s, with her platform bow--from the waist--and passed on.

"Hallo!" said Joseph Mangles. "Got here before us? Thought you'd turn
up. Dismal place, eh?"

"You have just arrived, I suppose?" said Deulin.

"Oh, please don't laugh at us!" broke in Netty. "Of course you can see
that. You must know that we have just come out of a sleeping-car!"

"You always look, mademoiselle, as if you had come straight from
heaven," answered Deulin, looking at Miss Cahere, whose hand was at her
hair. It was pretty hair and a pretty, slim, American hand. But she did
not seem to hear, for she had turned away quickly and was speaking to
her uncle. Deulin accompanied them along the corridor, which is a long
one, for the Hotel de l'Europe is a huge quadrangle.

"You startled me by your sudden appearance, you know," she said, turning
again to the Frenchman, which was probably intended for an explanation
of her heightened color. She was one of those fortunate persons who
blush easily--at the right time. "I am sure Uncle Joseph will be pleased
to have you in the same hotel. Of course, we know no one in Warsaw. Have
you friends here?"

"Only one," replied Deulin--"the waiter who serves the Zakuska counter
down-stairs. I knew him when he was an Austrian nobleman, travelling for
his health in France. He does not recognize me now."

"Will you stay long?"

"I did not intend to," replied Deulin, "when I came out of my room this
morning."

"But you and Mr. Cartoner have Polish friends, have you not?" asked
Netty.

"Not in Warsaw," was the reply.

"Suppose we shall meet again," broke in Joseph Mangles at this moment,
halting on the threshold of the gorgeous apartment. He tapped the number
on the door in order to draw Deulin's attention to it. "Always welcome,"
he said. "Funny we should meet here. Means mischief, I suppose."

"I suppose it does," answered Deulin, looking guilelessly at Netty.

He took his leave and continued his way down-stairs. Out in the
Krakowski Faubourg the sun was shining brightly and the world was
already astir, while the shops were opening and buyers already hurrying
home from the morning markets. It is a broad street, with palaces and
churches on either side. Every palace has its story; two of them were
confiscated by the Russian government because a bomb, which was thrown
from the pavement, might possibly have come from one of the windows.
Every church has rung to the strains of the forbidden Polish hymn--"At
Thy al