"I can make neither head nor tail of it," said he. "The attempt is
beyond my powers."

"Ah," said she, drily, "you own as much? I would never have believed you
would have owned it."

"But what is the answer?" asked a voice at which Wogan started.

"The answer," replied the Countess, "is Mary, Queen of Scots, who was
most unjustly imprisoned in Fotheringay," and she tore the paper into
tiny pieces.

Wogan turned towards the voice which had so startled him and saw the
gossamer lady whom he had befriended on the road from Florence. At once
he rose and bowed to her.

"I should have presented you before to my friend, Lady Featherstone,"
said the Countess, "but it seems you are already acquainted."

"Indeed, Mr. Warner did me a great service at a pinch," said Lady
Featherstone. "He was my postillion, though I never paid him, as I do
now in thanks."

"Your postillion!" cried one or two of the ladies, and they gathered
about the great stove as Lady Featherstone told the story of Wogan's
charioting.

"I bade him hurry," said she, "and he outsped my bidding. Never was
there a postillion so considerately inconsiderate. I was tossed like a
tennis ball, I was one black bruise, I bounced from cushion to cushion;