“I or Martin would be assassinated,” said the prince with his loud laugh.  “I know that.  I have long known that we are going back to the methods of the sixties—­suspicion and assassination.  It has always been the ruin of Poland—­that method.”

“But you have no feelings with regard to this man?” asked Kosmaroff, sharply, looking from father to daughter, with a keen sidelong glance, as if the suspicion that had come from Cracow had not left him untouched.

“None whatever,” answered the prince.  “He is a mere passing acquaintance.  He must be allowed to pass.  We will drop him—­you can tell your friends—­it will not be much of a sacrifice compared to some that have been made for Poland.”

Wanda glanced at her father.  Did he mean anything?

“You know what they are,” broke in Kosmaroff’s eager voice.  “They see a mountain in every molehill.  Martin was seen at Alexandrowo with Cartoner.  Wanda was seen speaking to him at the Mokotow.  He is known to have called on you at your hotel in London.”

“It is a question of dropping his acquaintance, my friend,” said the prince, “and I tell you, he shall be dropped.”

“It is more than that,” answered Kosmaroff, half sullenly.

“You mean,” said the prince, suddenly roused to anger, “that Martin and I are put upon our good behavior—­that our lives are safe only so long as we are not seen speaking to Cartoner, or are not suspected of having any communication with him.”

And Kosmaroff was silent.

He had ceased eating, and had laid aside his knife and fork.  It was clear that his whole mind and body were given to one thought and one hope.  He looked indifferently at the simple dishes set before him, and had satisfied his hunger on that nearest to him, because it came first.

“I tell you this,” he said, after a silence, “because no one else dared to tell you.  Because I know, perhaps better than any other, all that you have done—­all that you are ready to do.”

“Yes—­yes.  Everything must be done for Poland,” said the prince, suddenly pacified by the recollection, perhaps, of what the speaker’s life had been.  Wanda had risen as if to go.  The clock had just struck ten.

“And the princess says the same?” said Kosmaroff, rising also, and raising her hand to his lips to bid her good-night, after the Polish fashion.

“Yes,” she answered, “I say the same.”

XXVIII

IN THE PINE-WOODS

The prince was early astir the next morning.  He was a hardy old man, and covered great distances on his powerful horse.  Neither cold nor rain prevented him from undertaking journeys to some distant village which had once owned his ancestor as lord and master—­in those days when a noble had to pay no more for killing a peasant than a farmer may claim for an injured sheep to-day.