--and
of a sudden the letter slipped from his hand to the floor. He did not
drop it on purpose, he was fairly surprised; for looking down to read
the letter he had seen protruding from the curtain a jewelled shoe
buckle, and the foot which the buckle adorned seemed too small and
slender for a man's.

Wogan had an opportunity to make certain. He knelt down and picked up
the letter; the foot was a woman's. As he rose up again, the curtain
ever so slightly stirred. Wogan pretended to have remarked nothing; he
stood easily by the window with his eyes upon his letter and his mind
busy with guessing what woman his spy might be. And he remained on
purpose for some while in this attitude, designing it as a punishment.
So long as he stood by the window that unknown woman cheek by jowl with
him must hold her breath, must never stir, must silently endure an agony
of fear at each movement that he made.

At last he moved, and as he turned away he saw something so unexpected
that it startled him. Indeed, for the moment it did more than startle
him, it chilled him. He understood that slight stirring of the curtain.
The woman now held a dagger in her hand, and the point of the blade
stuck out and shone in the moonlight like a flame.

Wogan became angry. It was all very well for the woman to come spying
into his room; but to take a dagger to him, to think a dagger in a
woman's hand could cope with him,--that was too preposterous. Wogan felt
very much inclined to sweep that curtain aside and tell his visitor how
he had escaped from Newgate and played hide-and-seek amongst the
chimney-pots. And although he restrained himself from that, he allowed
his anger to get the better of his prudence. Under the impulse of his
anger he acted. It was a whimsical thing that he did, and though he
suffered for it he could never afterwards bring himself to regret it. He
deliberately knelt down and kissed the instep of the foot which
protruded from the curtain. He felt the muscles of the foot tighten, but
the foot was not withdrawn. The curtain shivered and shook, but no cry
came from behind it, and again the curtain hung motionless. Wogan went
out of the room and carried the letter to the Prince. The Countess of
Berg was still playing upon her harp, and she gave no sign that she
remarked his entrance. She did not so much as shoot one glance of
curiosity towards him. The Prince carried the letter off to his cabinet,
while Wogan sat down beside the Count