Jacqueline looked slowly from me to the duke, and then again at me. She smiled–that same grave smile that had puzzled me so much the last half hour.
“I shall wait that week,” she said.
CHAPTER XXIII
That night I could not sleep; and, indeed, I had enough to think about as I lay in my troubled bed.
Now I remembered with joy that strange smile of Jacqueline’s, a smile as vague and inscrutable as the immortal smile on the lips of the divine Gioconda, that withholds so much. My dear Jacqueline had promised that she would not pledge herself to the duke for a week. That assurance was infinitely heartening. But I had made my promise before the duke, and so it was but a foolish boast after all. If he had been villain enough to attempt to impose upon her in this way, he was quite capable of setting spies at my heels who would dog my every movement for the next eventful few days. That would make my promise more difficult of achievement. However, the words were spoken. There was nothing for it now but to bend every effort to find the casket. I must make good my word at all costs.
If the casket were actually in existence, and in Venice, I would do that, be the difficulties what they might. The foppish mantle of the dilettante had slipped off my willing shoulders. I was aroused at last. We should see now who was the better man–this Latin with feline, sheathed claws, or the Anglo-Saxon with bulldog grip.
When I knew that sleep was quite impossible, I put on my dressing-gown and went into the sitting-room to read. But it was impossible for me to keep my attention on the book. I threw open the heavy shutters and looked out.
The lights of Venice the mysterious glowed dimly in the distance. The newly risen moon shone on campanile, dome and spire. Here and there a gondola, a black speck in a lake of silver, drifted slowly by. I heard the plash of the oars, the fragment of a song. Then my attention was drawn to the fondamenta immediately beneath my window by the sharp, persistent bark of a dog.
A white poodle was leaping in an ecstasy of joy at its master, who was doing his utmost to quiet the beast. He cursed the dog volubly by the evil spirits of his father and grandfather and all his numerous relations and ancestors. At first this little scene only amused me, but my idle amusement gave way to an eager interest when presently I heard my name mentioned. Leaning far out, I saw that Pietro, my gondolier, was conversing with the dog’s master. I tried in vain to hear what they were talking about, but almost immediately the dog and his master slunk down the quay, hugging the shadow of the wall. I had not seen the fellow’s face, but something in his gait seemed familiar. I whistled to attract Pietro’s attention, and beckoned to him. Before he had entered my room I had made up my mind that I knew who this prowler was. I was convinced that it was none other than the duke’s servant, whom St. Hilary and I had seen that night the duke had paid his memorable visit to my rooms.
“Pietro,” I said, looking at him steadily, “I have had you in my service ever since you left the penitentiary a few rods down the quay. It was an affair of stabbing, I believe.”