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.

So they essayed a second flight of stairs, in single file as before,
and presently--when they had climbed some ten steps and had turned to
negotiate ten more that ascended at an angle--a curtain moved a
little, and the dim light changed to a sudden shaft that nearly
blinded them.

Then a heavy black curtain was drawn back on rings, and a hundred
lights, reflected in a dozen mirrors, twinkled and flashed before
them so that they could not tell which way to turn. Somewhere there
was a glassbead curtain, but there were so many mirrors that they
could not tell which was the curtain and which were its reflections.

The curtains all parted, and from the midst of each there stepped a
little nutbrown maid, who seemed too lovely to be Indian. Even then
they could not tell which was maid and which reflections until she
spoke.

"Will the sahibs give their names?" she asked in Hindustani; and her