The prince was, it appeared, one of those men who diffuse tranquillity wherever they are.  He had moved quietly through stirring events; had acted without haste in hurried moments.  For the individuality of the house must have been his.  Wanda had found it there when she came back from the school in Dresden, too young to have a marked individuality of her own.  The difference she brought to the house was a certain brightness and a sort of experimental femininity, which reigned supreme until her English governess came back again to live as a companion with her pupil.  Wanda moved the furniture, turned the house round on its staid basis, and made a hundred experiments in domestic economy before she gave way to her father’s habits of life.  Then she made that happiest of human discoveries, which has the magic power of allaying at one stroke the eternal feminine discontent which has made the world uneasy since the day that Eve idled in that perfect garden—­she found that she was wanted in the world!

The prince did not tell her so.  Perhaps his need of her was too obvious to require words.  He had given his best years to Poland, and now that old age was coming, that health was failing and wealth had vanished, Poland would have none of him.

There was no Poland.  At this moment Wanda burst upon him, so to speak, with a hundred desires that only he could fulfil, a hundred questions that only he could answer.  And, as wise persons know, to fulfil desires and answer questions is the best happiness.

Father and daughter lived a quiet life in the house that was called a palace by courtesy only.  For Martin was made of livelier stuff, and rarely stayed long at home.  He came and went with a feverish haste; was fond of travel, he said, and the authorities kept a questioning eye upon his movements.

There are two doors to the Bukaty Palace.  As often as not, Martin made use of the smaller door giving entrance to the garden at the back of the house, which garden could also be entered from an alley leading round from the back of the bank, which stands opposite the post-office in the busier part of Kotzebue Street.

He came in by this door one evening and did not come alone, for he was accompanied by a man in working-clothes.  The streets of Warsaw are well lighted and well guarded by a most excellent police, second only as the Russians are to the police of London.  It is therefore the custom to go abroad at night as much as in the day, and the Krakowski is more crowded after dark than during the afternoon.  Kosmaroff had walked some distance behind Prince Martin in the streets.  Martin unlocked the gate of the garden and passed in, leaving the gate open with the key in the lock.  In a minute Kosmaroff followed, locked the gate after him, and gave the key back to its owner on the steps of the garden door of the house, where Martin was awaiting him, latch-key in hand.  They did it without comment or instruction, as men carry out a plan frequently resorted to.