'You can't waken Mr. Johnson,' said Mrs. Kilburne 'because he awoke an hour ago, and dressed in a hurry, but braver than common, with his silver-hilted sword, Alencon ruffles, black coat and satin lining, silver shoulder-knots, and best buckles, and out he goes. He was summoned by a man in the livery of my Lord, the good Bishop of Rochester.' 'Will you tell him, when he returns, that Mr. Hilton waited on him, and greatly desires to see him in his best before he goes to bed?' Wogan pulled the letters from his pocket and laid them on the table which stood in the centre of the room. 'I will, sir, but, if you call again, pray, sir, be very quiet. My first floor gentleman is such a dainty gentleman.' 'A mouse shall be noisy in comparison. I have a great tenderness, Mrs. Kilburne, for the nerves of fine gentlemen.' Mrs. Kilburne grinned in a sceptical sort. 'But,' Wogan added suddenly, 'it is very like I shall fall in with Mr. Johnson before then.' He took some half-a-dozen of the letters again into his hand and looked them over. They were inscribed to such cant names as Illington, Hatfield, Johnson, Andrews, and were evidently dangerous merchandise. Mr. Wogan thought they would be safer in his pocket than on Mr. Kelly's table. He picked up the rest, but as he put them back into his pocket, one fell on to the floor. Wogan caught sight of the handwriting as it fell. Then it stared up at him from the floor. The letter was written in a woman's hand, which Mr. Wogan was well enough acquainted with, although it was neither Lady Oxford's nor the hand of Rose. It was in the handwriting of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. Wogan stooped down and picked it up. For a letter, it was extraordinary light. Wogan weighed it in his hand for a second, wondering what it might be. However, there was no answer to be got that way, and Mr. Wogan had weightier matter to engage his thoughts. He put it into his pocket and marched to his own lodgings, which were hard by in the same street. Several problems, a swarm of skirmishing doubts, trooped through his mind. 'What did my Lady Oxford mean by writing to Kelly?' To this Wogan answered that she meant the same thing by Kelly as by himself, and for some reason had bidden him to her rout. As to her motive for that act of unexpected hospitality, Wogan had his own thoughts, which he afterwards confided to his friend. 'But who,' he pondered, 'can answer for a woman's motives when the devil of perversity sits at her elbow?' Next, why had Kelly made himself such a beau? It could not be merely to do honour to a mourning prelate who would never glance at his secretary's satin and point d'Alencon. Mr. Wogan inferred that his first guess was right, that Lady Oxford had bidden Kelly to her rout, and that, by the token of his raiment, Mr. Kelly meant to accept the invitation.