"There is news so bad, my friend, that you might have jogged here on a
mule and still have lost no time. Your hurry is clean wasted," answered
Whittington.

Wogan ran past him up the stairs, and so left the hall and the open
doorway clear. Whittington looked now straight through the doorway, and
saw the carriage and the lady on the point of stepping down onto the
kerb. His face assumed a look of extreme surprise. Then he glanced up
the staircase after Wogan and laughed as though the conjunction of the
lady and Mr. Wogan was a rare piece of amusement. Mr. Wogan did not hear
the laugh, but the lady did. She raised her head, and at the same moment
the courtier came across the hall to meet her. As soon as he had come
close, "Harry," said she, and gave him her hand.

He bent over it and kissed it, and there was more than courtesy in the
warmth of the kiss.

"But I'm glad you've come. I did not look for you for another week," he
said in a low voice. He did not, however, offer to help her to alight.

"This is your lodging?" she asked.

"No," said he, "the King's;" and the woman shrank suddenly back amongst
her cushions. In a moment, however, her face was again at the door.

"Then who was he,--my postillion?"

"Your postillion?" asked Whittington, glancing at the servant who held
the horses.