"The plot is simple enough," answered Martin, for Cartoner said nothing,
and looked straight in front of him. He did not address one more than
the other, but explained the situation, as it were, for the benefit of
all whom it might concern. He had lighted a cigarette--a little Russian
affair, all gold lettering and mouthpiece, and as he spoke he jerked
the ash from time to time so that it should not fly and incommode his
sister.

"Rightly or wrongly, we are suspected of being malcontents. The Bukatys
have in the past been known to foster that spirit of Polish nationality
which it has been the endeavor of three great countries to suppress for
nearly a century. Despite Russia, Prussia, and Austria there is still
a Polish language and a Polish spirit; despite the Romanoffs, the
Hapsburgs, and the Hohenzollerns there are still a few old Lithuanian
and Ruthenian families extant. And rightly or wrongly, those in
authority are kind enough to blame, among others, the Bukatys for these
survivals. Weeds, it seems, are hard to kill. Whether we are really to
blame or not is of no consequence. It does not matter to the dog whether
he deserves his bad name or not--after he is hanged. But it is not good
to be a Bukaty and live in Poland just now, though some of us manage to
have a good time despite them all--eh, Wanda?"

And he laid his hand momentarily on his sister's arm. But she did not
answer. She desired before all things that clear understanding which was
part of her creed of life, and she glanced quickly from side to side for
fear some interruption should approach.

"Mr. Cartoner, on the other hand," he continued, in his airy way, "is a
most respectable man--in the employ of his country. That is what damns