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.