“Then warn Cartoner,” the prince said, in a final voice. His had always been the final word. He would say to one, go; and to another, come.
“I cannot do it,” said Martin, looking at Wanda. “You know my position—how I am watched.”
“There is only one person in Warsaw who can do it,” said Wanda—“Paul Deulin.”
“Deulin could do it,” said the prince, thoughtfully. “But I never talk to Deulin of these matters. Politics are a forbidden subject between us.”
“Then I will go and see Monsieur Deulin the first thing to-morrow morning,” said Wanda, quietly.
“You?” asked her father. And Martin looked at her in silent surprise. The old prince's eyes flashed suddenly.
“Remember,” he said, “that you run the risk of making people talk of you. They may talk of us—of Martin and me—the world has talked of the Bukatys for some centuries—but never of their women.”
“They will not talk of me,” returned Wanda, composedly. “I will see to that. A word to Mr. Cartoner will be enough. I understood him to say that he was not going to stay long in Warsaw.”
The prince had acquired the habit of leaving many things to Wanda. He knew that she was wiser than Martin, and in some ways more capable.
“Well,” he said, rising. “I take no hand in it. It is very late. Let us go to bed.”