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.