She turned over the drawers in reckless haste; she found Visconti's seal and one of his signet rings, and slipped them both into her gown—still she could not find the keys. The Duke's pass-keys that unlocked every door.
The seal and the parchment were much—but the keys would be everything. They were not within the bureau; she rifled them once again—no, they were not there.
She turned away in vexation, and stood a second irresolute.
These rooms deserted, yet so full of their owner, were terrifying. Valentine was sick with fear—still, she must have those keys.
Hastily she turned over every article in the room, left as Visconti had left them—books, papers, ornaments.
There were no keys there.
She looked into the antechamber, that was bare and empty; she knew it too well to suppose what she sought could be hidden there.
In desperation she retraced her steps and stood again within the second room. An impulse made her lift the arras, and she beheld another door; and another still; they were either side Visconti's empty seat. She tried one: it opened immediately on a black marble stairway, and she closed it again with a thrill.
Desperately, she opened the other door; held to her courage desperately, and crossed the threshold. The room was paneled in black and scarlet, floor and ceiling inlaid with gold and black.