ew something of the danger into which you
had unwittingly run."

"Not unwittingly," said Cartoner, and Wanda turned to look at him. He
said so little that his meaning needed careful search.

"I cannot tell you much--" she began, and he interrupted her at once.

"Stop," he said, "you must tell me nothing. It was not unwitting. I am
here for a purpose. I am here to learn everything--but not from you."

"Martin hinted at that," said Wanda, slowly, "but I did not believe
him."

And she looked at Cartoner with a sort of wonder in her eyes. It was as
if there were more in him--more of him--than she had ever expected.
And he returned her glance with a simplicity and directness which were
baffling enough. He looked down at her. He was taller than she, which
was as it should be. For half the trouble of this troubled world comes
from the fact that, for one reason or another, women are not always able
to look up to the men with whom they have dealings.

"It is true enough," he said, "fate has made us enemies, princess."

"You said that even the Czar could not do that. And he is stronger than
fate--in Poland. Besides----"

"Yes."

"You, who say so little, were indiscreet enough to confide something in
your enemy. You told me you had written for your recall."

And again her eyes brightened, with an anticipating gleam of relief.

"It has been refused."

"But you must go--you must go!" she said, quickly. She glanced at the
great clock upon the wall. She had only ten minutes in which to make him
understand. He was an eminently sensible person. There were gleams of
gray in his closely cut hair.

"You must not think that we are alarmists. If there is any family in the
world who knows what it is to live peaceably, happily--quite gayly--"
she broke off with a light laugh, "on a volcano--it is the Bukatys. We
have all been brought up to it. Martin and I looked out of our nursery
window on April 8, 1861, and saw what was done on that day. My father
was in the streets. And ever since we have been accustomed to unsettled
times."

"I know," said Cartoner, "what it is to be a Bukaty." And he smiled
slowly as she looked at him with gray, fearless eyes. Then suddenly her
manner, in a flash, was different.

"Then you will go?" she pleaded, softly, persuasively. And when he
turned away his eyes from hers, as if he did not care to meet them,
she glanced again, hurriedly, at the clock. There is a cunning bred of
hatred, and there is