The windows were closed, but not shuttered.  Wogan pressed his eyes to the pane and looked out.  The night was dark, and the sky overclouded.  But he had been sitting for some minutes in the darkness, and his eyes were able to prove that his ears had not deceived him.  For he saw the dim figures of two men standing on the lawn before the window.  They appeared to be looking at the lighted windows on the upper floor, then one of them waved to his companion to stand still, and himself walked towards the door.  Wogan noticed that he made no attempt at secrecy; he walked with a firm tread, careless whether he set his foot on gravel or on grass.  As this man approached the door, Wogan slipped into the hall and opened it.  But he blocked the doorway, wondering whether these men had climbed the wall or whether O’Toole had deserted his post.

O’Toole had not deserted his post, but he had none the less admitted these two men.  For Wogan and Maria Vittoria had barely been ten minutes within the house when O’Toole heard the sound of horses’ hoofs in the entrance of the alley.  They stopped just within the entrance.  O’Toole distinguished three horses, he saw the three riders dismount; and while one of the three held the horses, the other two walked on foot towards the postern-door.

O’Toole eased his sword in its scabbard.

“The little fellows thought to catch Charles Wogan napping,” he said to himself with a smile, and he let them come quite close to him.  He was standing motionless in the embrasure of the door, nor did he move when the two men stopped and whispered together, nor when they advanced again, one behind the other.  But he remarked that they held their cloaks to their faces.  At last they came to a halt just in front of O’Toole.  The leader produced a key.

“You stand in my way, my friend,” said he, pleasantly, and he pushed by O’Toole to the lock of the door.  O’Toole put out a hand, caught him by the shoulder, and sent him spinning into the road.  The man came back, however, and though out of breath, spoke no less pleasantly than before.

“I wish to enter,” said he.  “I have important business.”

O’Toole bowed with the utmost dignity.

“Romanus civis sum,” said he. “Sum senator too. Dic Latinam linguam, amicus meus.”

O’Toole drew a breath; he could not but feel that he had acquitted himself with credit.  He half began to regret that there was to be a learned professor to act as proxy on that famous day at the Capitol.  His antagonist drew back a little and spoke no longer pleasantly.

“Here’s tomfoolery that would be as seasonable at a funeral,” said he, and he advanced again, still hiding his face.  “Sir, you are blocking my way.  I have authority to pass through that door in the wall.”

“Murus?” asked O’Toole.  He shook his head in refusal.

“And by what right do you refuse me?”

O’Toole had an inspiration.  He swept his arm proudly round and gave the reason of his refusal.