Deulin turned and looked at his companion.
“Then you have met him—that puts another complexion on your question.”
“I have just crossed the Atlantic in the next chair to him.”
“And that is all you know about him?”
Cartoner nodded.
“Then Joseph P. Mangles is getting on.”
“What is he?” repeated Cartoner.
“He is in the service of his country, my friend, like any other poor devil—like you or me, for instance. He spends half of his time kicking his heels in New York, or wherever they kick their heels in America. The rest of his time he is risking his health, or possibly his neck, wherever it may please the fates to send him. If he had been properly trained, he might have done something, that Joseph P. Mangles; for he can hold his tongue. But he took to it late, as they all do in America. So he has come across, has he? Yes, the storm-birds are congregating, my silent friend. There is something in the wind.”
Deulin raised his long, thin nose into the dusty May air and sniffed it.
“Was that girl with them?” he inquired presently—“Miss Netty Cahere?”