“So our friend the comedian has discovered a casket all by himself,” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands with joy. “His object, of course, is to gain the consent of Miss Quintard to marry him. Now that he has obtained that, he will cease to bother us, if, indeed, he has concerned himself about us at all. But I forgot,” he added hypocritically, seizing my hands. “You, my dear Hume, do not consider this good news at all.”
“If it were true that Miss Quintard were actually engaged to the duke,” I replied indifferently, “I should tell you and the casket to go to the devil. But I happen to know that she will wait a week, at least, before binding herself to him or any other.”
“Capital, my dear Hume, capital! In a quarter of an hour I shall be dressed. A cup of coffee and a cigarette, and we will continue our search. It is early, but not too early to interview a servant mopping a doorstep.”
The Palace Cæsarini, as every tourist knows, is one of the most beautiful and historic in Venice. Its distinguishing mark, however, is the square tower that stands at its rear. The campanile, as bare of ornament and as stolid as one of those towers of defence one sees at Regensburg, is no more than a case for the stairway inside. Ugly as it is, it serves to bring into more striking contrast the lightness and delicacy of the Gothic jewel-work of the façade of the palace. Five arches, richly carved with foliage, support the upper stories. The loggia beneath is exquisitely proportioned. The broad marble steps, leading to the water’s edge, extend the whole width of the palace front. The pointed windows, Moorish in the profusion of their carving, are noticeable because of the quaintly grotesque beasts, with monstrous tails and protruding tongues, that are carved in niches between each window.
Our interest in the palace, however, was centered in the tower. From this tower we expected to be led to the eighth landmark. We thought it most unlikely that the iron safes had any significance. For no imaginable reason, surely, could the clock-maker have chosen so public a hiding-place. Indeed, the casket might not be in the Cæsarini Palace at all; yet we expected to find it there. At first thought this seemed unreasonable. Why should he have hidden the gems in another house? The existence of the iron safes suggests the answer.
St. Hilary had read in the Annals of the Inquisition that the last work Giovanni had undertaken was the building of these safes. When once he had determined to steal the casket he must have thought of a hiding-place. He knew that his own house was impossible. The mechanism of these safes was intricate and delicate. They would require constant attention and repair. The clock-maker would have, therefore, frequent access to the palace, and provided that he was successful in once hiding the casket there, he could take away the stones at his leisure. Here, then, if this theory was correct, the son had hidden the casket. For as his father’s assistant he would naturally have had access to the palace.
St. Hilary and I rang the bell at the side door of the palace on the Calle Bianca Madonna. It was a less conspicuous entrance than that on the Grand Canal. The majordomo, summoned by us, peremptorily frowned on our modest request to be permitted to see the curious tower and the safes.
“No, signori,” he protested, swelling out a chest resplendent with gold braid, “this is no time for tourists to visit the palace.”
“Tourists!” cried St. Hilary indignantly. “Have I not told you we are distinguished architects?”
“Because,” continued the majordomo patiently, closing his eyes, as if he had not heard the interruption, “all the palace is in confusion. To-morrow night the Princess Cæsarini gives the famous bal masqué. You can understand, then, that this is no time to visit our palace.”