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.