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 passed, 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 passing 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.

“The police will be in here five minutes after you are out,” he said, curtly.  “You have no message—­” He paused to pick up from the floor a petal of his flower that had fallen.  Then he walked to the window and looked out.  Standing there, with his back to Cartoner, he went on:  “No message to any one in Warsaw?”

“No,” answered Cartoner.

“No—­you wouldn’t have one.  You are not that sort of man.  Gad!  You are hard, Cartoner—­hard as nails.”