"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. "_Balbus aedificabat murum_," said he; and a voice that made O'Toole start cried, "Enough of this! Stand aside, whoever you may be." It was the second of the two men who spoke, and he dropped the cloak from his face. "The King!" exclaimed O'Toole, and he stood aside. The two men passed into the garden, and Wogan saw them from the window. Just as O'Toole had blocked the King's entrance into the garden, so did Wogan bar his way into the house. "Who, in Heaven's name, are you?" cried the Chevalier. "Nay, there's a question for me to ask," said Wogan. "Wogan!" cried the Chevalier, and "The King!" cried Wogan in one breath. Wogan fell back; the Chevalier pushed into the hall and turned. "So it is true. I could not, did not, believe it. I came from Spain to prove it false. I find it true," he said in a low voice. "You whom I so trusted! God help me, where shall I look for honour?" "Here, your Majesty," answered Wogan, without an instant's hesitation,--"here, in this hall. There, in the rooms above." He had seized the truth in the same second when he recognised his King, and the King's first words had left him in no doubt. He knew now why he had never found Harry Whittington in any corner of Bologna. Harry Whittington had been riding to Spain. The Chevalier laughed harshly.