The suggestion was sufficiently startling to Wogan, who had thought of nothing less than of entering into orders.  But he was not to be diverted by this piece of ingenuity.

“Your Eminence,” said he, “although I hold myself unworthy of priestly vows, I am here in truth in the character of a catechist.”

“Catechise, then, my friend,” said the Cardinal, with a smile.

“First, then, I would ask your Eminence how many of the King’s followers have had the honour of being presented to the Princess Clementina?”

“Very few.”

“Might I know the names?”

“To be sure.”

Cardinal Origo repeated three or four names.  They were the names of men known to Wogan for irreproachable loyalty.  Not one of them would have gone about the Princess with slanders upon his master; he would have gone bail for them all,—­at least, a month ago he would, he reflected, though now indeed he hardly knew where to put his trust.

“Her Highness lives, as you know, a very suitable, secluded life,” continued Origo.

“But might not others have had access to her at the Pilgrim Inn?”

“Nay, she was there but the one night,—­the night of her arrival.  I do not think it likely.  For if you remember, I myself went to her early the next morning, and by a stroke of good luck I had already come upon the little house in the garden which was offered to me by a friend of yours for her Highness’s service.”

“On the evening of our arrival?  A friend of mine offered you the house,” said Wogan, puzzling over who that friend could be.

“Yes.  Harry Whittington.”

Wogan started to his feet.  So, after all, Whittington was at the bottom of the trouble.  Wogan wondered whether he had done wisely not to publish the fellow’s treachery.  But he could not,—­no, he had to make his account with the man alone.  There were reasons.

“It was Harry Whittington who offered the house for her Highness’s use?” Wogan exclaimed.

“It was an offer most apt and kind.”

“And made on the evening of our arrival?”

“Not an hour after you left me.  But you are surprised?”

Wogan was reflecting that on the evening of his arrival, and indeed just before Whittington made his offer to Origo, he had seen Whittington’s face by the torchlight in the square.  That face lived very plainly in Wogan’s thoughts.  It was certainly not for Clementina’s service that Whittington had offered the house.  Wogan resumed his seat, saying carelessly,—­

“I was surprised, for I had a notion that Whittington lodged opposite the Torre Garisenda, and not at the house.”

“Nor did he.  He hired it for a friend who has now left Bologna.”

“Man or woman?” asked Wogan, remembering that visitor who had drawn back into the alley one early morning of last autumn.  The man might very likely have been Whittington.

“I did not trouble to inquire,” said the Cardinal.  “But, Mr. Wogan, why do you ask me these questions?”