?” - -“I have heard there is an English proverb that it is better to have a -bird in one’s hand than two birds in the bushes.” - -“But allow me to remind you that in this instance the bird is in my -hands.” - -“For the present,” he interrupted with a meaning glance. - -“Come, come,” I cried sharply, “we have had enough of this quibbling. I -make you a sporting proposition. I will give you a share of these jewels -for the casket.” - -“I am afraid,” he said suspiciously, “my share would be rather a small -one.” - -“It would be one-third,” I said quietly. “I am not a thief. I covet no -stolen property, and these stones were stolen. The price of blood is on -them. Whether they were stolen to-day or five hundred years ago, the -moral aspect of the case is the same. But I want that casket, and I must -have it.” - -“Who gets the other two-thirds?” demanded the duke, like a greedy -glutton. “St. Hilary, I suppose.” - -“If he can prove to me that he has played fair.” - -The duke thought a minute. “Very well, I agree.” - -I emptied the chambers of the revolver’s cartridges. I put them into my -pocket. I pushed the weapon carefully under the newspapers again. - -“And now that the strain of the past five minutes is over, I suppose I -may have a look at my casket?” - -“With pleasure.” The duke bowed sardonically. - -In shape and size it was not unlike the pseudo da Sestos casket with -which the duke had attempted to deceive Jacqueline. - -It was of bronze, overlaid with plaques of gold, enriched with cloisonné -enameled work and precious stones, cut for the most part _en cabochon_. -The cover rose to an apex. At the apex was a knob of wrought gold, in -shape a monster’s head, the eyes formed of minute rubies. At the four -corners of the cover were large semi-precious stones of chalcedony, -rock-crystal, carbuncle, and turquoise. From these four stones to the -knob of gold ran lines of pearls. - -The sides of the casket were composed of rectangular plaques, -alternately covered with symmetrical designs in colored cloisonné -enamel, partly opaque and partly translucent. These plaques were studded -with pearls framed with a cunning design of scrolls and filigree work. - -“It would fetch a thousand pounds at Christie’s any day,” I mused. - -“Will you tell me how long that toy must tick before the cover can be -opened?” interrupted the duke. - -“When did you set the mechanism?” - -“At precisely twenty-five minutes to seven.” - -“Then in half an hour the casket will be opened.” - -There was a loud knock on the door. - -“Ah, your gendarmes,” I said coolly. - -“And, as host, may I receive my guests?” - -“Do,” I urged, and seated myself in his chair, the casket on my knees. - -He opened the door. Two impossibly solemn gendarmes entered, precisely -alike as two files. Keeping step, each with each, their hands on their -sword hilts, they advanced to the middle of the room and saluted. Old -Luigi stood discreetly without. I hope it is no disgrace to confess that -I awaited the duke’s orders with some trepidation. - -“We have received word,” said the duke calmly, and he waved his hand -toward me, “that an American gentleman, returning from the _bal masqué_ -at the Cæsarini Palace, early this morning, was assaulted by ruffians -near the Calle Bianca Madonna, and knocked insensible. He was then -carried to an empty house in the Jewish quarter. It is the third -right-hand house on the quay of the Mestre Canal as you enter it. -Release the gentleman. Tell him that his friend, Signore Hume, wishes to -speak with him here. See that he comes. That is all.” - -The gendarmes saluted as one man, spun about on their heels and marched -from the room, their red and white plumes nodding. - -“The gentleman to be found in the Jewish quarter is, of course, St. -Hilary. It requires no great imagination to guess that you had him -confined there. It would interest me to know how you managed last -night.” - -“Oh, believe me, nothing could have been simpler,” replied the duke. “I -knew, you may be sure, that you were not spying on Miss Quintard and -myself in the tower. As a matter of fact, I was bitterly disappointed -when you showed yourself; for, frankly, Mr. St. Hilary and you had been -seen ascending the tower, and it was known that you were concealed -somewhere. But we had not thought of the beams up there. When you were -discovered I had presence of mind enough not to rout out your friend. -All we had to do, then, was to watch him. We made our way into the sala -after you, and, lying concealed until the dramatic moment, my -Punchinello took care of your friend, while I took care of your casket.” - -“But how did you know we were to take the casket that night?” - -“You have been watched for a week. It is so much easier and more -sensible to reap where others have sown than to dirty one’s own fingers -with the plow.” - -“Then,” I said with a sigh of relief, “St. Hilary played fair?” - -“So far as I know,” replied the duke indifferently. “But I hear him -coming up the stairs. You can ask him for yourself.” - -The door burst open, and St. Hilary rushed in. A bandage stained with -blood and dirt was wrapped about his head. He was still in my ulster and -golf cap. He looked as if he had spent a few bad quarters of an hour. - -“You are just in time, St. Hilary,” I cried, “to see the casket opened.” - -“What! You have beaten him after all!” He glared at the duke. - -“With neatness and despatch,” generously complimented the duke. - -St. Hilary did not answer. He stood looking down at the casket, holding -his watch in his hand. It was now six-thirty. The clock on the Piazza -told the half-hour. - -“Did you set the mechanism at six thirty-five precisely?” I asked -anxiously. - -“At six thirty-five precisely,” answered the duke, frowning too in -anxiety. - -“Tut, tut! Do you expect the accuracy of a watch of the twentieth -century in this mechanism?” replied St. Hilary irritably. “It may be -several minutes before the casket opens.” - -“In that case, I fear, Mr. Hume, that you may have to delay fulfilling -your promise to Miss Quintard.” - -“Why?” I asked. - -“Do you forget that she leaves Venice at seven-thirty?” - -“What are you talking about?” asked St. Hilary roughly, his eyes fixed -on the casket. - -“The duke has just been reminding me that the casket is legally his, and -that, if necessary, he will lay his claim before the state.” - -“But we are not fools enough to care a straw about his claim,” growled -the dealer. “We have beaten him at his own game. It is too late for him -to cry out.” - -“On the contrary,” I said coolly, “the duke has induced me to recognize -that claim.” - -“Yes, I have exchanged my casket for a share of its contents,” added the -duke suavely. - -For a moment St. Hilary forgot to keep his eye on the casket. He glared -at me with bloodshot eyes. - -“Surrendered his claim! To you? By heavens, do you think, Hume, that you -can ignore me?” - -“I have not ignored you, St. Hilary. If you lose the casket, you have -two-thirds of the gems. It is better, I should think, to have that -two-thirds than to have any trouble with the state.” - -“Precisely,” beamed the duke. - -“Very well,” agreed the dealer grudgingly. - -It was now a quarter to seven. Still we could hear the muffled tick. - -“It really looks as if Mr. Hume would miss his train,” mocked the duke. - -At that instant there was a loud click. The duke started perceptibly. -St. Hilary, pale with excitement, flung up his hands. I threw back the -cover. - -The room seemed suddenly irradiated with a flash of multi-colored light. -Five great gems glowed in their compartments of purple velvet in the -topmost tray. St. Hilary and the duke uttered cries of joy. If I must -confess it, these stones affected me hardly more than a display in any -jeweler’s window in Bond Street or Fifth Avenue. - -“The minutes are more precious to me than those gems,” I cried. “Take -out the trays, or I shall empty the contents of the casket on the -table.” - -“When once we have closed the shutters,” said St. Hilary. - -He started to go to the windows, but noticing that the duke did not -move, he halted suspiciously. They were like two beasts with their prey -between them. - -“I will close the shutters for you,” I said, laughing grimly at the -greed that distorted their faces. - -As I left the room with the casket in a bag which the duke procured for -me, my last look caught a glimpse of the two men seated one on each side -of the table. A lighted candle was at each elbow, and the trays of gems -lay between them. - - - - - CHAPTER XXX - - -It was twenty minutes past seven when I paid my gondolier his fare at -the railway station. I bought a first-class ticket to Milan and hurried -down the long platform. Already the guards were calling to the -passengers to take their places, and were closing the doors of the -carriages. - -Jacqueline herself I did not see, but her maid sat at the open window of -a compartment reserved for women. Fortunately, it was a corridor train. - -Before taking the casket to Jacqueline I cast one long look back at -Venice. Never had her fairy architecture looked more entrancing, more -ethereal. She was more mystical in this golden light than Arthur’s City -of Avalon. But this enchantress of the seas had proved but a siren after -all. For me her beauty had crumbled to ashes. Like my dreams, she had -proved bitterly disappointing; for these dreams had been as intangible -and difficult to realize as her charm. - -I was turning my face away from the city of dead hopes and vanished -dreams confidently to a workaday world; and if I could melt Jacqueline’s -pride, and win her forgiveness, I might yet look forward to love and -happiness. - -I walked slowly down the corridor to her compartment. I stood quietly at -the door a moment. She turned from the open window where she had been -standing. There were tears in her eyes. - -“Do you not think that you have caused me enough pain and embarrassment -without troubling me further just now?” - -“Jacqueline, you asked me to bring you the casket. You promised that you -would listen to me when I brought it. There it is. It has cost me -something, that casket–your love and your respect. In doing precisely -what you asked me, I have lost all that is dearest to me in the world. -But there it is. It is really the casket of da Sestos.” - -I placed it on the seat beside her. - -“All this is painfully theatrical, Mr. Hume,” she said disdainfully. “I -can have no possible use for it. Will you please take it again? I wish -to heaven that I had never heard of it.” - -“Can you really be in earnest, Jacqueline?” I asked sadly. “Are you -determined to be unjust? Are you quite resolved not to listen to me?” - -“I am quite resolved,” she answered scornfully, “to be just to myself. -And now will you please go?” - -“I must go if you insist,” I said gravely, and I stooped to pick up the -casket. - -Then I saw that I was indeed the fool St. Hilary had so often called me. -For her dear eyes belied her cruel words. They were full of doubt and -despair. They beseeched me to be strong, to be ruthless, to break down -her outraged pride. She longed to understand, to forgive me, but I must -make her understand. - -I sat beside her; I held both her hands firmly in mine. - -“Jacqueline, it is impossible for me to go like this. My happiness, yes, -and your happiness as well, is at stake. You must listen to me. It is my -right. I refuse to go until I have told you the story of this casket. -But I want you to listen to that story without prejudice. When I have -told you everything, I hope you will see that I have tried to do just -what you wished me to do. I am trying to be, now, just what you wished -me to be. Though I hurt you by staying, yet I shall stay; for you told -me that the man you loved must have something of the relentless about -him. I shall remain relentless until I have gained my happiness and -yours.” - -“If it were possible for me to dispute the evidence of my own eyes, how -gladly I would listen and exonerate you!” - -“Then listen, Jacqueline.” - -I told her of my search for the casket. I let the story plead for -itself. When I had finished, she sat very still, her face shaded from -the dim lamp in the center of the carriage by the partition of the seat. - -“It was a foolish thing to ask,” she said, her eyes shining. “But oh, -Dick, I am glad I did ask it. I know now that you are really strong and -patient. You would dare much for the woman you love. Forgive me that I -did not trust you. I wanted to, but last night it seemed––” - -She leaned toward me, and I caught her in my arms. - -Without, the moonlight fell on the mulberry trees, rows and rows of -them, their branches festooned fantastically from tree to tree. They -looked like figures stiffly dancing to an old-time minuet. - - - - - THE END - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - Transcriber’s Note - -The hyphenation of compound words which occur on a line break are -removed or retained based on other instances. - -Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and -are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original. -The following issues should be noted, along with the resolutions. - - 21.19 I said impatiently[.] Added. - 37.25 Sudd[d]enly this wall gave way Removed. - 38.3 and Lu[i]gi appeared, Inserted. - 114.8 Jacqueline had added her urgen[t] telegram Added. - 140.8 we can amuse ourselves with our clock.[”] Added. - 223.5 he would undertake even the impossible.[”] Added. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Clock and the Key, by Arthur Henry Vesey - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CLOCK AND THE KEY *** - -***** This file should be named 54888-0.txt or 54888-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/8/8/54888/ - -Produced by KD Weeks and the Online Distributed Proofreading -Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from -images generously made available by The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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