"I know the history of Poland," answered Cartoner, looking straight in
front of him with reflective eyes. He had an odd way of carrying his
head a little bent forward, as if he bore behind his heavy forehead
a burden of memories and knowledge of which his brain was always
conscious--as a man may stand in the centre of a great library, and
become suddenly aware that he has more books than he can ever open and
understand.

"Of course you do; you know a host of things. And you know more history
that was ever written in books. You know more than I do, and Heaven
knows that I know a great deal. For you are a reader, and I never look
into a book. I know the surface of things. The Bukatys are in London. I
give you that--to put in your pipe and smoke. Father and son. It is
not for them that I seek Lady Orlay's help. They must take care of
themselves--though they will not do that. It does not run in the family,
as you know, who read history books."

"Yes, I know," said Cartoner, pausing before crossing to the corner
of St. James's Street, in the manner of a man whose life had not been
passed in London streets. For it must be remembered that English traffic
is different to the traffic of any other streets in the world.

"There is a girl," pursued the Frenchman. "Families like the Bukatys
should kill their girls in infancy. Not that Wanda knows it; she is
as gay as a bird, and quite devoted to her father, who is an old
ruffian--and my very dear friend."

"And what do you want Lady Orlay to do for Princess Wanda?" inquired
Cartoner, with a smile. It was always a marvel to him that Paul Deulin