“Admit him.”
“He did not stay.”
“Where is his message?”
“My lord, it is here.”
The servant placed a small iron casket in the hands of his master; a folded packet accompanied it; and retired.
Gonsalvo broke the seal of the packet. There was not a word—the paper was blank. But it contained a small key, apparently that of the casket, of a singular form and workmanship.
The letter was a blank! The chest then, which was in his hands, contained the secret? Gonsalvo hesitated. Was it fit that the deposit should be at once opened? Was it not more fit that the disclosure (whatever it was) should be public—in the presence of the Gonfalonière, and in the apartment of the Senate?
And yet it might be that the casket contained matter hostile to his desires, rather than tending to assist them. It might be that the proof even of Lorenzo’s death failed wholly; and such truth, once openly declared, could never be got rid of.
He poised the chest in his hands. It weighed heavily. What could be its contents? Perhaps the written confession of Arionelli, or some of his companions. At all events, the course of a private search was safe: a public one might be made formally, in the morning, if convenient.
He took the key, secured the door, approached the taper, and cautiously examined the lock of the casket.