Clementina

Wogan had an opportunity to make certain. He knelt down and picked up

the letter; the foot was a woman's. As he rose up again, the curtain

ever so slightly stirred. Wogan pretended to have remarked nothing; he

stood easily by the window with his eyes upon his letter and his mind

busy with guessing what woman his spy might be. And he remained on

purpose for some while in this attitude, designing it as a punishment.

So long as he stood by the window that unknown woman cheek by jowl with

him must hold her breath, must never stir, must silently endure an agony

of fear at each movement that he made.

At last he moved, and as he turned away he saw something so unexpected

that it startled him. Indeed, for the moment it did more than startle

him, it chilled him. He understood that slight stirring of the curtain.

The woman now held a dagger in her hand, and the point of the blade

stuck out and shone in the moonlight like a flame.

Wogan became angry. It was all very well for the woman to come spying

into his room; but to take a dagger to him, to think a dagger in a

woman's hand could cope with him,--that was too preposterous. Wogan felt

very much inclined to sweep that curtain aside and tell his visitor how

he had escaped from Newgate and played hide-and-seek amongst the

chimney-pots. And although he restrained himself from that, he allowed

his anger to get the better of his prudence. Under the impulse of his

anger he acted. It was a whimsical thing that he did, and though he

suffered for it he could never afterwards bring himself to regret it. He

deliberately knelt down and kissed the instep of the foot which

protruded from the curtain. He felt the muscles of the foot tighten, but

the foot was not withdrawn. The curtain shivered and shook, but no cry

came from behind it, and again the curtain hung motionless. Wogan went

out of the room and carried the letter to the Prince. The Countess of

Berg was still playing upon her harp, and she gave no sign that she

remarked his entrance. She did not so much as shoot one glance of

curiosity towards him. The Prince carried the letter off to his cabinet,

while Wogan sat down beside the Countess and looked about the room.

"I have not seen Lady Featherstone this evening," said he.

"Have you not?" asked the Countess, easily.

"Not so much as her foot," replied Wogan.

The conviction came upon him suddenly. Her hurried journey to Bologna

and her presence at Ohlau were explained to him now by her absence from

the room. His own arrival at Bologna had not remained so secret as he

had imagined. The fragile and gossamer lady, too flowerlike for the

world's rough usage, was the woman who had spied in his room and who had

possessed the courage to stand silent and motionless behind the curtain

after her presence there had been discovered. Wogan had a picture before

his eyes of the dagger she had held. It was plain that she would stop at

nothing to hinder this marriage, to prevent the success of his design;

and somehow the contrast between her appearance and her actions had

something uncanny about it. Wogan was inclined to shiver as he sat

chatting with the Countess. He was not reassured when Lady Featherstone

boldly entered the room; she meant to face him out. He remarked,

however, with a trifle of satisfaction that for the first time she wore

rouge upon her cheeks.