soon after ten o'clock miss mangles received a message that netty, having a headache, had gone to her room. miss cahere had never given way to that weakness, which is, or was, euphoniously called the emotions. she was not old-fashioned in that respect.

but to-night, on regaining her room, she was conscious, for the first time in her life, of a sort of moral shakiness. she felt as if she might do or say something imprudent. and she had never felt like that before. no one in the world could say that she had ever been imprudent. that which the lenient may call a school-girl escapade—a mere flight to the garden for a few minutes—was scarcely sufficient to account for this feeling. she must be unwell, she thought. and she decided, with some wisdom, not to submit herself to the scrutiny of paul deulin again.

mr. mangles had not finished his excellent cigar; and although miss mangles did not feel disposed for another of those long, innocent-looking russian cigarettes offered by deulin, she had still some views of value to be pressed upon the notice of the inferior sex.

deulin had been glancing at the clock for some time, and, suspiciously soon after learning that they were not to see netty again, he announced with regret that he had letters to write, and must take his leave. cartoner made no excuse, but departed at the same time.

“i will come down to the door with you,” said deulin, in the passage. he was always idle, and always had leisure to follow his sociable instincts.

at the side door, while cartoner was putting on his coat, he stepped rather suddenly out into the street, and before cartoner had found his hat was back again.

“it is a moonlight night,” he said. “i will walk with you part of the way.”

he turned, as he spoke, towards his coat and hat and stick, which were hanging near to where cartoner had found his own. he did not seem to think it necessary to ask the usual formal permission. they knew each other too well for that. cartoner helped the frenchman on with his thin, light overcoat, and reaching out his hand took the stick from the rack, weighing and turning it thoughtfully in his hand.

“that is the madrid stick,” said the frenchman. “you were with me when i bought it.”

“and when you used it,” added cartoner, in his quietest tone, as he led the way to the door. “generally keep your coat in the hall?” he inquired, casually, as they descended the steps.

“sometimes,” replied deulin, glancing at the questioner sideways beneath the brim of his hat.

it was, as he had said, a beautiful night. the moon was almost full and almost overhead, so that the streets were in most instances without shadow at all; for they nearly all run north and south, as does the river.

“yes,” said deulin, taking cartoner's arm, and leading him to the right instead of the left; for cartoner was going towards the cracow faubourg, which was the simplest but not the shortest way to the jasna. “yes—let us go by the quiet streets, eh? we have walked the pavement of some queer towns in our day, you and i. the typical englishman, so dense, so silent, so unobservant—who sees nothing and knows nothing and never laughs, but is himself the laughing-stock of all the latin races and the piece de resistance of their comic papers. and i, at your service, the typical frenchman; all shrugs and gesticulations and mustache—of politeness that is so insincere—of a heart that is so unstable. ah! these national characteristics of comic journalism—how the stupid world trips over them on to its vulgar face!”

as he spoke he was hurrying cartoner along, ever quicker and quicker, with a haste that must have been unconscious, as it certainly was unnatural to one who found a thousand trifles to interest him in the streets whenever he walked there.

cartoner made no answer, and his companion expected none. 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. he was fingering his stick with his right hand in an odd manner, and walked with his head half turned, as if listening for footsteps behind him. suddenly he swung round on his heels, facing the direction from which they had just come.

two men were racing up the street, making but little noise on the pavement.

“any coming from the other side?” asked deulin.

“no.”

“in the doorway,” whispered the frenchman. he was very quick and quite steady. and there is nothing more dangerous on earth than a steady frenchman, who fights with his brain as well as his arm. deulin was pushing his companion back with his left hand into a shallow doorway that had the air of being little used. the long blade of his sword-stick, no thicker at the hilt than the blade of a sailor's sheath-knife, and narrowing to nothing at the point, glittered in the moonlight.

“here,” he said, and thrust the empty stick into cartoner's hand. “but you need not use it. there are only two. ah! ah!”

with a sharp little cry of delight he stepped out into the moonlight, and so quick were his movements in the next moments that the eye could scarcely follow them. those who have seen a panther in liberty know there is nothing so graceful, so quick, so lithe and noiseless in animal life. and deulin was like a panther at that moment. he leaped across the pavement to give one man a stinging switch across the cheek with the flat of the blade, and was back on guard in front of cartoner like a flash. he ran right round the two men, who stood bewildered together, and did not know where to look for him. once he lifted his foot and planted a kick in the small of his adversary's back, sending him staggering against the wall. he laughed, and gave little, sharp cries of “ah!” and “la!” breathlessly. he did a hundred tricks of the fencing-floor—performed a dozen turns and sleights of hand. it was a marvel of agility and quickness. he struck both men on shoulder, arm, hand, head, and leg; forward, back-handed, from above and below. he never awaited their attack—but attacked them. was it not napoleon who said that the surest way to defend is to attack?

the wonder was that, wielding so keen a point, he never hurt the men. the sword might have been a lady's riding-whip, for its bloodlessness, from the stinging cuts he inflicted. but the whistle of it through the air was not the whistle of leather. it was the high, clear, terrifying note of steel.

the two men, in confusion, backed across the road, and finally ran to the opposite pavement, where they were half hidden by a deep shadow. without turning, deulin backed towards cartoner, who stood still in the doorway.

“even if they are armed,” said deulin, “they won't fire. they don't want the police any more than we do. can tell you, cartoner, it would not suit my book at all to get into trouble in warsaw now.”

while he spoke he watched the shadows across the road.

“both have knives,” he said, “but they cannot get near me. stay where you are.”

“all right,” said cartoner. “haven't had a chance yet.”

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. the very fact of their returning to the attack—thus, with a cold-blooded courage—showed that they were poles. in an instant deulin divined their intention. he ran forward, his blade held out in front of him. even at this moment he could not lay aside the little flourish—the quick, stiff pose—of the fencer.

his sword made a dozen turns in the air, and the point of it came down lightly, like a butterfly, on the man's shoulder. he lowered it further, as if seeking a particular spot, and then, deliberately, he pushed it in as if into a cheese.

“voila, mon ami,” he said, with a sort of condescension as if he had made him a present. as, indeed, he had. he had given him his life.

the man leaped back with a little yelp of pain, and his knife clattered on the stones. he stood in the moonlight, looking with horror-struck eyes at his own hand, of which the fingers, like tendrils, were slowly curling up, and he had no control over them.

“and now,” said deulin, in polish, “for you.”

he turned to the other, who had been moving surreptitiously round towards cartoner, who had, indeed, come out to meet him; but the man turned and ran, followed closely by his companion.

deulin picked up the knife, which lay gleaming on the cobble-stones, and came towards cartoner with it. then he turned aside, and carefully dropped it between the bars of the street gutter, where it fell with a muddy splash.

“he will never use that hand again,” he said. “poor devil! i only hope he was well paid for it.”

“doubt it.”

deulin was feeling in the pocket of his top-coat.

“have you an old envelope?” he inquired.

cartoner handed him what he asked for. it happened to be the envelope of the letter he had received a few days earlier, denying him his recall. and deulin carefully wiped the blade of the sword-stick with it. he tore it into pieces and sent it after the knife. then he polished the bright steel with his pocket-handkerchief, from the evil point to the hilt, where the government mark and the word “toledo” were deeply engraved.

“unless i keep it clean it sticks,” he explained. “and if you want it at all, you want it in a hurry—like a woman's heart, eh?”

he was looking up and down the street as he spoke, and shot the blade back into its sheath. he turned and examined the ground to make sure that nothing was left there.

“the light was good,” he said, appreciatively, “and the ground favorable for—for the autumn manoeuvres.”

and he broke into a gay laugh.

“come,” he said. “let us go back into the more frequented streets. this back way was not a success—only proves that it never does to turn tail.”

“how did you know,” asked cartoner, “that this was coming off?”

“quite simple, my friend. i was at the window when you arrived at the europe. you were followed. or, at all events, i thought you were followed. so i made up my mind to walk back with you and see. veni, vidi, vici—you understand?”

and again his clear laugh broke the silence of that back street, while he made a pass at an imaginary foe with his stick.

“i thought we might escape by the quieter streets,” he went on. “for it is our business to seek peace and ensure it. but it was not to be. neither could i warn you, because we have never interfered in each other's business, you and i. that is why we have continued, through many chances and changes, to be friends.”

they walked on in silence for a few moments. then cartoner spoke, saying that which he was bound to say in his half-audible voice.

“it was like you, to come like that and take the risk,” he said, “and say nothing.”

but deulin stopped him with a quick touch on his arm.

“as to that,” he said, “silence, my friend. wait. thank me, if you will, five years hence—ten years hence—when the time comes. i will tell you then why i did it.”

“there can only be one reason why you did it,” muttered the englishman.

“can there? ah! my good cartoner, you are a fool—the very best sort of fool—and yet, in the matter of intellect, you are as superior to me as i am superior to you . . . in swordsmanship.”

and he made another pass into thin air with his stick.

“i should like to fight some one to-night,” he said. “some one of the very first order. i feel in the vein. i could do great things to-night—and the angels in heaven are talking of me.”

in his light-hearted way he bared his head and looked up to the sky. but there was a deeper ring in his voice. it almost seemed as if he were sincere.

as he stood there, bareheaded, with his coat open and his shirt gleaming in the moonlight, a carriage rattled past, and stopped immediately behind them. the door was opened from within, and the only occupant, alighting quickly, came towards them.

“there is only one man in warsaw who would apostrophize the gods like that,” he said. the speaker was prince martin bukaty.

he recognized cartoner at this moment.

“you!” he said, and there was a sharp note in his voice. “you, cartoner! what are you doing in the streets at this time of night?”

“we have been dining with mangles,” explained deulin.

“and we do not quite know what we are doing, or where we are going,” added cartoner. “but we think we are going home.”

“you seem to be on the spree,” said martin, with a laugh in his voice, and none in his eyes.

“we are,” answered deulin.

“come,” said martin, turning to send away the carriage. “come—your shortest way is through our place now. my father and wanda are out at a ball, or something, so i am afraid you will not see them.”

“do it,” whispered deulin's voice from behind.

and cartoner followed martin up the narrow passage that led to the garden of the bukaty palace.