“I am afraid,” he said, in perfect English, as he raised his cap, “that you have lost the rest of your party. You are also in the wrong course, so to speak. We are the commoner people here, you see. Can I help you to find your father?”
“Thank you,” answered Netty, without concealing her surprise. “I think my uncle went out of the larger gate, and it seems impossible to get at him. Perhaps—”
“Yes,” answered Kosmaroff, “I will show you another way with pleasure. Then that tall gentleman is not your father?”
“No. Mr. Mangles is my uncle,” replied Netty, following her companion.
“Ah, that is Mr. Mangles! An American, is he not?”
“Yes. We are Americans.”
“A diplomatist?”
“Yes, my uncle is in the service.”
“And you are at the Europe. Yes, I have heard of Mr. Mangles. This way; we can pass through this alley and come to the large gate.”
“But you—you are not a Pole? It is so kind of you to help me,” said Netty, looking at him with some interest. And Kosmaroff, perceiving this interest, slightly changed his manner.
“Ah! you are looking at my clothes,” he said, rather less formally. “In Poland things are not always what they seem, mademoiselle. Yes, I am a Pole. I am a boatman, and keep my boat at the foot of Bednarska Street, just above the bridge. If you ever want to go on the river, it is pleasant in the evening, you and your party, you will perhaps do me the great honor of selecting my poor boat, mademoiselle?”
“Yes, I will remember,” answered Netty, who did not seem to notice that his glance was, as it were, less distant than his speech.
“I knew at once—at once,” he said, “that you were English or American.”
“Ah! Then there is a difference—” said Netty, looking round for her uncle.
“There is a difference—yes, assuredly.”
“What is it?” asked Netty, with a subtle tone of expectancy in her voice.
“Your mirror will answer that question,” replied Kosmaroff, with his odd, one-sided smile, “more plainly than I should ever dare to do. There is your uncle, mademoiselle, and I must go.”
Mr. Mangles, perceiving the situation, was coming forward with his hand in his pocket, when Kosmaroff took off his cap and hurried away.
“No,” said Netty, laying her hand on Mr. Mangles’ arm, “do not give him anything. He was rather a superior man, and spoke a little English.”
XIV
Sentenced
Like the majority of Englishmen, Cartoner had that fever of the horizon which makes a man desire to get out of a place as soon as he is in it. The average Englishman is not content to see a city; he must walk out of it, through its suburbs and beyond them, just to see how the city lies.
Before he had been long in Warsaw, Cartoner hired a horse and took leisurely rides out of the town in all directions. He found suburbs more or less depressing, and dusty roads innocent of all art, half-paved, growing wider with the lapse of years, as in self-defence the foot-passengers encroached on the fields on either side in search of a cleaner thoroughfare. To the north he found that the great fort which a Russian emperor built for Warsaw’s good, and which in case of emergency could batter the city down in a few hours, but could not defend it from any foe whatever. Across the river he rode through Praga, of grimmest memory, into closely cultivated plains. But mostly he rode by the riverbanks, where there are more trees and where the country is less uniform. He rode more often than elsewhere southward by the Vistula, and knew the various roads and paths that led to Wilanow.
One evening, when clouds had been gathering all day and the twilight was shorter than usual, he was benighted in the low lands that lie parallel with the Saska Island. He knew his whereabouts, however, and soon struck that long and lonely riverside road, the Czerniakowska, which leads into the manufacturing districts where the sugar-refineries and the iron-foundries are. It was inches deep in dust, and he rode in silence on the silent way. Before him loomed the chimney of the large ironworks, which clang and rattle all day in the ears of the idlers in the Lazienki Park.
Before he reached the high wall that surrounds these works on the land side he got out of the saddle and carefully tried the four shoes of his horse. One of them was loose. He loosened it further, working at it patiently with the handle of his whip. Then he led the horse forward and found that it limped, which seemed to satisfy him. As he walked on, with the bridle over his arm, he consulted his watch. There was just light enough to show him that it was nearly six.
The iron-foundries were quiet now. They had been closed at five. From the distant streets the sound of the traffic came to his ears in a long, low roar, like the breaking of surf upon shingle far away.
Cartoner led his horse to the high double door that gave access to the iron-foundry. He turned the horse very exactly and carefully, so that the animal’s shoulder pressed against that half of the door which opened first. Then he rang the bell, of which the chain swung gently in the wind. It gave a solitary clang inside the deserted works. After a few moments there was the sound of rusted bolts being slowly withdrawn, and at the right moment Cartoner touched the horse with his whip, so that it started forward against the door and thrust it open, despite the efforts of the gatekeeper, who staggered back into the dimly lighted yard.
Cartoner looked quickly round him. All was darkness except an open doorway, from which a shaft of light poured out, dimly illuminating cranes and carts and piles of iron girders. The gatekeeper was hurriedly bolting the gate. Cartoner led
