Gaydon was more than ever puzzled.  He had only seen the face for an instant; moreover, he was looking down upon it, so that he might be mistaken.  He felt, however, that he was not, and he began to wonder at the business that could take his King to this mysterious house.  But there was one thing of which he was sure amidst all his doubts, Rome was not the safest city in the world for a man to walk about at nights.  His King would be none the worse off for a second guardian who would follow near enough to give help and far enough for discretion.  Gaydon went down his stairs into the street.  The lantern twinkled ahead; Gaydon followed it until it stopped before a great house which had lights burning here and there in the windows.  The smaller man mounted the steps and was admitted; his big companion with the lantern remained outside.

Gaydon, wishing to make sure of his conjectures one way or the other, walked quickly past him and stole a glance sideways at his face.  But the man with the lantern looked at Gaydon at the same moment.  Their eyes met, and the lantern was immediately held aloft.

“It is Major Gaydon.”

Gaydon had to make the best of the business.  He bowed.

“Mr. Whittington, I think.”

“Sir,” said Whittington, politely, “I am honoured by your memory.  For myself, I never forget a face though I see it but for a moment between the light and the dark, but I do not expect the like from my acquaintances.  We did meet, I believe, in Paris?  You are of Dillon’s regiment?”

“And on leave in Rome,” said Gaydon, a trifle hastily.

“On leave?” said Whittington, idly.  “Well, so far as towns go, Rome is as good as another, though, to tell the truth, I find them all quite unendurable.  Would I were on leave! but I am pinned here, a watchman with a lantern.  I do but lack a rattle, though, to be sure, I could not spring it.  We are secret to-night, major.  Do you know what house this is?”

“No,” replied Gaydon.  “But I am waited for and will bid you good-night.”

He had a thought that the Chevalier, since he would be secret, had chosen his watchman rather ill.  He had no wish to pry, and so was for returning to his lodging; but that careless, imprudent man, Whittington, would not lose a companion so easily.  He caught Gaydon by the arm.

“Well, it is the house of Maria Vittoria, Mademoiselle de Caprara, the heiress of Bologna, who has only this evening come to Rome.  And so no later than this evening I am playing link-boy, appointed by letters patent, one might say.  But what will you?  Youth is youth, whether in a ploughboy or a—­But my tongue needs a gag.  Another word, and I had said too much.  Well, since you will be going, good-night.  We shall meet, no doubt, in a certain house that overlooks the Tiber.”

“Hardly,” said Gaydon, “since I leave Rome to-morrow.”