"Yes, the tall man who looked as if he should have been a scholar and
had twisted himself all awry into a soldier. You must have passed him in
the hall."

Whittington stared at her. Then he burst again into a laugh.

"Your postillion, was he? That's the oddest thing," and he lowered his
voice. "Your postillion was Mr. Charles Wogan, who comes from Rome
post-haste with the Pope's procuration for the marriage. You have helped
him on his way, it seems. Here's a good beginning, to be sure."

The lady uttered a little cry of anger, and her face hardened out of all
its softness. She clenched her fists viciously, and her blue eyes grew
cold and dangerous as steel. At this moment she hardly looked the
delicate flower she had appeared to Wogan's fancy.

"But you need not blame yourself," said Whittington, and he lowered his
head to a level with hers. "All the procurations in Christendom will not
marry James Stuart to Clementina Sobieski."

"She has not come, then?"

"No, nor will she come. There is news to-day. Lean back from the window,
and I will tell you. She has been arrested at Innspruck."

The lady could not repress a crow of delight.

"Hush," said Whittington. Then he withdrew his head and resumed in his
ordinary voice, "I have hired a house for your Ladyship, which I trust
will be found convenient. My servant will drive you thither."