“Rightly or wrongly, we are suspected of being malcontents.  The Bukatys have in the past been known to foster that spirit of Polish nationality which it has been the endeavor of three great countries to suppress for nearly a century.  Despite Russia, Prussia, and Austria there is still a Polish language and a Polish spirit; despite the Romanoffs, the Hapsburgs, and the Hohenzollerns there are still a few old Lithuanian and Ruthenian families extant.  And rightly or wrongly, those in authority are kind enough to blame, among others, the Bukatys for these survivals.  Weeds, it seems, are hard to kill.  Whether we are really to blame or not is of no consequence.  It does not matter to the dog whether he deserves his bad name or not—­after he is hanged.  But it is not good to be a Bukaty and live in Poland just now, though some of us manage to have a good time despite them all—­eh, Wanda?”

And he laid his hand momentarily on his sister’s arm.  But she did not answer.  She desired before all things that clear understanding which was part of her creed of life, and she glanced quickly from side to side for fear some interruption should approach.

“Mr. Cartoner, on the other hand,” he continued, in his airy way, “is a most respectable man—­in the employ of his country.  That is what damns Mr. Cartoner.  He is in the employ of his country.  And he has a great reputation, to which I take off my hat.”

And he saluted gayly Cartoner’s reputation.

“It would never do,” continued Martin, “for us, the suspects, to be avowedly the friend of the man who is understood to be an envoy in some capacity of his government.  Whether he is really such or not is of no consequence.  It matters little to the dog, you remember.”

“But what are we to do?” asked Wanda, practically.  “Let us have a clear understanding.  Are we to pass each other in the streets?”

“No,” answered Cartoner, speaking at length, without hesitation and without haste—­a man who knew his own mind, and went straight to the heart of the question.  “We must not meet in the streets.”

“That may not be as easy as it sounds,” said Wanda, “in a small city like Warsaw.  Are you so long-sighted that you can always make sure of avoiding us?”

“I can, at all events, try,” answered Cartoner, simply.  After a pause (the pauses always occurred when it happened, so to say, to be Cartoner’s turn to speak) he rose from the stone seat, which was all that the Bukatys could offer him in Warsaw.  “I can begin at once,” he said, gravely.  And he took off his hat and went away.

It was done so quickly and quietly that Wanda and Martin were left in silence on the seat, watching him depart.  He went the way he had come, down the broad walk towards the colonnade, and disappeared between the pillars of that building.

“A man of action, and not of words,” commented Martin, who spoke first.  “I like him.  Come, let us go for our walk.”