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"That is yet to be found out," was the reply, in a sharp, strained voice. "This is Cartoner's work." "I doubt it," whispered Martin. And yet in his heart he could scarcely doubt it at that moment. Nothing was further from his recollection than the note he had given to Netty in the Saski Gardens ten hours ago. "What does it mean?" he asked, with a sudden despair in his voice.
But my worst enemies are my own party. Nothing can now convince them that Martin and I did not betray the plot. Moreover, Cartoner's name is freely coupled with ours. So they believe. So it will go down to history, and nothing that we can say will make any difference.
It was heavy weather, and I had a new crew. There were other things to think about. And, I tell you, when I got to port, a chap with gold lace on him came aboard and took the stuff away." Cartoner's attention was aroused now. There was something in this story, after all. There might be everything in it when the captain told what had brought these past events back to his recollection.
Now, your knife the one the Senorita sharpens with a kiss in my country it will have its value. Suppose I buy it; suppose we say five hundred pesetas?" And Cartoner's voice was the voice of innocence. There was silence for some time, and at last the knife came up handlewise between the leaves of the hydrangea. Spanish pride is always ready to shut its eyes.
She watched the two men meet and shake hands, in the English fashion, without raising their hats. She could see Cartoner's movements to continue his way, and Martin's detaining hand slipped within the Englishman's arm. "What does it matter?" Martin was saying. "There is no one to see us here, at this hour in the morning. We are quite safe. There is Wanda, sitting on the seat, waiting for me.
Deulin did not think it necessary to refer to the object of Cartoner's ride. Neither did he mention the fact that he knew that this was not the direct way to St. Petersburg. "I hired a horse and rode out to meet you," he said, gayly he was singularly gay this morning, and there was a light in his eye "to intercept you. Kosmaroff is back in Warsaw. I saw him in the streets and he saw me.
"Come," cried Paul Deulin, breaking in on the solitude of Cartoner's rooms after lunch one day towards the end of October. "Come, and let us bury the hatchet, and smoke the cigarette of peace before the grand-stand at the Mokotow. Everybody will be there.
Cartoner, on the other hand," he continued, in his airy way, "is a most respectable man in the employ of his country. That is what damns Mr. Cartoner. He is in the employ of his country. And he has a great reputation, to which I take off my hat." And he saluted gayly Cartoner's reputation.
Cartoner dropped the two square pieces of sugar over his shoulder, and there was a sound of grinding. "His Excellency will not give me up. I can slip a knife into his Excellency's liver where I sit." "I know that. What have you been doing?" "I killed Emmanuelo Dembaza, that is all." "Indeed but why kill Senor Dembaza?" "I did it for Juanita's sake." A queer smile flitted across Cartoner's face.
And if one expects letters of importance, it is wiser not to have them sent to Poland at all, for the post-office authorities are kind enough to exercise a parental censorship over the travellers' correspondence. Cartoner's letter was addressed to an English gentleman at his country house in Sussex, and it asked for an immediate recall from Poland.
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