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 urgenturgent 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.