“A sudden change in the political situation has made it necessary for me to go—where I must not tell you. So, to my great regret, I cannot accompany you. You, however, will start by the morning train, as arranged. The route, as you know, is Paris, Zurich, Saltzburg, and Prague. I enclose letters to sound friends in Prague and Warsaw who will relieve you of all worries and responsibilities. If you do not hear from me in Prague, where I should like you to remain one week—it is a beautiful city, and the Czecho-Slovak Republic is one of the most interesting outcomes of the war—await instructions at Warsaw. But I anticipate picking you up in Prague. “Yours, “Boronowski.” A moment ago, he had dreaded the interruption of Boronowski on his nerve-racked vigil. Now the dismayed prospect of a journey across Europe alone awoke within him a sudden yearning for Boronowski’s society. A dozen matters could be cleared up in an hour’s talk. Suppose Boronowski’s return to Warsaw were indefinitely delayed. “Thanks very much,” he said. “I’ll take back the answer to Mr. Boronowski myself.” “There can be no answer,” said Klinski. “Why?” “Mr. Boronowski left his lodgings early this evening, and has gone—who knows where?” Triona shrugged his shoulders. It was the uncomfortable way of conspirators all the world over. To himself he cursed it with heatedness, but to no avail. “Why didn’t you bring the letter before?” he asked. “I have had many messages to deliver to-night, sir,” said Klinski, “and I have not finished.” The stunted, pallid man looked tired out, half-starved. Triona drew from his pocket a ten-shilling note. Klinski drew back a step. “I thank you. But in the service of my country I can only accept payment from my Government.” Triona regarded him in admiration. “It must be a great country!” “It is,” said Klinski, with a light in his eyes. “And I’m proud to go and fight for her.” “It’s a privilege that I envy you,” said Klinski. “May God preserve you.” * * * * *