His Highness condescended to be pleased with Wogan’s suggestion.  Wogan crossed the room towards the door; but before he reached it, the Countess of Berg suddenly took her fingers from her harp-strings with a gesture of annoyance.

“Mr. Warner,” she said, “will you do me the favour to screw this wire tighter?” And once or twice she struck it with her fingers.

“May I claim that privilege?” said the Prince.

“Your Highness does me too much honour,” said the Countess, but the Prince was already at her side.  At once she pointed out to him the particular string.  Wogan went from the room and up the great staircase.  He was lodged in a wing of the palace.  From the head of the staircase he proceeded down a long passage.  Towards the end of this passage another short passage branched off at a right angle on the left-hand side.  At the corner of the two passages stood a table with a lamp and some candlesticks.  This time Wogan took a candle, and lighting it at the lamp turned into the short passage.  It was dark but for the light of Wogan’s candle, and at the end of it facing him were two doors side by side.  Both doors were closed, and of these the one on the left gave onto his room.

Wogan had walked perhaps halfway from the corner to his door before he stopped.  He stopped suddenly and held his breath.  Then he shaded his candle with the palm of his hand and looked forward.  Immediately he turned, and walking on tiptoe came silently back into the big passage.  Even this was not well lighted; it stretched away upon his right and left, full of shadows.  But it was silent.  The only sounds which reached Wogan as he stood there and listened were the sounds of people moving and speaking at a great distance.  He blew out his candle, cautiously replaced it on the table, and crept down again towards his room.  There was no window in this small passage, there was no light there at all except a gleam of silver in front of him and close to the ground.  That gleam of silver was the moonlight shining between the bottom of one of the doors and the boards of the passage.  And that door was not the door of Wogan’s room, but the room beside it.  Where his door stood, there might have been no door at all.

Yet the moon which shone through the windows of one room must needs also shine into the other, unless, indeed, the curtains were drawn.  But earlier in the evening Wogan had read a letter by the moonlight at his window; the curtains were not drawn.  There was, therefore, a rug, an obstruction of some sort against the bottom of the door.  But earlier in the evening Wogan’s foot had slipped upon the polished boards; there had been no mat or skin at all.  It had been pushed there since.  Wogan could not doubt for what reason.  It was to conceal the light of a lamp or candle within the room.  Someone, in a word, was prying in Wogan’s room, and Wogan began to consider who.  It was not the Countess, who was engaged upon her harp, but the Countess had tried to detain him.  Wogan was startled as he understood the reason of her harp becoming so suddenly untuned.  She had spoken to him with so natural a spontaneity, she had accepted the Prince’s aid with so complete an absence of embarrassment; but none the less Wogan was sure that she knew.  Moreover, a door had shut—­yes, while he was speaking to the Prince a door had shut.