hansom-cab came tinkling along. But the people in it were returning
from some festivity, and were laughing and talking, and noticed nothing
but their own joking. Then there was silence again, and for a long
time, as it seemed to Marco, no one was to be seen. It was not really
so long as it appeared, because he was anxious. Then a very early
vegetable-wagon on the way from the country to Covent Garden Market
came slowly lumbering by with its driver almost asleep on his piles of
potatoes and cabbages. After it had passed, there was stillness and
emptiness once more, until the policeman showed himself again on his
beat, and Marco slipped into the shadow of the wall as he had done
before.

When he came out into the light, he had begun to hope that the time
would not seem long to his father. It had not really been long, he
told himself, it had only seemed so. But his father's anxiousness
would be greater than his own could be. Loristan knew all that
depended on the coming of this great man who sat side by side with a
king in his carriage and talked to him as if he knew him well.

"It might be something which all Samavia is waiting to know--at least
all the Secret Party," Marco thought. "The Secret Party is
Samavia,"--he started at the sound of footsteps. "Some one is coming!"
he said. "It is a man."

It was a man who was walking up the road on the same side of the
pavement as his own. Marco began to walk toward him quietly but rather
rapidly. He thought it might be best to appear as if he were some boy
sent on a midnight errand--perhaps to call a doctor. Then, if it was a
stranger he passed, no suspicion would be aroused. Was this man as
tall as the one who had driven with the King? Yes, he was about the
same height, but he was too far away to be recognizable otherwise. He
drew nearer, and Marco noticed that he also seemed slightly to hasten
his footsteps. Marco went on. A little nearer, and he would be able to
make sure. Yes, now he was near enough. Yes, this man was the same
height and not unlike in figure, but he was much younger. He was not
the one who had been in the carriage with His Majesty. He was not more
than thirty years old. He began swinging his cane and whistling a
music-hall song softly as Marco passed him without changing his pace.

It was after the policeman had walked round his beat and disappeared
for the third time, that Marco heard footsteps echoing at some distance
down a cross