taken into account.  They might gossip among themselves, but Wogan’s appearances and disappearances were so ordinary a matter, even that was unlikely.  The usher’s silence he had already secured.  There was only one acquaintance who had met and spoken with him, and that by the best of good fortune was Harry Whittington,—­the idler who took his banishment and his King’s misfortunes with an equally light heart, and gave never a thought at all to anything weightier than a gamecock.

Wogan’s spirits revived.  He had not yet come to the end of his luck.  He sat down and wrote a short letter and sealed it up.

“Marnier,” he called out in a low voice, and his servant came from the adjoining room, “take this to Mr. Edgar, the King’s secretary, as soon as it grows dusk.  Have a care that no one sees you deliver it.  Lock the parlour door when you go, and take the key.  I am not yet back from Rome.”  With that Wogan remembered that he had not slept for forty-eight hours.  Within two minutes he was between the sheets; within five he was asleep.

CHAPTER III

Wogan waked up in the dark and was seized with a fear that he had slept too long.  He jumped out of bed and pushed open the door of his parlour.  There was a lighted lamp in the room, and Marnier was quietly laying his master’s supper.

“At what hour?” asked Wogan.

“Ten o’clock, monsieur, at the little postern in the garden wall.”

“And the time now?”

“Nine.”

Wogan dressed with some ceremony, supped, and at eight minutes to ten slipped down the stairs and out of doors.  He had crushed his hat down upon his forehead and he carried his handkerchief at his face.  But the streets were dark and few people were abroad.  At a little distance to his left he saw above the housetops a glow of light in the air which marked the Opera-House.  Wogan avoided it; he kept again to the alleys and emerged before the Chevalier’s lodging.  This he passed, but a hundred yards farther on he turned down a side street and doubled back upon his steps along a little byway between small houses.  The line of houses, however, at one point was broken by a garden wall.  Under this wall Wogan waited until a clock struck ten, and while the clock was still striking he heard on the other side of the wall the brushing of footsteps amongst leaves and grass.  Wogan tapped gently on a little door in the wall.  It was opened no less gently, and Edgar the secretary admitted him, led him across the garden and up a narrow flight of stairs into a small lighted cabinet.  Two men were waiting in that room.  One of them wore the scarlet robe, an old man with white hair and a broad bucolic face, whom Wogan knew for the Pope’s Legate, Cardinal Origo.  The slender figure of the other, clad all in black but for the blue ribbon of the Garter across his breast, brought Wogan to his knee.

Wogan held out the Pope’s procuration to the Chevalier, who took it and devoutly kissed the signature.  Then he gave his hand to Wogan with a smile of friendliness.