“She knows the secret—of my income,” answered the Frenchman. “Tell her—no! Do not tell her anything. But go and see her. When will you leave?”
“To-night.”
“And until then? Come and lunch with me at the Russian Club. No! Well, do as you like. I will say good-bye now. Heavens! how many times have we met and said good-bye again in hotels and railway stations and hired rooms! We have no abiding city and no friends. We are sons of Ishmael, and have none to care when we furl our tents and steal away.”
He paused, and looked round the bare room, in which there was nothing but the hired furniture.
“The police will be in here five minutes after you are out,” he said, curtly. “You have no message—” He paused to pick up from the floor a petal of his flower that had fallen. Then he walked to the window and looked out. Standing there, with his back to Cartoner, he went on: “No message to any one in Warsaw?”
“No,” answered Cartoner.
“No—you wouldn't have one. You are not that sort of man. Gad! You are hard, Cartoner—hard as nails.”
Cartoner did not answer. He was already putting together his possessions—already furling his solitary tent. It was only natural that he was loath to go; for he was turning his back on danger, and few men worthy of the name do that with alacrity, whatever their nationality may be; for gameness is not solely a British virtue, as is supposed in English public schools.
Suddenly Deulin turned round and shook hands.
“Don't know when we shall next meet. Take care of yourself. Good-bye.”