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.