oked his mustache as he looked thoughtfully into
the steady, meditating eyes.

"It is not," he said, "that you assume a reserve which one might think
unfair. It is merely that there are so many things which you do not
think worth saying, or wise to speak of, or necessary to communicate,
that--well--there is nothing left but silence. And silence is sometimes
dangerous. Not as dangerous as speech, I allow--but dangerous,
nevertheless."

Cartoner looked at him and waited. Across the little table the two
schools went out to meet each other--the old school of diplomacy, all
words; the new, all silence.

"Listen," said the Frenchman. "I once knew a man into whose care
was given the happiness of a fellow-being. There is a greater
responsibility, by-the-way, than the well-being of a whole nation, even
of one of the two greatest nations in the world. And that is a care
which you and I have had upon our shoulders for a brief hour here and
there. It was the old story; for it was the happiness of a woman. God
knows the man meant well! But he bungled it. Bon Dieu--how he bungled
it! He said too little. Ever since he has talked too much. She was a
Polish woman, by-the-way, and that has left a tenderness, nay, a raw
place, in my heart, which smarts at the sound of a Polish word. For I
was the man."

"Well," asked Cartoner, "what do you want to know?"

"Nothing," answered the other, quick as thought. "I only tell you the
story as a warning. To you especially, who take so much for said
that has not been said. You are strong, and a man. Remember that a
woman--even the strongest--may not be able to bear such a strain as you
can bear."

Cartoner was listening attentively enough. He always listened with
attention to his friend on such rare occasions as he chose to be
serious.

"You know," went on Deulin, after a pause, during which the waiter had
set before him a battered silver dish from which he removed the cover
with a flourish full of promise--"you know that I would give into
your care unreservedly anything that I possessed, such as a fortune,
or--well--a daughter. I would trust you entirely. But any man may make
a mistake. And if you make a mistake now, I shall never forgive
you--never."

And his eyes flashed with a sudden fierceness as he looked at his
companion.

"Is there anything I can do for you, my friend?" he asked, curtly.

"You have already promised to do the only thing I would ask you to do in
Warsaw," replied