he light, look, with his knife-sharp swarthy features and swift,
panther movements, very like somebody wicked.

They passed along another flat bit of path, with a black shape
like a high wall towering above them on their right, and then the path
went up again under trellises, and trailing sprays of scented things
caught at them and shook raindrops on them, and the light of the
lantern flickered over lilies, and then came a flight of ancient steps
worn with centuries, and then another iron gate, and then they were
inside, though still climbing a twisting flight of stone steps with old
walls on either side like the walls of dungeons, and with a vaulted
roof.

At the top was a wrought-iron door, and through it shone a flood
of electric light.

"Ecco," said Domenico, lithely running up the last few steps
ahead and pushing the door open.

And there they were, arrived; and it was San Salvatore; and their
suit-cases were waiting for them; and they had not been murdered.

They looked at each other's white faces and blinking eyes very
solemnly.

It was a great, a wonderful moment. Here they were, in their
mediaeval castle at last. Their feet touched its stones.

Mrs. Wilkins put her arm round Mrs. Arbuthnot's neck and kissed
her.

"The first thing to happen in this house," she said softly,
solemnly, "shall be a kiss."

"Dear Lotty," said Mrs. Arbuthnot.

"Dear Rose," said Mrs. Wilkins, her eyes brimming with gladness.

Domenico was delighted. He liked to see beautiful ladies kiss.
He made them a most appreciative speech of welcome, and they stood arm
in arm, holding each other up, for they were very tired, blinking
smilingly at him, and not understanding a word.

Chapter 6

When Mrs. Wilkins woke next morning she lay in bed a few minutes
before getting up and opening the shutters. What would she see out of
her window? A shining world, or a world of rain? But it would be
beautiful; whatever it was would be beautiful.

She was in a little bedroom with bare white walls and a stone
floor and sparse old furniture. The beds--there were two--were made of
iron, enameled black and painted with bunches of gay flowers. She lay
putting off the great moment of going to the window as one puts off
opening a precious letter, gloating over it. She had no idea what time
it was; she had forgotten to wind up her watch ever since, centuries
ago, she last went to bed in Hampstead. No sounds were to be heard in
th