“And now,” said Deulin, in Polish, “for you.”
He turned to the other, who had been moving surreptitiously round towards Cartoner, who had, indeed, come out to meet him; but the man turned and ran, followed closely by his companion.
Deulin picked up the knife, which lay gleaming on the cobblestones, and came towards Cartoner with it. Then he turned aside, and carefully dropped it between the bars of the street gutter, where it fell with a muddy splash.
“He will never use that hand again,” he said. “Poor devil! I only hope he was well paid for it.”
“Doubt it.”
Deulin was feeling in the pocket of his topcoat.
“Have you an old envelope?” he inquired.
Cartoner handed him what he asked for. It happened to be the envelope of the letter he had received a few days earlier, denying him his recall. And Deulin carefully wiped the blade of the sword-stick with it. He tore it into pieces and sent it after the knife. Then he polished the bright steel with his pocket-handkerchief, from the evil point to the hilt, where the government mark and the word “Toledo” were deeply engraved.
“Unless I keep it clean it sticks,” he explained. “And if you want it at all, you want it in a hurry—like a woman’s heart, eh?”
He was looking up and down the street as he spoke, and shot the blade back into its sheath. He turned and examined the ground to make sure that nothing was left there.
“The light was good,” he said, appreciatively, “and the ground favorable for—for the autumn manoeuvres.”
And he broke into a gay laugh.
“Come,” he said. “Let us go back into the more frequented streets. This back way was not a success—only proves that it never does to turn tail.”
“How did you know,” asked Cartoner, “that this was coming off?”
“Quite simple, my friend. I was at the window when you arrived at the Europe. You were followed. Or, at all events, I thought you were followed. So I made up my mind to walk back with you and see. Veni, vidi, vici—you understand?”
And again his clear laugh broke the silence of that back street, while he made a pass at an imaginary foe with his stick.
“I thought we might escape by the quieter streets,” he went on. “For it is our business to seek peace and ensure it. But it was not to be. Neither could I warn you, because we have never interfered in each other’s business, you and I. That is why we have continued, through many chances and changes, to be friends.”
They walked on in silence for a few moments. Then Cartoner spoke, saying that which he was bound to say in his half-audible voice.
“It was like you, to come like that and take the risk,” he said, “and say nothing.”
But Deulin stopped him with a quick touch on his arm.
“As to that,” he said, “silence, my friend. Wait. Thank me, if you will, five years hence—ten years hence—when the time comes. I will tell you then why I did it.”
“There can only be one reason why you did it,” muttered the Englishman.
“Can there? Ah! my good Cartoner, you are a fool—the very best sort of fool—and yet, in the matter of intellect, you are as superior to me as I am superior to you … in swordsmanship.”
And he made another pass into thin air with his stick.
“I should like to fight someone tonight,” he said. “Someone of the very first order. I feel in the vein. I could do great things tonight—and the angels in heaven are talking of me.”
In his lighthearted way he bared his head and looked up to the sky. But there was a deeper ring in his voice. It almost seemed as if he were sincere.
As he stood there, bareheaded, with his coat open and his shirt gleaming in the moonlight, a carriage rattled past, and stopped immediately behind them. The door was opened from within, and the only occupant, alighting quickly, came towards them.
“There is only one man in Warsaw who would apostrophize the gods like that,” he said. The speaker was Prince Martin Bukaty.
He recognized Cartoner at this moment.
“You!” he said, and there was a sharp note in his voice. “You, Cartoner! What are you doing in the streets at this time of night?”
“We have been dining with Mangles,” explained Deulin.
“And we do not quite know what we are doing, or where we are going,” added Cartoner. “But we think we are going home.”
“You seem to be on the spree,” said Martin, with a laugh in his voice, and none in his eyes.
“We are,” answered Deulin.
“Come,” said Martin, turning to send away the carriage. “Come—your shortest way is through our place now. My father and Wanda are out at a ball, or something, so I am afraid you will not see them.”
“Do it,” whispered Deulin’s voice from behind.
And Cartoner followed Martin up the narrow passage that led to the garden of the Bukaty Palace.
XXI
A Clear Understanding
Martin led the way without speaking. He opened the door with a key, and passed through first. The garden was dark; for the trees in it had grown to a great height, and, protected as they were from the wild winds that sweep across the central plain of Europe, they had not shed their leaves.
A few lights twinkled through the branches from the direction of the house, and the shape of the large conservatory was dimly outlined, as though there were blinds within, partially covering the glass.
“Yes,” said Martin, carefully closing the door behind him. “You find me in sole possession. My father and sister have gone to a reception—a semipolitical affair at which they are compelled to put in an appearance. It only began at half-past nine. They will not be home till midnight. Mind those branches, Cartoner! You will come in, of course.”
And he hurried on again to open the next door.
“Thank you, for a few minutes,” answered Deulin, and seeing a movement
