moments.

"Is it Fate?" she asked, with a sudden change of manner.

"Even Fate can be hampered in its movements, princess," answered
Cartoner.

"By what?"

"By action. I have written for my recall."

He was looking towards the pavilion. It seemed that it was he, and not
his companion, who was now anxious for Martin to return. Wanda was still
looking across the course towards the sinking sun.

"You have asked to be recalled from Warsaw?" she said.

"Yes."

"Then," she said, after a pause, "it would have been better for you if
we had not met at Lady Orlay's, in London. Monsieur Deulin once said
that you had never had a check in your career. This is the first check.
And it has come through--knowing us."

Cartoner made no answer, but stood watching the door of the pavilion
with patient, thoughtful eyes.

"You cannot deny it," she said.

And he did not deny it.

Then she turned her head, and looked at him with clever, speculative
keenness.

"Why have you asked for your recall?" she asked, slowly.

And still Cartoner made no answer. He was without rival in the art of
leaving things unsaid. Then Martin came to them, laughing and talking.
And across the course, amid the tag-rag and bobtail of Warsaw, the eyes
of the man called Kosmaroff watched their every movement.

XIII

THE WHEELS OF CHANCE

When Martin and Wanda returned to the grand-stand they found the next
box to theirs, which had hitherto been empty, occupied by a sedate party
of foreigners. Miss Mangles had come to the races, not because she cared
for sport, but because she had very wisely argued in her mind that one
cannot set about to elevate human nature without a knowledge of those
depths to which it sometimes descends.

"And this," she said, when she had settled herself on the chair
commanding the best view, "this is the turf."

"That," corrected Mr. Mangles, pointing down to the lawn with his
umbrella, "is the turf. This is the grand-stand."

"The whole," stated Miss Mangles, rather sadly, and indicating with a
graceful wave of her card, which was in Russian and therefore illegible
to her, the scene in general, "the whole constitutes the turf."

Joseph P. Mangles sat corrected, and looked lugubriously at Netty, who
was prettily and quietly dressed in autumnal tints, which set off her
delicate and transparent complexion to perfection. Her hair was itself
of an autumnal tint, and her eyes of the deep blue of October skies.

"And