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Updated: June 4, 2025
They were in a narrow street now between the backs of high houses and had left the life and traffic of frequented thoroughfares behind them. Deulin turned once and looked over his shoulder. They were alone in the street. He released Cartoner's arm, through which he had slipped his left hand in an effusive French way.
And he had need to, for through the paddock gate the crowd was densely packed and he was charging into it on a maddened horse beyond control. Deulin was nearer, and therefore the first to get to the horse; but Cartoner's greater weight came an instant later, and the horse's head was down.
It was still early in the day, and he hurried to Cartoner's rooms in the Jasna. He bought a flower at the corner of the Jerozolimska as he went along, and placed it in his buttonhole. He wore his soft felt hat at a gay angle, and walked the pavement at a pace and with an air belonging to a younger generation. "Ah!" he cried, at the sight of Cartoner, pipe in mouth, at his writing-table.
He was a man having that air of detachment from personal environments which is apt to arouse curiosity in the human heart, more especially in feminine hearts. People wanted to know what there was in Cartoner's past that gave him so much to think about in the present. The two men had not spoken again when Miss Netty Cahere came on deck.
"Thank you, for a few minutes," answered Deulin, and seeing a movement of dissent on Cartoner's part, he laid his hand on his arm. "It is better," he said, in an undertone. "It will put them completely off the scent. There are sure to be more than two in it." So, reluctantly, Cartoner followed Martin into the Bukaty Palace for the first time. "Come," said the young prince, "into the drawing-room.
"A man of action, and not of words," commented Martin, who spoke first. "I like him. Come, let us go for our walk." And Wanda said nothing. They rose and went away without speaking, though they usually had plenty to say to each other. It almost seemed that Cartoner's silence was contagious. He, for his part, went into the Faubourg and crossed to the river side of that wide street.
She had not slept until nearly morning, and had heard her father bolt the doors after the departure of the ex-Cossack. She had heard Kosmaroff's light and quick step on the frozen snow as he started on his seven-mile walk to Warsaw. Cartoner's name, then, was not mentioned during the morning meal, which the prince ate with the deliberation of his years.
The members of the club stood rigid beneath the pavilion awning, some with field-glasses, others with knitted brows and glittering eyes. All eyes were turned in one direction, except Wanda's and Cartoner's. Then, when the race was over and the roar had subsided, Martin came hurrying back, and one glance at his face told them that there was no need for anxiety.
"History is assuredly at a stand-still," said an old traveller one evening at the club, as he paused at Cartoner's table. "The world must be quiet indeed with you here in London, all the winter, eating your head off." "I am waiting," replied Cartoner. "What for?" "I do not know," he said, placidly, continuing his dinner. Later on he returned to his rooms in Pall Mall.
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