Never was a man more confused than Wogan at this story of the Cardinal’s.  “It makes me out a mere meddlesome fool,” he cried, and sat stunned.

“It is an unprofitable question at this time of day,” said the Cardinal, with a smile.  “Matters have gone so far that they can no longer be remedied.  This marriage must take place.”

“True,” said Wogan.

“The King, indeed, is firmly inclined to it.”

“Yet he lingers in Spain.”

“That I cannot explain to you, but he has been most loyal.  That you must take my word for, so must your Princess.”

“Yet this winter when I was at Schlestadt preparing the expedition to Innspruck,” Wogan said with a certain timidity, for he no longer felt that it was within his right to make reproaches, “the King was in Rome visiting Mlle. de Caprara.”

The Cardinal flushed with some anger at Wogan’s persistence.

“Come, sir,” said he, “what has soured you with suspicions?  Upon my word, here is a man sitting with me who bears your name, but few of those good qualities the name is linked with in my memories.  Your King saw Mlle. de Caprara once in Rome, once only.  Major Gaydon had come at your request to Rome to fetch a letter in the King’s hand, bidding her Highness entrust herself to you.  Up to that moment the issue of your exploit was in the balance.  But your request was to the King a very certain sign that you would indeed succeed.  So the night before he wrote the letter he went to the Caprara Palace and took his farewell of the woman he loved.  So much may be pardoned to any man, even by you, who, it seems, stand pinnacled above these earthly affections.”

The blood rushed into Wogan’s face at the sneer, but he bowed his head to it, being much humbled by Origo’s disclosures.

“This story I have told you,” continued the Cardinal, “I will make bold to tell to-morrow to her Highness.”

“But you must also explain why the King lingers in Spain,” Wogan objected.  “I am very certain of it.  The Princess has her pride; she will not marry a reluctant man.”

“Well, that I cannot do,” cried the Cardinal, now fairly exasperated.  “Pride!  She has her pride!  Is it to ruin a cause, this pride of hers?  Is it to wreck a policy?”

“No,” cried Wogan, starting up.  “I have a fortnight.  I beg your Eminence not to speak one word to her Highness until this fortnight is gone, until the eve of the marriage in Bologna.  Give me till then.  I have a hope there will be no need for us to speak at all.”

The Cardinal shrugged his shoulders.

“You must do more than hope.  Will you pledge your word to it?”

Here it seemed to Wogan was an occasion when a man must dare.

“Yes,” he said, and so went out of the house.  He had spoken under a sudden inspiration; the Cardinal’s words had shown him a way which with careful treading might lead to his desired result.  He went first to his lodging, and ordered his servant Marnier to saddle his black horse.  Then he hurried again to O’Toole’s lodging, and found his friend back from the bookseller’s indeed, but breathing very hard of a book which he slid behind his back.