e other body of malcontents as
to the creating of an opportunity."

"Anarchy?" inquired Cartoner.

"The ladies of the party call it Nihilism," replied the Frenchman, with
an inimitable gesture, conveying the fact that he was not the man to
gainsay a lady.

"Bukaty would not stoop to that. Remember they are a patient people.
They waited thirty years."

"And struck too hastily, after all," commented Deulin. "Bukaty would not
link himself with these others, who talk so much and do so little. But
there are others besides Bukaty, who are younger, and can afford to
wait longer, and are therefore less patient--men of a more modern stamp,
without his educational advantages, who are nevertheless sincere enough
in their way. It may not be a gentlemanly way--"

"The man who goes by the name of Kosmaroff is a gentleman, according to
his lights," interrupted Cartoner.

"Ah! since you say so," returned Deulin, with a significant gesture,
"yes."

"Bon sang," said Cartoner, and did not trouble to complete the saying.
"He is too much of a gentleman to herd with the extremists."

But Deulin did not seem to be listening. He was following his own train
of thought.

"So you know of Kosmaroff?" he said, studying his companion's face. "You
know that, too. What a lot you know behind that dull physiognomy. Where
is Kosmaroff? Perhaps you know that."

"In Warsaw," guessed Cartoner.

"Wrong. He has gone towards Berlin--towards London, by the same token."

Deulin leaned across the table and tapped the symbol that he had drawn
on the margin of the newspaper, daintily, with his finger-nail.

"That parishioner is in London, too," he said, in his own tongue--and
the word means more in French.

Cartoner slowly tore the margin from the newspaper and reduced the
drawing to small pieces. Then he glanced at the clock.

"Trying to get me out of Warsaw," he said. "Giving me a graceful chance
of showing the white feather."

Deulin smiled. He had seen the glance, and he was quicker than most at
guessing that which might be passing in another man's mind. The force
of habit is so strong that few even think of a train without noting the
time of day at the same moment. If Cartoner was thinking of a train
at that instant, it could only be the train to Berlin on the heels of
Kosmaroff, and Deulin desired to get Cartoner away from Warsaw.

"The white feather," he said, "is an emblem that neither you nor I need
trouble our minds about. Don't get