St. Hilary closed the slim little book and gently laid it on the table. During the latter part of his recital I had risen from my seat and was walking about the room. Now I sat at the table opposite him, my hands stretched out limply before me. I stared at him as the Guest must have stared at the Ancient Mariner. For the Mariner’s story was of things that were past and done with. St. Hilary’s story was of things to come.
When I spoke, it was almost in a whisper, as if I were saying something too extravagant to be spoken out loud.
“Then you believe, St. Hilary, that the clock holds the secret? You believe that if you could discover the secret you would have a clue to the D’Este jewels? I see. Da Sestos was the thief, and when he saw that he was never to feast his eyes on the glorious fruit of his rascality, when he knew he was being watched night and day, he sank into the apathy of despair, until–until––”
I raised both my arms and stretched them out as if I were groping for something.
“Until?” repeated St. Hilary mockingly.
“Before heaven, St. Hilary,” I cried, laughing loudly, “are you and I the two maddest men in Venice this evening?”
“On the contrary,” he answered carelessly, flicking the ash of his cigarette daintily, “I begin to think I have made no mistake in choosing you for my companion. But the facts first. You are ready for chapter three?”
“Your own theories about this extraordinary mystery? Yes, yes.”
The little man threw himself back in my armchair, a smirk of satisfaction on his wizened face. There was something of the actor about St. Hilary; he loved an appreciative audience, and he was determined to make the most of the present one.