Wogan mounted the stairs, not daring to speculate upon the nature of the
bad news. But his face was pale beneath its sunburn, and his hand
trembled on the balustrade; for he knew--in his heart he knew. There
could be only one piece of news which would make his haste or tardiness
matters of no account.

Both branches of the stairs ran up to a common landing, and in the wall
facing him, midway between the two stairheads, was a great door of tulip
wood. An usher stood by the door, and at Wogan's approach opened it.
Wogan, however, signed to him to be silent. He wished to hear, not to
speak, and so he slipped into the room unannounced. The door was closed
silently behind him, and at once he was surprised by the remarkable
silence, almost a cessation of life it seemed, in a room which was quite
full. Wherever the broad bars of sunshine fell, as they slanted dusty
with motes through the open lattices of the shutters, they striped a
woman's dress or a man's velvet coat. Yet if anyone shuffled a foot or
allowed a petticoat to rustle, that person glanced on each side
guiltily. A group of people were gathered in front of the doorway. Their
backs were towards Wogan, and they were looking towards the centre of
the room. Wogan raised himself on his toes and looked that way too.
Having looked he sank down again, aware at once that he had travelled of
late a long way in a little time, and that he was intolerably tired. For
that one glance was enough to deprive him of his last possibility of
doubt. He had seen the Chevalier de St. George, his King, sitting apart
in a little open space, and over against him a short squarish man, dusty
as Wogan himself, who stood and sullenly waited. It was Sir John Hay,
the man who had been sent to fetch the Princess Clementina privately to
Bologna, and here he now was back at Bologna and alone.