'Well, that is the utmost you will get from me, I am much pressed for time, and look to find another.'
'Another!' Wogan's failing hopes revived. 'Praise be to the Saints! I see your mistake, and you shall understand it in a twinkling. The other and myself are just one man for these purposes. George is my alter ego. We are the greatest friends, and have been taken for each other when we are talking. I'll talk all the time we fight, and you can fancy it is George whose ribs you are trying to tickle.'
The Colonel, however, was obdurate, and before Wogan could hit upon a likelier argument both gentlemen heard a cough.
Someone was standing on Lady Oxford's doorstep looking towards them.
The Colonel coughed in reply, and the figure--it was Mr. Kelly's--waved his hand, and marched, like the ghost of Hamlet's father, toward St. James's Park.
The Colonel followed, like Hamlet, and Mr. Wogan followed the Colonel. Would there be a fourth to follow Wogan? The three men marched in the moonlight, their footsteps rang boldly on the road. Was there a fourth behind them stealthily creeping in the shadow of the wall? As they turned a corner out of the square Wogan fell a little further to the rear. He kept his head screwed upon his shoulders, and he saw a shadow slink round the corner. He listened, and heard the stealthy steps. He stopped; the steps ceased. Wogan went on again. He knew that Scrope was dogging them.
The figure in front moved silently on till he reached a sweet spot for an occasion, a little clairière among the trees, the smoothest sward, moonlight on the grass, dark shadow all around. There he stopped, turned, and dropped his cloak. The moon shone silvery on the silver shoulder-knots of Mr. Kelly. The other two gentlemen advanced.
'Nick,' exclaimed Kelly, 'you should be on your road to the coast.'
'At last!' cried Colonel Montague, dropping his cloak.
'A moment, sir,' said Kelly; 'I must dismiss my friend.'