Wogan in those words heard her voice as clearly as he saw her face and the dry lips between which the voice passed.  He had it in his heart to cry aloud, to send the words ringing through that hushed room, “She would have tramped here barefoot had she had one guide with a spirit to match hers.”  For a moment he almost fancied that he had spoken them, and that he heard the echo of his voice vibrating down to silence.  But he had not, and as he realised that he had not, a new thought occurred to him.  No one had remarked his entrance into the room.  The group in front still stood with their backs towards him.  Since his entrance no one had remarked his presence.  At once he turned and opened the door so gently that there was not so much as a click of the latch.  He opened it just wide enough for himself to slip through, and he closed it behind him with the same caution.  On the landing there was only the usher.  Wogan looked over the balustrade; there was no one in the hall below.

“You can keep a silent tongue,” he said to the usher.  “There’s profit in it;” and Wogan put his hand into his pocket.  “You have not seen me if any ask.”

“Sir,” said the man, “any bright object disturbs my vision.”

“You can see a crown, though,” said Wogan.

“Through a breeches pocket.  But if I held it in my hand—­”

“It would dazzle you.”

“So much that I should be blind to the giver.”

The crown was offered and taken.

Wogan went quietly down the stairs into the hall.  There were a few lackeys at the door, but they would not concern themselves at all because Mr. Wogan had returned to Bologna.  He looked carefully out into the street, chose a moment when it was empty, and hurried across it.  He dived into the first dark alley that he came to, and following the wynds and byways of the town made his way quickly to his lodging.  He had the key to his door in his pocket, and he now kept it ready in his hand.  From the shelter of a corner he watched again till the road was clear; he even examined the windows of the neighbouring houses lest somewhere a pair of eyes might happen to be alert.  Then he made a run for his door, opened it without noise, and crept secretly as a thief up the stairs to his rooms, where he had the good fortune to find his servant.  Wogan had no need to sign to him to be silent.  The man was a veteran corporal of French Guards who after many seasons of campaigning in Spain and the Low Countries had now for five years served Mr. Wogan.  He looked at his master and without a word went off to make his bed.

Wogan sat down and went carefully over in his mind every minute of the time since he had entered Bologna.  No one had noticed him when he rode in as the lady’s postillion,—­no one.  He was sure of that.  The lady herself did not know him from Adam, and fancied him an Italian into the bargain—­of that, too, he had no doubt.  The handful of lackeys at the door of the King’s house need not be