narrow-minded, Cartoner. It is a
national fault, remember. For an Englishman, you used to be singularly
independent of the opinion of the man in the street or the woman at the
tea-table. Afraid! What does it matter who thinks we are afraid?"

And he gave a sudden staccato laugh which had a subtle ring in it of
envy, or of that heaviness which is of a life that is waxing old.

"Look here," he said, after a pause, and he made a little diagram on
the table, "here is a bonfire, all dry and crackling--here, in Warsaw.
Here--in Berlin or in London--is the man with the match that will set
it alight. You and I have happened on a great event, and stand in the
shadow that it casts before it, for the second--no, for the third time
in our lives. We work together again, I suppose. We have always done so
when it was possible. One must watch the dry wood, the other must know
the movements of the man with the kindling. Take your choice, since
your humor is so odd. You stay or you go--but remember that it is in the
interests of others that you go."

"Of others?"

"Yes--of the Bukatys. Your presence here is a danger to them. Now go or
stay, as you like."

Cartoner glanced at his companion with watchful eyes. He was not
deliberating; for he had made up his mind long ago, and was now weighing
that decision.

"I will go," he said, at length. And Deulin leaned back in his chair
with a half-suppressed yawn of indifference. It was, as Cartoner had
observed, when he was most idle that this gentleman had important
business in hand. He had a gay, light, easy touch on life, and, it is to
be supposed, never set much store upon the gain of an object. It seemed
that he must have played the game in earnest at one time, must have
thrown down his stake and lost it, or won it perhaps, and then had no
use for his gain, which is a bitterer end than loss can ever be.

"I dare say you are right," he said. "And, at all events, you will see
the last of this sad city."

Then he changed the subject easily, and began to talk of some trivial
matter. From one question to another he passed, with that air of
superficiality which northern men can never hope to understand, and here
and there he touched upon those grave events which wise men foresaw at
this period in European history.

"I smell," he said, "something in the atmosphere. Strangers passing in
the street look at one with a questioning air, as if there were a secret
which one might perhaps be party