“They are violets—­from Warsaw,” admitted Deulin.  “Wanda is in?” he asked, gravely.

“Yes; they are in the study.  I will send for her.”

“I have received a letter from her father,” said Deulin, with his hand on the bell.

Wanda came into the room a few minutes later.  She was, of course, in mourning for Martin now, as well as for Poland.  But she still carried her head high and faced the world with unshrinking eyes.  Cartoner followed her into the room, his thoughtful glance reading Deulin’s face.

“You have news?”

“I have heard from your father at last.”

The Frenchman took the letter from his pocket, and his manner of unfolding it must have conveyed the intimation that he was not going to give it to Wanda, but intended to read it aloud, for Lady Orlay walked to the other end of the long room, out of hearing.  Cartoner was about to follow her, when Wanda turned and glanced at him, and he stayed.

“The letter begins,” said Deulin, unconsciously falling into a professional preliminary—­

“’I have received Cartoner’s letter supplementing the account given by the man who was with Martin at the last.  I remember Captain Cable quite well.  When we met him at the Signal House, at Northfleet, I little thought that he would be called upon to render the last earthly service to my son.  So it was he who read the last words.  And Martin was buried in the Baltic.  You, my old friend, know all that I have given to Poland.  The last gift has been the hardest to part with.  Some day I hope to write to Cartoner, but not now.  He is not a man to attach much importance to words.  He is, I think, a man to understand silence.  At present I cannot write, as I am virtually a prisoner in my own house.  From a high quarter I have received a gracious intimation that my affairs are under the special attention of a beneficent monarch, and that I am so far to be mercifully forgiven that a sentence of perpetual confinement within the barriers of Warsaw will be deemed sufficient punishment for—­not having been found out.  But my worst enemies are my own party.  Nothing can now convince them that Martin and I did not betray the plot.  Moreover, Cartoner’s name is freely coupled with ours.  So they believe.  So it will go down to history, and nothing that we can say will make any difference.  That I find myself in company with Cartoner in this error only strengthens the feeling of friendship, of which I was conscious when we first met.  Beg him, for his own sake, never to cross this frontier again.  Ask him, for mine, to avoid making any sign of friendship towards me or mine.’”

As fate ruled it, the letter required turning at this point, and Deulin, for the first time in his life, perhaps, made a mistake at a crucial moment.  He allowed his voice to break on the next word, and had to pause for an instant before he could proceed.

“Then follow,” he said, rather uneasily, “certain passages to myself which I need not read.  Further on he proceeds:  ’I am in good health.  Better, indeed, than when I last saw you.  I am, in fact, a very tough old man, and may live to give much trouble yet.’”