We drifted slowly past the House of the Angel. The next house was a warehouse–an ugly four-story building, set some five paces back. The upper stories projected over the lowest story, and were supported by pillars.
“There are six of those pillars, and there is a door. Can that be your cubits and a span?”
I shook my head. “Those pillars are of wood. This warehouse could not have been built when the goldsmith made his casket.”
“True; and it would be a senseless proceeding to lead us past the fifty-seventh palace, only to land us at the fifty-eighth.”
“But look, St. Hilary, we have been so close to the forest that we have failed to see the trees. Do you observe those circular windows just over our heads? There are just six of them. As for the span, isn’t a span half a cubit? The top of that squat door let into the wall there is semi-circular in shape; the semi-circle, the exact counterpart of the upper part of the windows. Nothing could be more clear.”
“My only fear is that it is too clear to be true,” he said anxiously.
“We shall soon determine that.”
I stood upright on the seat of the gondola, and, reaching forward, pulled a rusty bell that hung beside the low door. Our gondola, at a sign from me, had been rowed up stream once more.
In response to my vigorous summons a servant appeared at the main door of the House of the Angel.
“What may the Signori desire?” he inquired.