"The plot is simple enough," answered Martin, for Cartoner said nothing, and looked straight in front of him. He did not address one more than the other, but explained the situation, as it were, for the benefit of all whom it might concern. He had lighted a cigarette--a little Russian affair, all gold lettering and mouthpiece, and as he spoke he jerked the ash from time to time so that it should not fly and incommode his sister.

"Rightly or wrongly, we are suspected of being malcontents. The Bukatys have in the past been known to foster that spirit of Polish nationality which it has been the endeavor of three great countries to suppress for nearly a century. Despite Russia, Prussia, and Austria there is still a Polish language and a Polish spirit; despite the Romanoffs, the Hapsburgs, and the Hohenzollerns there are still a few old Lithuanian and Ruthenian families extant. And rightly or wrongly, those in authority are kind enough to blame, among others, the Bukatys for these survivals. Weeds, it seems, are hard to kill. Whether we are really to blame or not is of no consequence. It does not matter to the dog whether he deserves his bad name or not--after he is hanged. But it is not good to be a Bukaty and live in Poland just now, though some of us manage to have a good time despite them all--eh, Wanda?"

And he laid his hand momentarily on his sister's arm. But she did not answer. She desired before all things that clear understanding which was part of her creed of life, and she glanced quickly from side to side for fear some interruption should approach.

"Mr. Cartoner, on the other hand," he continued, in his airy way, "is a most respectable man--in the employ of his country. That is what d.a.m.ns Mr. Cartoner. He is in the employ of his country. And he has a great reputation, to which I take off my hat."

And he saluted gayly Cartoner's reputation.

"It would never do," continued Martin, "for us, the suspects, to be avowedly the friend of the man who is understood to be an envoy in some capacity of his government. Whether he is really such or not is of no consequence. It matters little to the dog, you remember."

"But what are we to do?" asked Wanda, practically. "Let us have a clear understanding. Are we to pa.s.s each other in the streets?"

"No," answered Cartoner, speaking at length, without hesitation and without haste--a man who knew his own mind, and went straight to the heart of the question. "We must not meet in the streets."

"That may not be as easy as it sounds," said Wanda, "in a small city like Warsaw. Are you so long-sighted that you can always make sure of avoiding us?"

"I can, at all events, try," answered Cartoner, simply. After a pause (the pauses always occurred when it happened, so to say, to be Cartoner's turn to speak) he rose from the stone seat, which was all that the Bukatys could offer him in Warsaw. "I can begin at once," he said, gravely. And he took off his hat and went away.

It was done so quickly and quietly that Wanda and Martin were left in silence on the seat, watching him depart. He went the way he had come, down the broad walk towards the colonnade, and disappeared between the pillars of that building.

"A man of action, and not of words," commented Martin, who spoke first.

"I like him. Come, let us go for our walk."

And Wanda said nothing. They rose and went away without speaking, though they usually had plenty to say to each other. It almost seemed that Cartoner's silence was contagious.

He, for his part, went into the Faubourg and crossed to the river side of that wide street. It thus happened that he missed seeing Mr. Joseph Mangles, sunning himself upon the more frequented pavement, and smoking a contemplative cigar. Mr. Mangles would have stopped him had they met.

Paul Deulin was not far behind Mr. Mangles, idling past the shops, which could scarcely have had much interest for the Parisian.

"Ah!" said the Frenchman to himself, "there is our friend Reginald. He is in one of his silent humors. I can see that from this distance."

He turned on the pavement and watched Cartoner, who was walking rather slowly.

"If any woman ever marries that man," the Frenchman said to himself, "she will have to allow a great deal to go without saying. But, then, women are good at that."

And he continued his leisurely contemplation of the dull shop-windows.

Cartoner walked on to his rooms in the Jasna, where he found letters awaiting him. He read them, and then sat down to write one which was not an answer to any that he had received. He wrote it carefully and thoughtfully, and when it was written sealed it. For in Warsaw it is well to seal such letters as are not intended to be read at the post-office. And if one expects letters of importance, it is wiser not to have them sent to Poland at all, for the post-office authorities are kind enough to exercise a parental censorship over the travellers'

correspondence.

Cartoner's letter was addressed to an English gentleman at his country house in Suss.e.x, and it asked for an immediate recall from Poland. It was a confession, for the first time, that the mission entrusted to him was more than he could undertake.

XII

CARTONER _VERSUS_ FATE

It has been said that on the turf, and under it, all men are equal. It is, moreover, whispered that the crooked policy of Russia forwards the cause of horseracing at Warsaw by every means within its power, on the theory that even warring nationalities may find themselves reconciled by a common sport. And this dream of peace, pursued by the successor of that Czar who said to Poland: "Gentlemen--no dreams," seems in part justified by the undeniable fact that Russians and Poles find themselves brought nearer together on the race-course than in any other social function in Warsaw.

"Come," cried Paul Deulin, breaking in on the solitude of Cartoner's rooms after lunch one day towards the end of October. "Come, and let us bury the hatchet, and smoke the cigarette of peace before the grand-stand at the Mokotow. Everybody will be there. All Poland and his wife, all the authorities and their wives, and these ladies will peep sideways at each other, and turn up their noses at each other's toilets.

To such has descended the great strife in eastern Europe."

"You think so."

"Yes, I think so, or I pretend to think so, which comes to the same thing, and makes it a more amusing world for those who have no stake in it. Come with me, and I will show you this little world of Warsaw, where the Russians walk on one side and the Poles pa.s.s by on the other; where these fine Russian officers glance longingly across the way, only too ready to take their hearts there and lose them--but the Czar forbids it.

And, let me tell you, there is nothing more dangerous in the world than a pair of Polish eyes."

He broke off suddenly; for Cartoner was looking at him with a speculative glance, and turned away to the window.

"Come," he said. "It is a fine day--St. Martin's summer. It is Sunday, but no matter. All you Englishmen think that there is no recording angel on the Continent. You leave him behind at Dover."

"Oh, I have no principles," said Cartoner, rising from his chair, and looking round absent-mindedly for his hat.

"You would be no friend of mine if you had. There is no moderation in principles. If a man has any at all, he always has some to spare for his neighbors. And who wants to act up to another man's principles?

By-the-way, are you doing any good here, Cartoner?"

"None."

"Nor I," pursued Deulin; "and I am bored. That is why I want you to come to the races with me. Besides, it would be more marked to stay away than to go--especially for an Englishman and a Frenchman, who lead the world in racing."

"That is why I am going," said Cartoner.

"Then you don't like racing?"

"Yes, I am very fond of it," answered the Englishman, in the same absent voice, as he led the way towards the door.

In the Jasna they found a drosky, where there is always one to be found at the corner of the square, and they did not speak during the drive up the broad Marszalkowska to the rather barren suburb of the Mokotow (where bricks and mortar are still engaged in emphasizing the nakedness of the land), for the simple reason that speech is impossible while driving through the streets of the worst-paved city in Europe. Which is a grudge that the traveller may bear against Russia, for if Poland had been a kingdom she would a.s.suredly have paved the streets of her capital.

The race-course is not more than fifteen minutes' drive from the heart of the town, and all Warsaw was going thither this sunny afternoon. At the entrance a crowd was slowly working its way through the turnstiles, and Deulin and Cartoner pa.s.sed in with it. They had the trick, so rare among travellers, of doing this in any country without attracting undue attention.

It was a motley enough throng. There were Polish ladies and gentlemen in the garb of their caste, which is to-day the same all the world over, though in some parts of Ruthenia and Lithuania one may still come across a Polish gentleman of the old school in his frogged coat and top-boots.

German tradesmen and their families formed here and there one of those domesticated and homely groups which the Fatherland sends out into the world's trading centres. And moving amid these, as quietly and un.o.btrusively as possible, the Russian officers, who virtually had the management of the course--tall, fair, clean men, with sunburned faces and white skins--energetic, refined, and strong. They were mostly in white tunics with gold shoulder-straps, blue breeches, and much gold lace. Here and there a Cossack officer moved with long, free strides in his dressing-gown of a coat, heavily ornamented with silver, carrying high his astrakhan cap, and looking round him with dark eyes that had a gleam of something wild and untamed in them. It was a meeting-ground of many races, one of the market-places where men may greet each other who come from different hemispheres and yet owe allegiance to one flag: are sons of the empire which to-day gathers within one ring-fence the north, the south, the east, and the west.

"France amuses me, England commands my respect, but Russia takes my breath away," said Deulin, elbowing his way through the medley of many races. On all sides one heard different languages--German, the sing-song Russian--the odd, exclamatory tongue which three emperors cannot kill.

"And Germany?" inquired Cartoner, in his low, curt voice.

"Bores me, my friend."

He was pushing his way gently through into the paddock, where a number of men were congregated, but no ladies.

"The Fatherland," he added, "the heavy Fatherland! I killed a German once, when I was in the army of the Loire--a most painful business."

He was still shaking his head over this reminiscence when they reached the gateway of the paddock. He was pa.s.sing through it when, without turning towards him, he grasped Cartoner's arm.

"Look!" he said, "look!"