The Clock and the Key

precisely opposite the Salute, I had the finest view in Venice. That made them worth while. But the pr

d 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

ope from the post; I heard the steersman shout down his hollow tube the directions to the engineer in his cubby-hole below; I seated

o–what, I did not know precisely (for I had not taken Jacqueline’s suggestion very seriously), but somewher

aw them immediately at one of the little black tables outside of Florian’s–St. Hilary in t

way. He did not even shake hands. He merely saluted me

I am weary of the cry. Let me tell you that there is something infinitely more appeal

asked Mrs. Gordon, a

ystery,” he sa

vaguely Jacqueline’s aun

re 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

etons 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 h

se you are a dealer in antiquities. But why is Venice

, snapping eyes, his face the color of parchment, and lined as the palm of one’s hand, agile as a puppet on

d not the sober judgment of the dealer. And yet, and yet, it is this hope that send

21allow yourself to be mastered by a

as you call it, is not vague or vi

it not behind the glass cases in St. Mark’s yonder? Why are not your

th a strangely tho

d the Venus de Milo, or the Frieze of the Parthenon, or the Kohi

d impatiently. “I am afraid you must look fa

And then with apparent irrelevance, “Now one wo

y been?” I as

he 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 be

Mrs. Gordon severely, “you woul

ld. 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 wi

interrupted Mrs. Gordon, “surely

mplained mournfully, “I have a conscienc

icult to find one’s finding

r heard how the Hermes of

ook he

o 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 someth

ll as your abundant faith, St. Hilar

upils dilated. A challenge flashed from their blue depths. I star

lary,” said Jacqueline. “But is it not rather

to be of a religious turn of mind; and at this moment,

inquired Mrs. Gordon. “And why d

s, and he wishes to sell because he is

How interesting! And what kind

e is a prince of good fellows, a dashing caval

repeated Mrs. Gordon,

ine herself seemed annoyed at

r treasures up your sl

n inventory of one collection I know abou

d 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

at any price,”

nt. But it is a cameo, and the likeness carved on it is that of Ludovico Il Moro, the Duke of Milan. Domenico de

id Mrs. Gordon, he

to compare with it 26is 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 o

terrupted, “

wed 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.

res?” demanded Mrs. Gordon, taking her

ar as I know, they

ice!” I

ey disappeared nearly f

and reproaches. Mrs. Gordon again impat

ely no clue to them?”

” he murmured, sprea

l us whose the ge

ce d’Este, Duchess of Milan and wife of Ludovico Il Moro. She pawne

solutely disappea

ice. Think of it! In Venice. And now, perhaps, my dear Hume, you

them so particularly this aft

ee the box that is said to

our duke?” asked

. “In the palace o

come there?” I a

uke’s ancestor, a grea

abruptly. “Here come

rested lightly on his sword-hilt. His bold eyes, of a piercing blue, searched Jacqueline’s lovely face. He had the all-conquering ai

sked my friends to go with me. I have not ta

have kept the ladies waiting. My launch is waitin