Then, with his adjutant at his heels, Colonel Kirby dived through
the gloomy opening in a wall that Yasmini devised to look as little
like an approach to her--or heaven--as possible.
"Wonder if he's brought us to the right place?" he whispered,
sniffing into the moldy darkness.
"Dunno, sir. There're stairs to your left."
They caught the sound of faint flute music on an upper floor, and as
Kirby felt cautiously for his footing on the lower step Warrington
began to whistle softly to himself. Next to war, an adventure of this
kind was the nearest he could imagine to sheer bliss, and it was all
he could do to contrive to keep from singing.
The heavy teak stairs creaked under their joint weight, and though
their eyes could not penetrate the upper blackness, yet they both
suspected rather than sensed some one waiting for them at the top,
Kirby's right hand instinctively sought a pocket in his cloak.
Warrington felt for his pistol, too.
For thirty or more seconds--say, three steps--they went up like
conspirators, trying to move silently and holding to the rail; then
the absurdity of the situation appealed to both, and without a word
said each stepped forward like a man, so that the staircase resounded.
They stumbled on a little landing after twenty steps, and wasted
about a minute knocking on what felt like the panels of a door; but
then Warrington peered into the gloom higher up and saw dim light.
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