e both, without
weighing the changes of reward too carefully. That he read his duty in
a different sense to that understood by other men was no doubt only that
which this tolerant age calls a matter of temperament.

"That Cartoner," Deulin was in the habit of saying, "takes certain
things so seriously, and other things--social things, to which I give
most careful attention--he ignores. And yet we often reach the same end
by different routes."

Which was quite true. But Deulin reached the end by a happy guess, and
that easy exercise of intuition which is the special gift of the Gallic
race, while Cartoner worked his way towards his goal with a steady
perseverance and slow, sure steps.

"In a moment of danger give me Cartoner," Deulin had once said.

On more than one occasion Cartoner had shown quite clearly, without
words, that he understood and appreciated that odd mixture of heroism
and frivolity which will always puzzle the world and draw its wondering
attention to France. The two men never compared notes, never helped each
other, never exchanged the minutest confidence.

Joseph P. Mangles was different. He spoke quite openly of his work.

"Got a job in Russia," he had stolidly told any one who asked him.
"Cold, unhealthy place." He seemed to enter upon his duties with the
casual interest of the amateur, and, in a way, exactly embodied the
attitude of his country towards Europe, of which the many wheels
within wheels may spin and whir or halt and grind without in any degree
affecting the great republic. America can afford to content herself with
the knowledge of what has happened or is happening. Countries nearer to
the field of action must know what is going to happen.

Cartoner rode placidly to the stable where he had hired his horse, and
delivered the beast to its owner. He had no one in Warsaw to go to and
relate his adventures. He was alone, as he had been all his life--alone
with his failures and his small successes--content, it would seem, to be
a good servant in a great service.

He went to the restaurant of the Hotel de France, which is a quiet place
of refreshment close to the Jasna, which has no political importance,
like the restaurant of the Europe, and there dined. The square was
deserted as he stumbled over the vile pavement towards his rooms. The
concierge was sitting at the door of the quiet house where he had taken
an apartment. All along the street the dvornik of every house thus
takes his