“In that case, I fear, Mr. Hume, that you may have to delay fulfilling your promise to Miss Quintard.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Do you forget that she leaves Venice at seven-thirty?”
“What are you talking about?” asked St. Hilary roughly, his eyes fixed on the casket.
“The duke has just been reminding me that the casket is legally his, and that, if necessary, he will lay his claim before the state.”
“But we are not fools enough to care a straw about his claim,” growled the dealer. “We have beaten him at his own game. It is too late for him to cry out.”
“On the contrary,” I said coolly, “the duke has induced me to recognize that claim.”
“Yes, I have exchanged my casket for a share of its contents,” added the duke suavely.
For a moment St. Hilary forgot to keep his eye on the casket. He glared at me with bloodshot eyes.
“Surrendered his claim! To you? By heavens, do you think, Hume, that you can ignore me?”