“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.