ff. It has been loose all the way from Wilanow. This is a
foundry, is it not? There must be a hammer and some nails about."

Martin gave a sort of gasp of relief. For a moment he had thought there
was no loop-hole.

Cartoner looked towards the door, and the light fell full upon his
patient, thoughtful face. The faces of the men standing in a half-circle
in front of him were in the dark.

"Good! He's a brave man!" muttered the man who had spoken in Martin's
ear. It was Kosmaroff. And he stepped back a pace.

"Yes," said Martin, hastily, "this is a foundry. I can get you a
hammer."

His right hand was opening and shutting convulsively. Cartoner glanced
at it, and Martin put it behind his back. He was rather breathless, and
he was angrily wishing that he had the Englishman's nerve.

"You might tell these men," he said, in French, "of my mishap; perhaps
one of them can put it right, and I can get along home. I am desperately
hungry. The journey had been so slow from Wilanow."

He had already perceived that Kosmaroff understood both English and
French, and that it was of him that Martin was afraid. He spoke slowly,
so as to give Martin time to pull himself together. Kosmaroff stepped
forward to the horse and examined the shoe indicated. It was nearly off.

Martin turned, and explained in Polish that the gentleman had come for
a hammer and some nails--that his horse had nearly lost a shoe. Cartoner
had simply forced him to become his ally, and had even indicated the
line of conduct he was to pursue.

"Get a hammer--one of you," said Kosmaroff, over his shoulder, and
Martin bit his lip with a sudden desire to speak--to say more than was
discreet. He took his cue in some way from Cartoner, without knowing
that wise men cease persuading the moment they have gained consent.
Never comment on your own victory.

Never had Cartoner's silent habit stood him in such good stead as during
the following moments, while a skilled workman replaced the lost
shoe. Never had he observed so skilled a silence, or left unsaid such
dangerous words. For Kosmaroff watched him as a cat may watch a bird.
Behind, were the barred gates, and in front, the semicircle of men,
whose faces he could not see, while the full light glared through the
open doorway upon his own countenance. Two miles from Warsaw--a dark
autumn night, and eleven men to one. He counted them, in a mechanical
way, as persons in face of death nearly always do count, with a co