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Updated: June 9, 2025
"And what do you want Lady Orlay to do for Princess Wanda?" inquired Cartoner, with a smile. It was always a marvel to him that Paul Deulin should have travelled so far down the road of life without losing his enthusiasm somewhere by the way. "That I leave to Lady Orlay," replied Deulin, with an airy wave of his neat umbrella, which imperilled the eyesight of a passing baker-boy, who abused him.
And he gave a low laugh, which Deulin had only heard once or twice before in all the years that they had known each other. "That's the best," he said, half to himself, "of dealing with a man who keeps his head. Here they come, Cartoner here they come." And he went out to meet them. But only one came forward. They knew that unless they kept together, Deulin could not hold them both in check.
Something is brewing somewhere, one may suppose. Your return to London seems to confirm such a suspicion. Let us hope we may have another little . . . errand together eh?" As he spoke, Deulin bowed in his rather grand way to an old gentleman who walked briskly past in the military fashion, and who turned to look curiously at the two men.
"If you want a story," put in Joseph Mangles, suddenly, in his deep voice, "I can tell you one." And because Joseph rarely spoke, he was accorded a silence. "Waiter's a Finn, and says he doesn't understand English?" began Mangles, looking interrogatively at Deulin, beneath his great eyebrows. "Which I believe to be the truth," assented the Frenchman.
Cartoner and Deulin, riding through the Jewish quarter, were as safe from recognition as if they were in a country lane at Wilanow; for the men hurrying along the pavements were wrapped each in his own keen thought of gain, and if they glanced up at the horsemen at all, merely looked in order to appraise the value of their clothes and saddles as if there were nothing beyond.
"If men could be in two places at the same moment, say once only during a lifetime, their lives would be very different from what they are." Cartoner had glanced quickly at him when he spoke, but only saw a ready, imperturbable smile. Deulin was a man counting his friends among all nationalities.
It thus happened that he missed seeing Mr. Joseph Mangles, sunning himself upon the more frequented pavement, and smoking a contemplative cigar. Mr. Mangles would have stopped him had they met. Paul Deulin was not far behind Mr. Mangles, idling past the shops, which could scarcely have had much interest for the Parisian. "Ah!" said the Frenchman to himself, "there is our friend Reginald.
Deulin turned and looked at his companion. "Then you have met him that puts another complexion on your question." "I have just crossed the Atlantic in the next chair to him." "And that is all you know about him?" Cartoner nodded. "Then Joseph P. Mangles is getting on." "What is he?" repeated Cartoner.
Miss Mangles dispensed her brother's hospitality with that rather labored ease of manner to which superior women are liable at such times as they are pleased to desire their inferiors to feel comfortable, and to enjoy themselves according to their lights. Deulin perceived the situation at once, and sought information respecting Poland, which was most graciously accorded him.
She was listening to her aunt and Cartoner, who were talking together, and Deulin found himself relegated to the society of the hospitable Joseph at the other end of the room. "You're looking at Cartoner as if he owed you money," said Mr. Mangles, bluntly. "I was looking at him with suspicion," admitted Deulin, "but not on that account. No one owes me money.
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