As, indeed, he had. He had given him his life.
The man leaped back with a little yelp of pain, and his knife clattered
on the stones. He stood in the moonlight, looking with horror-struck
eyes at his own hand, of which the fingers, like tendrils, were slowly
curling up, and he had no control over them.
"And now," said Deulin, in Polish, "for you."
He turned to the other, who had been moving surreptitiously round
towards Cartoner, who had, indeed, come out to meet him; but the man
turned and ran, followed closely by his companion.
Deulin picked up the knife, which lay gleaming on the cobble-stones,
and came towards Cartoner with it. Then he turned aside, and carefully
dropped it between the bars of the street gutter, where it fell with a
muddy splash.
"He will never use that hand again," he said. "Poor devil! I only hope
he was well paid for it."
"Doubt it."
Deulin was feeling in the pocket of his top-coat.
"Have you an old envelope?" he inquired.
Cartoner handed him what he asked for. It happened to be the envelope of
the letter he had received a few days earlier, denying him his recall.
And Deulin carefully wiped the blade of the sword-stick with it.
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