Wogan committed the words to memory.

“The Princess and her mother,” continued the Chevalier, “are imprisoned in the east side of the house.”

“And how guarded, sir?” asked Wogan.

The Chevalier read again from his paper.

“A sentry at each door, a third beneath the prisoners’ windows.  They keep watch night and day.  Besides, twice a day the magistrate visits the house.”

“At what hours?”

“At ten in the morning.  The same hour at night.”

“And on each visit the magistrate sees the Princess?”

“Yes, though she lies abed.”

Wogan stroked his chin.  The Cardinal regarded him quizzically.

“I trust, Mr. Wogan, that we shall hear Farini.  There is talk of his coming to Bologna.”

Wogan did not answer.  He was silent; he saw the three sentinels standing watchfully about the house; he heard them calling “All’s well” each to the other.  Then he asked, “Has the Princess her own servants to attend her?”

“Only M. Chateaudoux, her chamberlain.”

“Ah!”

Wogan leaned forward with a question on his tongue he hardly dared to ask.  So much hung upon the answer.

“And M. Chateaudoux is allowed to come and go?”

“In the daylight.”

Wogan turned to the Cardinal.  “The box will be the best box in the house,” Wogan suggested.

“Oh, sir,” replied the Cardinal, “on the first tier, to be sure.”

Wogan turned back to the Chevalier.

“All that I need now is a letter from your Majesty to the King of Poland and a few rascally guineas.  I can leave Bologna before a soul’s astir in the morning.  No one but Whittington saw me to-day, and a word will keep him silent.  There will be secrecy—­” but the Chevalier suddenly cut him short.

“No,” said he, bringing the palm of his hand down upon the table.  “Here’s a blow that we must bend to!  It’s a dream, this plan of yours.”

“But a dream I’ll dream so hard, sir, that I’ll dream it true,” cried Wogan, in despair.

“No, no,” said the Chevalier.  “We’ll talk no more of it.  There’s God’s will evident in this arrest, and we must bend to it;” and at once Wogan remembered his one crowning argument.  It was so familiar to his thoughts, it had lain so close at his heart, that he had left it unspoken, taking it as it were for granted that others were as familiar with it as he.

“Sir,” said he, eagerly, “I have never told you, but the Princess Clementina when a child amongst her playmates had a favourite game.  They called it kings and queens.  And in that game the Princess was always chosen Queen of England.”

The Chevalier started.

“Is that so?” and he gazed into Wogan’s eyes, making sure that he spoke the truth.

“In very truth it is,” and the two men stood looking each at the other and quite silent.

It was the truth, a mere coincidence if you will, but to both these men omens and auguries were the gravest matters.