“How did you know,” asked Cartoner, “that this was coming off?”

“Quite simple, my friend.  I was at the window when you arrived at the Europe.  You were followed.  Or, at all events, I thought you were followed.  So I made up my mind to walk back with you and see.  Veni, vidi, vici—­you understand?”

And again his clear laugh broke the silence of that back street, while he made a pass at an imaginary foe with his stick.

“I thought we might escape by the quieter streets,” he went on.  “For it is our business to seek peace and ensure it.  But it was not to be.  Neither could I warn you, because we have never interfered in each other’s business, you and I. That is why we have continued, through many chances and changes, to be friends.”

They walked on in silence for a few moments.  Then Cartoner spoke, saying that which he was bound to say in his half-audible voice.

“It was like you, to come like that and take the risk,” he said, “and say nothing.”

But Deulin stopped him with a quick touch on his arm.

“As to that,” he said, “silence, my friend.  Wait.  Thank me, if you will, five years hence—­ten years hence—­when the time comes.  I will tell you then why I did it.”

“There can only be one reason why you did it,” muttered the Englishman.

“Can there?  Ah! my good Cartoner, you are a fool—­the very best sort of fool—­and yet, in the matter of intellect, you are as superior to me as I am superior to you . . . in swordsmanship.”

And he made another pass into thin air with his stick.

“I should like to fight some one to-night,” he said.  “Some one of the very first order.  I feel in the vein.  I could do great things to-night—­and the angels in heaven are talking of me.”

In his light-hearted way he bared his head and looked up to the sky.  But there was a deeper ring in his voice.  It almost seemed as if he were sincere.

As he stood there, bareheaded, with his coat open and his shirt gleaming in the moonlight, a carriage rattled past, and stopped immediately behind them.  The door was opened from within, and the only occupant, alighting quickly, came towards them.

“There is only one man in Warsaw who would apostrophize the gods like that,” he said.  The speaker was Prince Martin Bukaty.

He recognized Cartoner at this moment.

“You!” he said, and there was a sharp note in his voice.  “You, Cartoner!  What are you doing in the streets at this time of night?”

“We have been dining with Mangles,” explained Deulin.

“And we do not quite know what we are doing, or where we are going,” added Cartoner.  “But we think we are going home.”

“You seem to be on the spree,” said Martin, with a laugh in his voice, and none in his eyes.

“We are,” answered Deulin.

“Come,” said Martin, turning to send away the carriage.  “Come—­your shortest way is through our place now.  My father and Wanda are out at a ball, or something, so I am afraid you will not see them.”