Wogan sprang down the stairs and hurried to the Piazza, wondering what in the world O’Toole was doing at a bookseller’s.  O’Toole was bending over the counter, which was spread with open books, and Wogan hailed him from the doorway.  O’Toole turned and blushed a deep crimson.  He came to the door as if to prevent Wogan’s entrance into the shop.  Wogan, however, had but one thought in his head.

“Where shall I find Gaydon?” he asked.

“He went towards the Via San Vitale,” replied O’Toole.

Wogan set off again, and in an hour came upon Gaydon.  He had lost an hour of his fortnight; with the half-hour during which he had sauntered in the garden, an hour and a half.

“You went to Rome in the spring,” said he.  “There you saw the King.  Did you see anyone else by any chance whilst you were in Rome?”

“Edgar,” replied Gaydon, with a glance from the tail of his eye which Wogan did not fail to remark.

“Aha!” said he.  “Edgar, to be sure, since you saw the King.  But besides Edgar, did you see anyone else?”

“Whittington,” said Gaydon.

“Oho!” said Wogan, thoughtfully.  “So you saw my friend Harry Whittington at Rome.  Did you see him with the King?”

Gaydon was becoming manifestly uncomfortable.

“He was waiting for the King,” he replied.

“Indeed.  And whereabouts was he waiting for the King?”

“Oh, outside a house in Rome,” said Gaydon, as though he barely remembered the incident.  “It was no business of mine, that I could see.”

“None whatever, to be sure,” answered Wogan, cordially.  “But why in the world should Whittington be waiting for the King outside a house in Rome?”

“It was night-time.  He carried a lantern.”

“Of course, if it was night-time,” exclaimed Wogan, in his most unsuspicious accent, “and the King wished to pay a visit to a house in Rome, he would take an attendant with a lantern.  A servant, though, one would have thought, unless, of course, it was a private sort of visit—­”

“It was no business of mine,” Gaydon interrupted; “and so I made no inquiries of Whittington.”

“But Whittington did not wait for inquiries, eh?” said Wogan, shrewdly.  “You are hiding something from me, my friend,—­something which that good honest simpleton of a Whittington blurted out to you without the least thought of making any disclosure.  Oh, I know my Whittington.  And I know you, too, Dick.  I do not blame you.  For when the King goes a-visiting the Princess Caprara privately at night-time while the girl to whom he is betrothed suffers in prison for her courageous loyalty to him, and his best friends are risking their heads to set her free, why, there’s knowledge a man would be glad to keep even out of his own hearing.  So you see I know more than you credit me with.  So tell me the rest!  Don’t fob me off.  Don’t plead it is none of your business, for, upon my soul, it is.”  Gaydon suddenly changed his manner.  He spoke with no less earnestness than Wogan,—­