Part 32 (1/2)

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 paris.h.i.+oner 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 pa.s.sing 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 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 pa.s.sed, 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 pa.s.sing in the street look at one with a questioning air, as if there were a secret which one might perhaps be party to. And I, who have no secrets.”

He spread out his hands, with a gay laugh.

”Because,” he added, with a sudden gravity, ”there is nothing in life worth making a secret of--except one's income. There are many reasons why mine remains unconfessed. But, my friend, if anything should happen--anything--anywhere--we keep each other advised. Is it not so?”

”Usual cipher,” answered Cartoner.

”My salutations to Lady Orlay,” said Deulin, with a reflective nod.

”That woman who can keep a secret.”

”I thought you had none.”

”She knows the secret--of my income,” answered the Frenchman. ”Tell her--no! Do not tell her anything. But go and see her. When will you leave?”

”To-night.”

”And until then? Come and lunch with me at the Russian Club. No! Well, do as you like. I will say good-bye now. Heavens! how many times have we met and said good-bye again in hotels and railway stations and hired rooms! We have no abiding city and no friends. We are sons of Ishmael, and have none to care when we furl our tents and steal away.”

He paused, and looked round the bare room, in which there was nothing but the hired furniture.