“I am in London, as you see,” said Deulin, as if he had been asked a question.  “I am awaiting orders.  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.

“You are dressed in your best clothes,” said Deulin, after a pause; “you are going to pay calls.”

“I am going to call on one of my old chiefs.”

“Then I will ask your permission to accompany you.  I, too, have put on a new hat.  I am idle.  I want something to do.  Mon Dieu, I want to talk to a clean and wholesome Englishwoman, just for a change.  I know all your old chiefs, my friend.  I know where you have been every moment since you made your mark at this business.  One watches the quiet men—­eh?”

“She will be glad to see you,” said Cartoner, with his slow smile.

“Ah!  She is always kind, that lady; for I guess where we are going.  She might have been a great woman . . . if she had not been a happy one.”

“I always go to see them when I am in town,” said Cartoner, who usually confined his conversation to the necessaries of daily intercourse.

“And he—­how is he?”

“He is as well as can be expected.  He has worked so hard and so long in many climates.  She is always anxious about him.”

“It is the penalty a woman pays,” said Deulin.  “To love and to be consumed by anxiety—­a woman’s life, my friend.  Oddly enough, I should have gone there this afternoon, whether I had met you or not.  I want her good services—­again.”

And the Frenchman shrugged his shoulders with a laugh, as if suddenly reminded of some grievous error in his past life.

“I want her to befriend some friends of mine, if she has not done so already.  For she knows them, of course.  They are the Bukatys.  Of course, you know the history of the Bukatys of Warsaw.”

“I know the history of Poland,” answered Cartoner, looking straight in front of him with reflective eyes.  He had an odd way of carrying his head a little bent forward, as if he bore behind his heavy forehead a burden of memories and knowledge of which his brain was always conscious—­as a man may stand in the centre of a great library, and become suddenly aware that he has more books than he can ever open and understand.

“Of course you do; you know a host of things.  And you know more history that was ever written in books.  You know more than I do, and Heaven knows that I know a great deal.  For you are a reader, and I never look into a book.  I know the surface of things.  The Bukatys are in London.  I give you that—­to put in your pipe and smoke.  Father and son.  It is not for them that I seek Lady Orlay’s help.  They must take care of themselves—­though they will not do that.  It does not run in the family, as you know, who read history books.”