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.