Valentine turned with a glad cry.
"Now stand thou in the archway," she said; "and close the door behind me and keep watch; our one need is haste!"
The page pushed the despoiled door open and Valentine sped through, closing it carefully after her; the broken window would not be noticed from the garden, but an open door might. The space she entered seemed so dark after the bright glare outside that at first she could gather nothing.
But soon the light sufficed to show Valentine this was not the room she wanted.
It was gorgeously decorated, frescoes covered the walls, the ceiling was richly gilt and painted, the floor glass mosaic, the furniture florid and ornate.
Valentine glanced around hurriedly: at one end was a door, and trying it, found it open easily, leading into another splendid apartment—still not containing what she sought.
Hastening on through a door, not only unlocked, but standing ajar, she found herself in a small, somber room, hung with purple and gold; its principal furniture the secretary's table, Visconti's chair, and the imposing black carved bureau.
This was the room she wanted; and on the bureau, flung down in haste, a bunch of keys.
Valentine seized them with trembling hands; they were the keys of the drawers, and one by one she flung them open, so possessed with excitement she could hardly stand. Gian was not in the palace, yet she seemed to feel his eyes upon her; to hear his step; catch his low whisper of her name; feel his touch upon her shoulder.
In one drawer were the parchment passports, some of them, for convenience, already signed with Visconti's name. Hastily Valentine thrust three into the bosom of her dress. But where were the palace keys?