Then he changed the subject easily, and began to talk of some trivial matter. From one question to another he passed, with that air of superficiality which northern men can never hope to understand, and here and there he touched upon those grave events which wise men foresaw at this period in European history. “I smell,” he said, “something in the atmosphere. Strangers passing in the street look at one with a questioning air, as if there were a secret which one might perhaps be party to. And I, who have no secrets.” He spread out his hands, with a gay laugh. “Because,” he added, with a sudden gravity, “there is nothing in life worth making a secret of--except one's income. There are many reasons why mine remains unconfessed. But, my friend, if anything should happen--anything--anywhere--we keep each other advised. Is it not so?” “Usual cipher,” answered Cartoner. “My salutations to Lady Orlay,” said Deulin, with a reflective nod. “That woman who can keep a secret.” “I thought you had none.” “She knows the secret--of my income,” answered the Frenchman. “Tell her--no! Do not tell her anything. But go and see her. When will you leave?” “To-night.” “And until then? Come and lunch with me at the Russian Club. No! Well, do as you like. I will say good-bye now. Heavens! how many times have we met and said good-bye again in hotels and railway stations and hired rooms! We have no abiding city and no friends. We are sons of Ishmael, and have none to care when we furl our tents and steal away.” He paused, and looked round the bare room, in which there was nothing but the hired furniture. “The police will be in here five minutes after you are out,” he said, curtly. “You have no message--” He paused to pick up from the floor a petal of his flower that had fallen. Then he walked to the window and looked out. Standing there, with his back to Cartoner, he went on: “No message to any one in Warsaw?” “No,” answered Cartoner. “No--you wouldn't have one. You are not that sort of man. Gad! You are hard, Cartoner--hard as nails.” Cartoner did not answer. He was already putting together his possessions--already furling his solitary tent. It was only natural that he was loath to go; for he was turning his back on danger, and few men worthy of the name do that with alacrity, whatever their nationality may be; for gameness is not solely a British virtue, as is supposed in English public schools. Suddenly Deulin turned round and shook hands. “Don't know when we shall next meet. Take care of yourself. Good-bye.” And he went towards the door. But he paused on the threshold. “The matter of the 'white feather' you may leave to me. You may leave others to me, too, so far as that goes. The sons of Ishmael must stand together.” And, with an airy wave of the hand and his rather hollow laugh, he was gone. XXIII COEUR VOLANT