"I will give it to you——"

"Yes——"

"If you will take me out with you by the secret door to the Europa Hotel."

"Fraeulein!" The girl stopped aghast and then slowly turned away.

"You would have me disobey the commands of my lord and master?" she said in an awed whisper.

"I am asking only my rights," urged Marishka desperately. "I am an Austrian with many friends. I have believed that I was a guest in this house, welcome to come and to go as I choose. If the Effendi desires to keep me against my will he runs a great risk of offending the government of Austria and my friends."

"As to that I do not know——" said Yeva plaintively.

"It will do you no harm to be my friend."

"I am your friend. But to disobey the command of one's lord and master——"

"It is worse to disobey the laws of Bosnia."

"But what can I do?" asked the girl, helplessly weaving her fingers to and fro.

"You need do nothing but go out to deliver my message. Then you shall appear to lock the door below, but the bolt shall not catch. That is all. When you are gone I shall follow into the street."

"And I shall not see you—and your lover through the dutap?"

"You shall see us there—yonder. I promise you."

"It is a terrible thing that you ask."

"Yeva!" Marishka held the silk garment up before the childish gaze of the girl. "Look, Yeva."

It was enough. With a cry, Yeva seized the garment in both hands and carried it to her lips, kissing it excitedly.

"And if I do what you ask—you will never tell?"

"Never."

Marishka had won. It was with difficulty that she restrained her companion from disrobing again and putting on the new garment, but at last by dint of much persuasion she succeeded in getting Yeva to put on her own garments, her head dress, veil and yashmak, and in a short while they were both attired for the street. With a last look around the room, a short vigil at the dutap for sounds of watchful Zubeydeh, Yeva timorously found the key of the lower door, pushed the hanging aside, and with a last rapturous look at the draperies upon the dressing stand, vanished into the darkness of the door.

Marishka, her heart beating high with hope, quickly packed a few of her belongings into a small package and followed. It was very dark upon the narrow stair, but with a hand upon the wall to steady herself, she slowly descended. Feeling for the steps with her feet, at last she reached the floor below, and stepping cautiously forward came upon a blank wall. She turned to the left and found her egress stopped—to the right—yes, there was a door. She fingered for the latch and found it, opening the door, which let in the daylight. But just as she was about to step out, she started back in sudden consternation. Upon the step, grim and forbidding, dressed in fez, white shirt, and wide breeches, stood a man with folded arms facing her. He made no sign of greeting, nor did he change his posture by so much as a millimeter, but she heard his voice quite distinctly, though he spoke in a low tone.

"You will be pleased to return at once."

"But I——" It was the courage of desperation—short-lived, alas!

"At once," the man repeated, unfolding his arms. "At once—or shall I——"

Marishka waited no more upon the order of her going but went at once, finding her way up the dusty stairs, terrified, again a prey to the most agonizing fears.

Would Yeva find Hugh at the Hotel Europa?



CHAPTER XV

THE LIGHTED WINDOWS

The night journey of Mr. Renwick to the Bosnian border with the man in black was one long chapter of accidents and delays. But Herr Linke commanded the situation. He had taken care not to return the Englishman's weapon, and there was nothing for Renwick to do but sit in silence by the side of the melancholy Colossus, and pray for an opportunity which never came, for Linke had a watchful eye and sat in the tonneau of the machine. Toward midnight they reached Vinkovcze, where they had supper, and resumed their leisurely journey with a new supply of petrol, which only seemed to increase the trouble in the carburetor. It was at this time that an uncontrollable drowsiness fell upon Renwick. He struggled against it but at last realized that in spite of himself sleep was slowly overpowering him. As in a haze he saw the huge figure of Linke beside him lean over, smiling, while a deep voice which seemed to come from a distance rumbled calmly,

"You are very sleepy, Herr Renwick?"

Renwick dimly remembered muttering a curse.

"You've drugged—cof——"

Then Renwick slept.

When he awoke it was broad daylight. The car was moving smoothly enough along a good road between two mountains, and at the side of the road a river flowed in the direction from which the machine had come.

Renwick felt light-headed and rather ill, and it was some moments before he became conscious of the figure beside him, while he struggled upright and found his speech.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Near Duboj, Herr Renwick, where we shall presently eat our supper——"

"Supper!"

"Yes. You have slept the clock around——"

"Ah, I remember," and he turned upon the man with a renewed and quite futile anger. "You drugged me, you——"

"Softly, my friend," the big man broke in soothingly. "You can do no good by defaming me."

Renwick shrugged. "You'll pay the score at settling time, nevertheless."

"Perhaps. In the meanwhile I beg you to consider that you are but fifty kilometers from your destination. Since we passed the Save we have proceeded with greater rapidity."

But Renwick had sunk into a sullen silence. The huge creature, whom he had held in such light esteem, had made a fool of him, had reduced him to the impotence of a child. As his mind cleared, the object of the man's actions became more involved. Whatever he was, he had succeeded in preventing Renwick from reaching Sarajevo before the Archduke's party should arrive, but why he should wish to drug a man who was meeting his wishes and giving no trouble was more than Renwick could answer. Still puzzled, he glanced at his watch. It was now five o'clock. The sight of the dial startled him. Had Marishka succeeded in reaching the Duchess or had——? Forgetting his quarrel with Linke in the new interest in portending events, he questioned,

"You have heard from Sarajevo?"

"By wire at Yranduk," said Linke, nodding gravely. "The Archduke Franz and the Duchess of Hohenburg were assassinated this morning in the streets of Sarajevo."

Renwick's knowledge of the plot and the difficulties which surrounded his and Marishka's efforts to prevent its consummation had convinced him that the attempt would at least be made, but Herr Linke's bold statement of the fact shocked him none the less.

"They are dead?"

"Both," said Linke. "They died before reaching the Landes hospital."

"Who——" Renwick paused, aware that names meant nothing.

"A Serbian student, named Prinzep."

The Englishman said nothing more, for he was again thinking of Marishka. She had failed! Had she arrived too late or had her visit to Sarajevo been prevented? And if so where was she now? There was nothing for it but to go on to the Europa Hotel and inquire for the note that she would leave there. In a somewhat desperate mood, he followed Herr Linke into the small hotel at Duboj, for he knew that he could not go on without food, having eaten nothing since the day before. As he hesitated, the goulash upon the dish before him, Linke smiled.

"You need have no further fear, Herr Renwick," he said calmly. "We are now friends, engaged upon precisely the same service."

"Indeed! And that——?"

"To find the Countess Stranhni at the earliest possible moment."

"And after that?"

"To restore her to her friends."

"You know where she is?"

"No. But I can find her."

It entered Renwick's head at the moment to tell the fellow of the note in his pocket, but the events of the night had made him careful.

"Who are you?" he asked again.

But the man evaded.

"I beg that you will eat, Herr Renwick," he said coolly. "We have no time to spare."

And so at last, when Herr Linke ponderously helped himself and the Hungarian chauffeur from the dish, Renwick followed his lead and ate.

In less than half an hour they were again upon their way, reaching the hills above the Bosnian capital just before nightfall. Here, for some reason, the machine again halted with a loud explosion of back-fire and a prodigious amount of smoke. The chauffeur got out, looked into the hood and straightened, gesticulating wildly. Herr Linke followed, and a conversation ensued, the import of which was lost upon the Englishman. But when it was finished, Linke turned to Renwick and explained that the machinery was injured beyond repair and that the car could go no further. Two Bosnian policemen who had appeared in the road before them, now rode up and made inquiries. Renwick shrugged and was about to walk away with the intention of finishing his journey afoot, when the chauffeur came forward and caught him by the arm, shouting something in an excited and angry voice, appealing to the men on horseback and pointing alternately at the Englishman and at the injured machine. The Bosnians got down and listened while one of them, who seemed to understand, addressed Renwick in German.

"This man says that you engaged to pay for any breakages to the machine, and that you have not paid him all that you owe."

"He lies. I paid him at Ujvidek. Herr Linke here will bear me witness——" As he turned to address his traveling companion, he paused in amazement, for without a word, or a sound, Herr Linke had suddenly vanished into space.

But the Hungarian was screaming again, and what he said must have impressed the policeman who had spoken to him, for he turned to Renwick, scratching his head dubiously, and suggested that the matter be further discussed before a magistrate in the city below. Renwick agreed, gave the policeman his card with the word that he would find him at the Europa Hotel and leaving his suitcase in the car as security for his appearance when summoned went hurriedly down the hills toward the city. The colloquy had occupied some moments, but when Renwick came to a straight reach of road which led toward the tobacco factory buildings he was surprised to find that Herr Linke was nowhere in sight. The man was an enigma, a curious mixture of desperado and buffoon, but his sudden disappearance without a word of thanks, apology or explanation, gave Renwick something to puzzle over as he made his way to the bridge. Its possible significance escaped him until he had reached the river, when, a thought suddenly occurring to him, he put his hand into the breast pocket of his coat, feeling for the note from Marishka. It was gone! He hunted, feverishly, one pocket after another, and was on the point of going back for a search of the machine when the truth suddenly dawned. Herr Linke had taken it from him, last night when he slept—had drugged him that he might get it without commotion! In an illuminating flash he remembered the sharp look in the man's eyes yesterday morning in the train from Budapest when Renwick had taken the note from his pocket. Linke! He hurried his footsteps, bewailing his own simplicity and wondering what this new phase of Herr Linke's activities might signify. Renwick had assumed that the Austrian was an agent of Herr Windt, who unable to follow him on to Sarajevo had guessed the train upon which he had left and had sent this man up from Budapest to get into his carriage. But his most recent accomplishment seemed to leave this presumption open to doubt. If Herr Linke had stolen the letter in the belief that it contained secret information which would be of value to Austrian secret service officials, the mere reading of it would have convinced him of its innocence in so far as Marishka was concerned. And if a forgery! Perhaps something in the message which Renwick had overlooked would put him upon the track of the fellow of the green limousine. He went along the river bank from the bridge toward the hotel, the location of which was familiar to him, hurrying his pace. At any rate the note was gone and with it the mysterious Linke, facts which clearly indicated one purpose. Herr Linke was bent upon intercepting any message which might come to the Hotel Europa for the Englishman. And given that to be his purpose, what was his intention with regard to the Countess Strahni?

Still puzzling over the mysteries, which gained in elusiveness as he hurried into Franz Josef Street, he reached the hotel, which was near the Carsija, and made hurried inquiries of the Turkish porter, who smiled and professed ignorance, but said to the Excellency that he would diligently inquire, bringing Renwick at last to the major-domo, who informed him that a note bearing the name of Herr Renwick had been left at the hotel an hour before, but that not twenty minutes ago, Herr Renwick had called and claimed it.

"That is not possible," said Renwick hotly, "since I am Herr Renwick."

The major-domo shrugged and bowed obsequiously. It was most unfortunate, he said, but of course as Excellency must know, the Hotel Europa was not a postoffice and could not be held responsible for the proper delivery of letters when it knew nothing of the identity of those to whom they were addressed.

Renwick paused a moment, and then said quickly, "To whom was the note delivered? You saw?"

"Yes, Excellency. The person who said he was Herr Renwick was tall, attired in black clothing, and carried an umbrella."

"Who brought the note?"

"As to that—I do not know."

The major-domo moved majestically away, but the Turkish porter who stood listening, broke in.

"If your Excellency will permit. It was I who received the note, late this afternoon. It was brought by a woman in a yashmak—a Turkish woman. Of course I could not know her, since one looks with averted eyes upon the women of Islam, but she would have come from the Turkish quarter of the town—from beyond the Carsija—perhaps. I do not know. I can say no more."

Renwick paused irresolutely and giving the man a fee, went out of the hotel into the street, mingling with the crowds upon Franz Josef Street, where but a few hours before on a nearby corner, the Archduke and Duchess had met their deaths. Deciding that at all hazards he must remain inconspicuous while he thought out a plan, he crossed the river and went into a small park, where he sank wearily into a bench and buried himself in new speculations.

A pipe and tobacco soothed, if they failed to stimulate his faculties. He had reached an impasse. What if the Enigma in black were playing some deep game of his own with regard to Marishka? What if, after all, he was no agent of Herr Windt, but represented perhaps the military party of Austria, which had as deep an interest in Marishka's silence as had the Wilhelmstrasse? And yet such a theory was hardly plausible, for if Linke were interested in Marishka's silence he would also be interested in Renwick's, and this being the case, the easiest way out of the business would have been to have dropped Renwick into some deep pool of the Save or the Bosna while he slept. Herr Linke puzzled Renwick, but reason informed him that the unknown limousine chap was the greater menace both to Marishka and himself. That he held Renwick's life cheaply was indicated by the frequent attempts upon it in Vienna and in Bohemia and the mere fact that he had twice failed was no sign that a third attempt might not be successful. The most unfavorable phase of the situation was that the German agent knew Renwick by sight, and would have every opportunity of following him to some secluded spot—shooting him in the back and escaping into a nearby street before the excitement subsided. What did the German agent look like? He might pass the fellow, elbow to elbow, and the Englishman would not know him. Renwick had no fear of meeting the man on even terms, but the thought of being stabbed in the back or shot at by any casual passer-by was disturbing to his morale. Every innocent bush, every tree was an enemy. What did the green limousine chap look like? A Prussian? With a bulky nose, small mustache, and no back to his head? Or was he small, clean shaven, and ferret-like? How would he be dressed? In mufti? Or in some favoring disguise which might better lend itself to his purposes?

Renwick rose suddenly and, with a careful glance about him, made slowly for the Lateimer Bridge, sure at least, that he had not been followed, and convinced that he must equalize the hazards between this German and himself by playing the game according to the standards of the Wilhelmstrasse. So he found his way carefully into the Carsija, and found a stall where he managed to buy a native Bosnian costume,—fez, white shirt, short jacket, wide trousers fitting close below the knee, sash and slippers. His automatic having been taken by the prudent Linke, he was unarmed, but managed to find a revolver of American make and cartridges which fitted it. With his newly acquired purchases he returned in the darkness to the other bank of the river, where he found a small inn in the Bistrick quarter.

He concealed ten one hundred kroner notes in the lining at the belt of the trousers, and pinned it securely. The remainder of his money, a few fifty crown notes and coins, he put in his pockets with his watch and other valuables, and changed his clothing. When he had finished dressing he examined himself in a mirror. His face was tanned by exposure, and the dust of the journey which he retained gave him a soiled appearance sufficiently Oriental. He was now Stefan Thomasevic, a seller of sheep and goats, which he had brought to the market. He left his English clothing in a bundle in the care of the innkeeper and advising the man that he would return later in the night or at least upon the morrow, went forth across the river again, with a sense of greater security from the observations of any who meant mischief to Hugh Renwick. If he did not know what the green limousine chap looked like, the limousine chap at least could not know him.

As he slouched through the alleys of the Carsija, reassured as to the completeness of his disguise, he smoked a native cigarette, and asked many questions among the keepers of the stalls, squatting cross-legged with them upon the ground and learning much of all matters save of the one with which he was most concerned.

"Few but Moslem people had passed through the Carsija upon this day," they said, "for the terrible happenings of the morning had kept the Austrian Excellencies in their own part of the town and Islam—Islam in time of trouble was always wise to find its company among its own people."

Renwick's task seemed hopeless, but he did not despair, leaving the bazaar at last, and climbing the hill to the old town beyond the Bastion. Here he again questioned every passer-by. "Had the Effendi seen a tall Excellency dressed in black who carried an umbrella? He, Stefan Thomasevic, had sold the Excellency some sheep and goats, but the Excellency had not yet paid all of that which he owed. It was not a matter about which to laugh. If the Excellency did not soon appear in the Carsija, it was a matter for the police."

But no one could help him. Herr Linke was moving with discretion, for it was probable that if such a creature had strolled through the Carsija, there would be a dozen idlers who would have observed and noted the fact. Renwick's chief hopes were crumbling. And yet, if Linke suspected that the note which had been sent to the Hotel Europa was a bait, he would of course act with great caution. It was nearly midnight when, weary and disappointed, Renwick returned from the Kastele quarter in the direction of the Carsija. The houses were dark save for a glimmer of light in an upper window here and there, but the moon had come out, and Renwick, moving silently along in the shadow of walls and houses, gazed about him with the eagerness of despair. For a while he stopped in the angle of a wall, and listened to the sounds of the city below him, the rush of the river below the Bastion, the motor and bell of the electric tram-car, the whistle of a freight locomotive at the further end of the town—strident noises brought from the West to break the drowsy murmur of the Orient, but not a sight nor a sound which could give him a clew as to the whereabouts of Linke or Countess Marishka. The inaction was maddening. In his belt the American revolver hung its futile weight. Had it not been for Linke, he might have had a chance at least to follow the instructions of the note of the Hotel Europa to some conclusion whether for good or ill—it did not matter. If Marishka herself had written it!... She would be awaiting him now—and he could not come to her.... In his stead—Linke the gigantic, the mellifluous....

Renwick turned slowly into a side street, and crouched in the dark angle of a wall, for a motor car was coming toward him. Motors in the region of Franz Josef Street and the river were not uncommon, but as a rule they were seldom to be seen in the hilly region near the Bastion. From his dark vantage point, Renwick saw the car approach and pass him, quietly coasting, and stop a short distance below the angle of the street from which he had emerged. He caught a glimpse of the profile of the chauffeur, and noted the condition of the car. He judged that it had come a long journey, for Sarajevo and the part of Bosnia through which his own machine had traveled, had suffered much from the drought. This machine was covered with dust, of course, but it was also literally spattered with mud. The Englishman watched the machine for a while, but the chauffeur having silenced the engine, remained motionless, in deep shadow, waiting. Of course belated visitors from the European section of the city to the Kastele were a possibility, but the quietness with which the chauffeur had approached, and the eager way in which he now leaned forward in his seat watching the meshrebiya windows of a house at some distance, excited Renwick's curiosity. Why was the man there? Who was he watching in the house of the lighted window? Had this mystery anything in common with his own? Renwick watched the windows too. A light burned dimly within, and once he thought a shadow passed. The window and the chauffeur interested him, but he was too far away to distinguish the house clearly, and so, moving stealthily, he stole quietly up the hill to a cross street, and turning to the left, in the shadow of a wall, walked rapidly down to a small alley which he took at random, at the end of which he paused for observation. The house with the meshrebiya windows was now just below where he stood, but opposite him was an ancient stone wall, and in its center was a blue door. There were trees within the enclosure, and he heard the sound of falling water. He found a dark doorway and crouched silently, watching.

A cul-de-sac? Perhaps. Disappointment and chagrin had done their worst to him. He would wait see what was to happen, and if nothing came of the venture he would merely have his labor for his pains. He noted above the wall that there were windows of the house which overlooked the garden. In one of them, in the room which the chauffeur had been observing, the light still dimly burned, but he saw no shadows. Peering out from the angle of the alleyway, he thought he had discovered a doorway or court between the house he was watching and the one below it toward the Carsija, and in a moment fancied that he could distinguish the sound of whispering voices, from that direction; but the shadow of a mosque nearby threw its shadow upon this part of the street, and he could see nothing clearly. If there were men there, they were keeping in the shadow of the wall around the turn of the street, beyond the range of Renwick's vision, but the night breeze which carried the sound of the whispers also wafted the odor of a native cigarette. The smell of it made Renwick wish to smoke, for the suspense and inaction were telling upon him, but he resisted the impulse, sinking lower into the shadow, and awaiting events.

Minutes passed—hours they seemed to the waiting Renwick—and then came the deep boom of a bell, which echoing down the silent streets, seemed just at Renwick's elbow—another—another—until he counted twelve, of the belfry of the cathedral announcing midnight.

He waited, thinking deeply. The machine which had come a long journey? The lighted windows which the chauffeur watched? The whisper of voices from the street below him? There was mystery here. He crouched lower and watched the dark shadow of the arch below the house.



CHAPTER XVI

THE BEG OF RATAJ

When Marishka reached the top of the stairs, entered the Harim, gazing terrified into the darkness from which she had emerged, she pushed aside the Kis-Kelim and listening fearfully for sounds of footsteps below, then closed the door, turned the key, and put her back against it, viewing with a new vision the interior which a while ago had seemed so friendly. Without Yeva who had given its disorder a personality, the room seemed alien, hostile and madly chaotic. For the first time since the reassurances of Captain Goritz in the green limousine as to her safety, she had a definite sense of personal danger. She was not timorous by nature, and the hope of success in her mission of atonement had given her the courage for the venture. She realized now that the will which had kept her buoyant through two arduous days and nights had suddenly forsaken her and left her supine, without hope or initiative. The actions of the man at the doorway below had frightened her. He had been so uncompromising in his ugliness. The shock of her awakening had been rudely unexpected, and had bewildered her with its brutal significance. She was a prisoner in this Turkish house, in an obscure quarter of a half Oriental town, and night was imminent, a night which seemed to possess untold possibilities for evil. What was to happen? Why had not Captain Goritz returned? Enemy though she now knew him to be, even Goritz was a refuge in this perilous situation. And yet it seemed certain that the man at the foot of the stairs was acting under his orders or under the orders of another who was accountable to him.

Weakness overpowered her and she threw herself on the pile of cushions in the window and buried her face in her hands, as if by blinding herself to the imminent facts of her surroundings she could free her spirit of the terrors which were overtaking it. As in her dream, her faculties were elusive, thoughts and half-thoughts conflicting and interchangeable. The rush and the roar of the hurrying motor car, the kaleidoscope of the maddened crowd, the shots, the sunlight and then the spangled darkness with the sound of voices. She started upright in her cushions, her face pallid and drawn, her thoughts now focusing with sudden definiteness. The voices! They were no dream—no more a dream than the other horrors that encompassed her. She tried to remember what they had said. "Ten thousand kroner—the goose that lays the golden egg——" What did the phrases mean? Another—"To be kept in seclusion, of course, but you will accede to all her wishes." The meaning of the voices became clearer, at every moment. "Should she care to write, you will send a message!" Marishka put her hand to her lips as though to stifle a cry, and then sank back with a gasp of comprehension. Goritz! He had expected her to send a message, and had prepared for its delivery. But why? How could he have known!... Slowly the meaning of it all came to her. His certainty and insistence as to Hugh Renwick's pursuit—the belief that Renwick would go at once to the Hotel Europa! The power of suggestion! And she had followed it blindly—unawares, leading Hugh Renwick into this deadly trap which Goritz had laid. She read the plan now in all its insidious perfection. There was something malign—hypnotic—in an influence which could so easily compel compliance. And Hugh? She had written him to come here—to the door in the court below, where men would be waiting—perhaps to take his life. It was too horrible!

Nature mercifully intervened. The strain of long days and nights of anguish had reached the limit of her endurance, and her nerves, too, long under tension, suddenly rebelled. She sank helplessly upon the floor, sobs racking her body from head to foot. She did not know how long she lay there, but when she raised her head it was already growing dark in the room, like the shadows that were stealing about her heart. Whichever way she turned, groping mentally for a thought which would lead her toward a light, disorder reigned, danger threatened. If there was a man at the foot of the stairs to prevent her escape, there would be others beneath the windows and at the door into the garden.

Yeva! She clung to the hope of Yeva's sincerity—the last thing left to her. It was difficult for her to believe that this child with the body of a woman could be guilty of complicity in any plot. She might have obeyed instructions to be the bearer of any note that Marishka might write—indeed her childish prattle as to the wishes of her lord and master verified the voices of Marishka's dream, and suggested that Marishka should be permitted to do as she chose—so that Yeva had offered, without fear of consequences, to deliver Marishka's note at the hotel. She had even consented to leave the lower door open that Marishka might escape and follow her. No woman of the world could have acted a part as Yeva had played it. If the girl had known of the guardian of the lower door, her skill in dissimulation was consummate—so much out of keeping with the simplicity of her mind as to be entirely incredible. Yeva was innocent, a mere tool in the hands of Captain Goritz, who disposed all the pawns in his command to play his game. Yeva had been permitted to depart without hindrance. Would Marishka's note reach its destination? Or would it be intercepted and its message read by Captain Goritz? His cunning had amazed her but it frightened her now. A ruse so carefully planned could have for its object nothing less than the obliteration of Hugh Renwick, as a prisoner or something worse—perhaps Death! She shuddered. She, Marishka, would unwittingly have caused it! She had asked him to come at midnight and knock upon the door in the court below and she knew enough of Hugh to be sure that if he received the message, no matter how great the danger to himself, he would come. The note! If she could recall it! She would suffer whatever Goritz had in store for her, if Hugh could only be spared. She had already done him hurt enough—without the chance of this last most dreadful sacrifice in her behalf—in vain. He would come to her and she must wait—without the power to warn him, and perhaps see him killed before her very eyes.

Her thoughts made her desperate—and the idea of another attempt to escape came into her head. If she could only reach the street, she could run—and it would be a better race with her pursuer than she had given Hugh in the rose gardens of the Archduke! She made the attempt, quietly opening the door by which she had entered the room and passing on tip-toe down the corridor to the door with the dutap. She drew aside the curtain which covered it and noiselessly turned the knob. As she peered out she found herself staring straight into the eyes of Zubeydeh. The woman's look was cold but full of understanding.

"Does the Fraeulein wish anything?" she asked without the slightest change of expression. Her voice was colorless, like the speech which might be expected from a graven image.

"I—I was hungry," stammered Marishka helplessly. "I—I am sorry to bother you."

"If you will return to the room within, I will bring food at once," she said stolidly. And so Marishka, once more balked in her enterprise, went back to the Harim. Strong as she was, armed anew with the sudden strength of desperation, she knew that even if she could use her strength she was no match for this massive creature who, in the selamlik nearby, perhaps had men within call. She went to the windows and peered out into the street. There was no one in sight, except a tall man in black who carried an umbrella. She watched him a moment through the carved screen, but he went up the street and disappeared around a corner. The garden seemed to be deserted. Would the gate to the street be locked? She made an effort to move the lattice of meshrebiya, but it was nailed fast to the main wood work of the house. Her case was hopeless. There was nothing to do but wait upon the clemency—the mercy of Captain Goritz. A new idea of her captor was being born in her, of a creature who differed from the courteous German official of Vienna and Agram. His eyes haunted her, the dark eyes set just a little obliquely in his head, a racial peculiarity which she had not been able to identify. She knew now. They were Oriental, like Zubeydeh's, like those of the man at the door below, alien, hostile and cruel. And yet it was curious how the smile in them had disarmed her and she remembered, with a futile glow of returning hope, that she had not feared him, that she had even had the temerity to defy him. But her courage had ebbed—she could not have defied him now and in the darkness while she waited for Yeva she feared him—feared him.

It seemed strange that Yeva had not returned. She had been gone an hour or more and the Hotel Europa could not be a great distance away. As the moments passed she gave up the other hope of persuading the girl, when she returned, to go back at once to the hotel and reclaim the note, before Hugh could get it. Could anything have happened to her? Marishka wanted her—the sound of a voice, the touch of a feminine hand, her airs and graces—the foibles of a child perhaps, but intensely virile in their childishness and intensely human. It seemed that even Yeva was to be denied to her.

For when Zubeydeh brought lights and food the woman made no comment upon the absence of the girl—a confirmation of Marishka's suspicions that Zubeydeh was aware of the conspiracy and what was to come of it. But as Marishka made a pretense of eating what the woman had brought, she summoned courage to inquire.

"Yeva went out into the city by the passage to the street. She has not yet returned?"

"I do not know," she said in her heavy colorless voice.

The woman lied. Marishka knew it by the shifting glance of her eye.

"Will you kindly inform His Excellency—I need mention no names—that I should be very glad if he would meet me at his convenience——"

"Excellency is not here," said the woman.

"Well, when he comes, I should be grateful if you will deliver my message."

"I will tell him."

Nothing more. Her manner was not discourteous, but her voice was forbidding. She had been given instructions to keep silence. And just before leaving the room, a further confirmation of Marishka's conviction that Yeva was at that very moment in another part of the house, Zubeydeh gathered up the two pieces of drapery which Marishka had given the girl, and carried them out of the room.

The hours lengthened while Marishka sat trying to gather the remnants of her courage to face Captain Goritz when he should come to her. The Turkish lamp which hung from the ceiling burned dimly, casting grotesque shadows about the room, flickering in patches of tawdry light upon the gilt of the embroidered hangings, and touching the blades of the ancient weapons which decorated the wall about the couch, scimitars, swords, daggers and spears! Marishka got up and examined them more closely, curiously, as though she had not seen them before. She shuddered a little as she plucked from its sheath a small dagger with a bronzed handle, and found that its blade was very sharp and bright. She reached up to put it back, but as she did so there was a sound from the room beyond the passage, and a knock upon the door. So she slipped the weapon into the waistband of her skirt, beneath her blouse, and went to her seat among the pillows. In a moment the knock was repeated, and in reply to her call, the door opened and she heard footsteps along the corridor.

The man who entered was tall and slender, with a hooked nose, heavy brows, and a beard streaked with white. He wore the turban and bright green belt which denoted the Moslem, and the fingers with which he touched brow, lips, and heart in salutation were covered with rings.

"Salaem 'alaikum," he muttered, bowing.

Marishka knew no reply to this and made none, waiting in some trepidation for him to proceed. He was a villainous looking creature, but comported himself with an air of some dignity. In a moment he spoke again in excellent German.

"I hope that Excellency has been able to make herself quite comfortable in my poor house."

As he spoke, Marishka remembered that this was one of the voices of her dreams, the gruff voice which talked with Goritz.

Something was required of her in reply, and so, with an effort,

"Yeva has been very kind, Effendi," she managed.

"Yes. Allah has been good to me. Yeva has a heart of gold."

"You are the Beg of Rataj?" Marishka asked.

He salaamed again.

"Will you tell me, then, what has become of Herr Hauptmann Goritz?"

The man's face wore a sudden crafty look of incomprehension.

"Goritz, Excellency?" he asked coolly. "There is no one of that name in my acquaintance."

Marishka accepted the rebuke and ventured timidly, "I mean, the—the Excellency—who brought me here——"

"Ah! Lieutenant von Arnstorf! He has gone, I think, upon a journey," said the Beg.

Marishka was silent a moment, thinking.

"That is strange. It is very necessary that I should see him."

The man smiled up at the lamp above his head, revealing a void where teeth should have been.

"I need not say that he has directed that everything possible shall be done for your comfort—and it is my pleasure to obey Excellency's orders, in so far as my poor house can afford. And even were these not Excellency's instructions," he added with a grin, "it is an honor for the house of Rataj to have beneath its roof one so noble and so beautiful."

A wave of nerves swept over Marishka for the admiration in his glance was unmistakable, but she knew that any possible chance of safety for Hugh—for herself—lay in the favor of this man. And so with a shudder of repugnance which she concealed with difficulty, she motioned to him to be seated. His small eyes appraised her eagerly for a moment, and then he sank upon a cushion near her, and without asking permission, took out a cigarette.

"I—I shall not forget your kindness, Effendi," said Marishka, struggling for her composure. "Already Yeva and I are good friends."

"Ah, that is fortunate, for it was upon the question of the future of Yeva that I have come to talk with you."

"In what may I serve you, Effendi?"

He sighed deeply.

"Times change, Excellency. In the days gone by, the Begs of Rataj were reckoned among the rulers of Bosnia, high in the counsels of the Janissaries, feudal lords of great domains. But I, alas! the last of the Begs of Rataj, whose father even held the sway of a king, have been deprived of my tithes, and reduced to the low condition of a merchant in rugs, a dealer in antiquities, dependent upon the good will of tourists from the West, reduced perhaps one day to sit in a stall in the Carsija. It is not so much that I am no longer rich, but it is my pride, the pride of race which suffers under misfortune."

Whither was the man leading? Much as she distrusted him, her curiosity was aroused, and she listened, watching him intently.

"You will perhaps understand," he continued gravely, "that all this is very hard upon Yeva, the star of my heart, with whom Allah has blessed me. The West has flowed in upon the East at Bosna-Seraj, and engulfed it. We are no more a simple Moslem city with the tastes of our fathers; and our women are no more satisfied to remain as they were, childish, ignorant, and unlettered. The spell of the Occident is upon the land. Vienna, Berlin, Paris, have come to Bosna-Seraj. Our women sigh for the things which are beyond the mountains. The peace of the home is invaded and our women are unhappy, because their lords and masters have no money to procure for them the things that they wish."

Money! Thank God! This man could be bought!

"And Yeva?" Marishka asked, trembling in fear for the new hope that had risen.

"It is the same with her as with the others, Excellency," he shrugged despairingly. "She is but a child. I have been foolishly liberal with her—as liberal as my poor means allowed, and she has come to know the value of money—the dross for which men perjure their souls, and die if need be. Yeva, alas! wishes jewels, the pretty clothing of the women of fashion. And I, as I have related, being a mere dealer in rugs, Excellency, have not been able to give them to her. It has made unhappiness come into my household; it has made me, the Beg of Rataj, hereditary ruler of thousands, ashamed to raise my head or my voice in her presence—I, Excellency, her lord and master!"

He wagged his head to and fro with an air which might have been comical, had not Marishka's need been so desperate. But she read him easily, a vile, blackmailing rogue who held no allegiance higher than what he got from it—a man who, for all his fine flow of talk, could be dangerous as well as unscrupulous. But Marishka met him fairly.

"I have taken a fancy to Yeva, Effendi," she said quietly. "She will tell you perhaps that I have already given her several trifles which she fancied. Perhaps I can do something to solve your problems. In my own country I am considered wealthy and I can be generous with those who treat me with kindness."

"Ah!" The Effendi's eyes sparkled hungrily. The Austrian countess was no fool. She had already begun to understand him.

"To treat Her Excellency with kindness! And could I do anything else? My house, poor as it is——"

"Effendi," Marishka cut in boldly, "let us waste no words. I am a prisoner in your house, at the instance of Captain—of Herr Lieutenant von Arnstorf——"

"A prisoner? Has not the Excellency——?"

"One moment. I am not aware how much you know of the political situation which has brought me to Bosna-Seraj, but I do know that I am confined here against my will—a prisoner in a house within the realms of my own country. Of course you know that I have sought to escape, that I have written to a friend who will do what he can to liberate me."

"Excellency, I beg of you——"

"Please let me finish. For political reasons, the fact of my presence here and my mission should be kept a secret. My friends, therefore, would not wish to call upon General Potiorek, the governor, for soldiers or police, if my liberty can be secured quietly—without commotion. I am willing to meet you upon any reasonable grounds."

Marishka paused, for the man had risen and was pacing the floor slowly.

"Ah, Excellency, I, too, will waste no further speech, for I see that you are a woman of the world, and I, Beg of Rataj, am only a seller of rugs. But I am placed in a difficult position. It has pained me deeply to see you constrained to stay in my poor house against your will. And yet, what would you? His Excellency has done me many favors, and gratitude is one of the strongest traits in a nature which suffers much misuse. I do not know anything of politics, or of the controversy between you, and I have simply obeyed the dictates of my heart in giving his Excellency some proof—some return of his kindnesses to me. But since I have seen you, heard your voice, felt the distinction of your presence in my poor house, I am torn between my emotions—of gratitude and of pity."

"How much do you want?" said Marishka quietly.

"Excellency, the brutality of the words!"

"I mean them. How much?"

The man's keen eyes appraised her quickly and then looked away, but he sank upon his cushion again, wagging his head and breathing a deep sigh to measure his humiliation.

"I am but a poor man, Excellency," he sighed again.

Upon Marishka's wrist was a bracelet set with diamonds. She slipped it off quickly and handed it to him.

"You are a poor man," she said. "I give you this—for Yeva."

"Ah, yes. For Yeva." But his eyes were regarding the bracelet, which he was weighing in his hand.

"And if you do what I wish, I shall give you fifteen thousand kroner more."

"Fifteen thou——!" he whispered. "Excellency, a fortune——"

"If you do what I wish——"

"Anything—Excellency has but to speak."

Marishka deliberated a moment and then, "You will first remove the guard at the foot of the private stairway to this——"

"Excellency, the hour is late. If you can be comfortable in my house until the morning, all shall be arranged. For tonight I have planned——"

"No. It must be as I wish. You will also take a message addressed to Mr. Hugh Renwick at the Hotel Europa, and find him——"

"And he will give me money?" the man broke in quickly, his bony fingers clutching like talons at the bracelet. "He will give me fifteen thousand kroner?"

Marishka hesitated. The price she had mentioned was cheap for her liberty—for freedom from the fear that had all day obsessed her, but it was a large sum, and one which it might be impossible to procure at this time of night.

"He will give you such assurances as you may require. At least he will give you something. I shall write that I need this sum of money, and he will surely do what he can."

"Something—yes," he mused. "Something is, of course, better than nothing at all. But how can I be certain that I shall see him?"

"Ah, but you must, Effendi. It is necessary for you, to find him—and at once."

"But if he should refuse?"

"He will not. Do you consent?"

He salaamed deeply.

"Excellency's wish is my law."

So Marishka sat before the tabourette and wrote:

I have promised the bearer of this note fifteen thousand kroner, as the condition of my liberation. Give him what you can, and arrange for the payment of the balance tomorrow. This is the cry of desperation. Do not come here or attempt to see me. It is dangerous. I will come to you.

M.

She sealed the note and handed it to him. He turned it over and over in his fingers, his gaze aslant.

"But suppose," he repeated slowly, "that I should not be able to find him."

"You must," she said with desperate hardihood. "If the note should not reach him, the conditions of our agreement change. And be sure of this, Effendi—if harm comes to Hugh Renwick, payment will be exacted from you to the tenth part of a hair. His safety and my freedom——"

"I do not comprehend," said the man, his brows raised in a well-simulated surprise. "What have I to do with the safety of this Excellency? He can be in no danger, here in Bosna-Seraj. We are a peaceable people——"

"Still—" she said distinctly, "you will remember."

He shrugged and took a pace away from her, still fingering the note.

"I do not comprehend," he repeated. "But I will do as you request. I shall go at once," and he moved toward the door, then paused. "As to the guard at the door below, that will not be necessary, since you will await me in the mabein." He went quickly down the corridor, opened the door of the dutap, and called Zubeydeh, who entered at once. "The Countess will wait in the outer room. When I return I shall conduct her to the Hotel Europa, where she will spend the night. You will wait upon her in the meanwhile, as becomes a distinguished guest of the house of Rataj."

Then followed a phrase or two of Turkish, and the woman bowed stolidly.

"It shall be as you wish, Effendi."

And he passed the woman with another phrase, and was gone.

Zubeydeh and Marishka stood facing each other, the elder woman in sullen antipathy, illy concealed by the habitual mask of imperturbability. Marishka had disliked her from the first, actuated by that rare instinct which only women can employ, and now there seemed something ominous in her stolid ugliness. Marishka had not fully understood the instructions of the Beg, and not until Zubeydeh picked up her suitcase and carried it down the corridor, did she realize that she was merely carrying out the orders of her master. But Marishka did not move. Before her eyes danced the words of her earlier note to Hugh, which asked him to come to her by the private passage to the court below. If the Effendi did not succeed in finding him, he would come; and she would not be there to meet him. Instead of following Zubeydeh, who had returned and stood staring at her, her feet refused to obey.

"But I should prefer to remain here——" she said firmly.

A vestige of a smile—slight, but none the less disagreeable—came into the woman's yellow face.

"The Harim," she said dryly, "is intended for the daughters of the faithful. You cannot stay tonight."

And as Marishka still stood irresolutely, she caught her by the arm with a grip which was none too gentle, and pushed her down the corridor and out into the mabein.

Marishka sat upon the couch in the room into which she had first been conducted, her head near the latticed window, through which the pale green moonlight vied with the glow from the lantern over her head. Though it could not yet be time for him to return, she listened intently for the sound of the footsteps of the Beg. Had she succeeded? In spite of the danger which threatened Hugh Renwick, and the ominous absence of Captain Goritz, she felt that there was a chance that all might still be well. Where was Captain Goritz? The tale that he had gone upon a journey was an invention, of course. He was here in Sarajevo if not in the house where she was held a prisoner, at least somewhere near, where he could be sure of the culmination of the plot to remove Hugh Renwick, without himself being involved in any unpleasant issues. From the appearance of the Beg of Rataj and of the man she had met at the foot of the stairs, she knew that any dreadful deed was possible in the darkness of the secluded streets outside the house, in the garden below, or in the house itself. But she did not despair. It was easier to win money by keeping within the law than by breaking it. The Beg was a rogue, but money was his fetish, and Marishka's bribe was the larger.

As the moments lengthened and the man did not return, hope ebbed, and she grew anxious. The small metal clock on the table in the corner indicated the hour. It was half-past eleven. In half an hour, if the Beg had not delivered her note, Hugh Renwick would come to find her, unless! She breathed a silent prayer—unless he had not yet reached Sarajevo! For hours she had prayed that he had followed her, for that was the proof of his devotion that her heart required of him; but now she prayed just as fervently that he had not come. The notion of another attempt to escape occurred to her, but when she got up and peered down into the darkness of the stairway which led below, her courage failed her, and she remembered the man at the foot of the other stair. Zubeydeh, too, was near, and while she was planning, the woman passed into the Harim and closed the door behind her.

She peered out of the window into the garden, searching its shadows for signs of a guard, but all was quiet, except for the sound of whispering voices, which might have come from the street or from the house adjoining. In the dim light she watched the hour hand of the clock as it slowly moved around the dial. Ten, fifteen minutes passed, and still she heard no sound of footsteps. What if Hugh came while the Beg was absent searching for him? She knew that there must be other men besides the villain she had met at the foot of the stairs. What orders had the Beg given his men? And what orders had he countermanded? The silence was closing in upon her like a fog. She could not bear it. What if Hugh were already at the foot of the stairs, waiting to knock upon the door of the Harim as she had directed? The suspense was killing her. She rose quietly and tried the door of the dutap into the corridor which led to the Harim. It was locked.

She staggered and clung to the wall to keep from falling. She saw it all now. Goritz had intercepted the note she had sent by Yeva. They were in there—Zubeydeh, the Beg and his men, and perhaps Goritz, too, waiting—waiting for the two knocks at the steps below. And then the door would be opened, and Hugh——

The bell of the cathedral tolled, and fearfully she counted its strokes. It was twelve o'clock.



CHAPTER XVII

THE MAN IN ARMOR

Renwick waited in his place of concealment near the blue door, listening and watching eagerly. Something was happening in the house with the meshrebiya windows, for it was after midnight, and all Islam was asleep. There were sounds of whispering again, but when he peered out there was no one in sight. Then he thought he heard footsteps; but whether they came from the direction of the house of the lighted window, or whether from up the street he could not yet decide. Now he was sure of them. Someone was approaching over the rough cobbles—from the alley behind him! He crouched into a place of concealment behind a broken lattice, flattening himself against the door, and waited—breathless. He did not dare to look out, for the figure was almost upon him, but the footsteps now silent, now moving rapidly forward, indicated the stealth of a man who evades pursuit or fears detection. Presently a shadow loomed beside him as a man paused for a moment beside the doorway where Renwick stood, so close that the Englishman could hear his breathing, and then moved on to the corner of the wider street a few feet away. Even yet, Renwick feared to move, but at last, as the man went on toward the wall of the blue door, Renwick risked detection, and peered out.

The figure glanced at the blue door, and then turning quickly, went with long strides down the street toward the house with the meshrebiya windows. Renwick's glance had been but a momentary one, but in it he had marked a huge figure, in a squarish hat and ill-fitting clothes. Gustav Linke! In his hand, clutched like a weapon, he still carried his atrocious umbrella. A grotesque outlandish figure, an ink-blot on the velvet night! What was he doing here near the house of the lighted windows? Renwick sprang from his place of concealment, whispering Linke's name; but when he reached the corner of the alley the man was twenty paces away, and so bent upon his mission that he heard nothing. Renwick halted instinctively, and in the moment of hesitation, his opportunity was lost. As wisdom had urged caution while Renwick had waited, so doubly it urged it now. Linke moved like a man with a mission, and Renwick peered forth from the angle of the wall watching eagerly, sure now of what that mission was—the pursuit of Marishka Strahni!

He saw the man stop beneath the lighted windows, look up, and then with a glance to right and left, enter the shadow of the mosque and disappear within the small court beside the house. Renwick thought rapidly and clearly. In the court where Linke had disappeared there must be another entrance to the house. For a fleeting second, the idea entered Renwick's head to follow the man, and trust to fortune; but the wall and blue door opposite tempted him. Inside the garden, at least there would be a chance for concealment, and a vantage point from which he could watch and hear what went on within the house. He waited a moment, trying to decide whether or not he had better risk detection in the narrow strip of moonlight, or wait and see if anyone moved in the street below. He was on the point of taking the chance when from the door of a house just below him, several men emerged. It was difficult to determine how many there were, but Renwick thought that there were at least four—perhaps five; but whether Bosnians or Turks he could not decide. And from their stealth and silence, and the rapidity with which they followed the tall figure of Linke into the dark passage, the obvious inference was that they were bent upon mischief.

There was no further time to plan, so Renwick, with a quick look to right and left, darted furtively across to the gate of the blue door and tried the latch. It was unlocked, and quickly he entered the garden; with his hand upon the revolver in his belt he waited, listening, but there was no sound within but the plashing of the water of the fountain. His eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and he searched the shadows of the bushes by the reflected moonlight which silvered the upper stories of the building. He saw that there was a door near the center of the house facing the fountain, and upstairs in the windows over it was the dull glow of a lamp or lantern. The windows of the other room, which he had observed from across the street, were now darkened. This was curious, but there was no time to debate upon it. He must act quickly. He was sure now that Marishka was somewhere in this house, a prisoner. She had sent for him, or why should Linke be here? He drew the revolver from the folds of his sash, and with a keen glance to right and left, crouching below the level of the shrubbery, he reached the door of the house and tried it.

It was locked. He hesitated for a moment, looking over his shoulder, and then slipping his weapon into his belt again, he put a foot into the trellis beside the doorway and began climbing. It was a dangerous thing to attempt, for as he emerged from the shadows below, his figure would be clearly outlined against the moonlit wall, and a well directed shot from the garden would send him clattering down like a maimed squirrel from a tree. But the game was worth the candle, for he had seen that the window in the room above the door was open, and as he had decided to enter the house at any cost, this was the only way. But it was slow work, for the trellis was old, and creaked beneath his weight, and once, when his foot slipped, he thought he must surely be discovered. Then he waited, with his fingers almost at the window ledge, listening. He heard the low murmur of voices, but they seemed to come from another part of the building, and so risking the whole venture in one effort, he quickly raised his head above the level of the window-ledge, and peered in. At first he saw only the flickering shadows of a lamp hanging from the ceiling, and then a figure in the corner opposite, which startled him until he saw that it was immovable—a suit of armor upright against the wall. The room appeared to be empty, and so he grasped the inside of the sill, and hauled himself up until his shoulders were within the window opening.

It was then that a female figure started up from a couch just beside him, stifling a cry. The light from the lantern above fell full upon her face, and her eyes were staring at him in terror. It was Marishka. He whispered her name, but still she stared at him wildly, and it was not until then that he remembered his disguise. He took off his fez, and spoke to her again.

"Marishka, it is I, Hugh!"

He saw her stare and then take a pace toward him as he clambered into the room, and in a moment she was in his arms.

"Hugh—beloved!" she murmured brokenly, as she leaned heavily against him. "I have been so frightened——"

"Marishka! Your hands are ice cold. They have kept you here—against your will?"

"Yes. And you—Hugh—they've tried——"

"Don't fear," he smiled. "I've as many lives as a cat. Didn't you hear me scratching my way up the wall? Sh——"

He left her for a moment, and peered out into the darkness of the garden. All was silent as before, and so he returned and took her in his arms again.

"You've forgiven me?" he whispered.

"Need you ask? Oh, Hugh, I've wanted you so!"

"Thank God for that." Their lips met and she clung to him, all the pitiful longings of her days and nights of misery in her caress, the dependence of helpless womanhood, but greater than that, the fear for his safety, which took precedence over her own.

He kissed her tenderly, the joy of possession the greater for the dangers that they ran.

"You're trembling, Marishka. Don't worry."

But she clung to him anew.

"If anything should happen now—that I have you again."

"Dearest! I, too, have suffered with you—but I haven't despaired. I would never have given you up, you know," he said with a smile.

"I've never wanted you to give me up, Hugh. I've tested you cruelly—because—because—my pride was hurt——"

"It had to be, Marishka. But you've survived it——"

"My love is greater—greater than anything in the world to me," she murmured. "Danger has proved it—and yours——"

"It needed nothing. I love you—now and always."

"You forgive?"

He kissed her again and again, and for a long moment they clasped each other in silence, their lips together, questioning, replying in broken syllables. To the woman, nothing else mattered. If death came now, she knew that it would be sweet. And it was Renwick who found his reason first. Her hands still in his, he led her to the window, where he scanned the garden anxiously. But there was still no sign of anything suspicious, nor, in the house, any sound. But Renwick now questioned her quickly.

"You sent me a note in Vienna?"

"Yes. A warning. I was afraid. I urged you to return to England, but I hoped——"

"Ah! The note—a forgery!"

"What do you mean?"

"Your note told me to come to Sarajevo—to the Hotel Europa, where you would communicate with me."

"A forgery! Goritz! Now I understand. He said that you would follow."

"Goritz—the limousine chap! He is here?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen him since this morning. Hugh! He has laid plans to kill you—a trap——"

"We shall outwit him——"

"But I am frightened, even now with you here beside me, Hugh. He is clever—I am no match for him—I wrote you to come—tonight. It was what he wished. Don't you understand? A trap! You are in danger—here—now——"

But Renwick did not seem to be greatly disturbed. His mind had cleared amazingly.

"We shall fight him with his own weapons——"

"I am frightened. Are you sure that no one saw you enter the garden?"

"Positive." And then pursuing his thought, "You sent a note to the Hotel Europa?"

"Yes—" she stammered, "this afternoon. I asked you to come here—tonight at twelve. You received it?"

"No. It was intercepted."

"I don't understand."

He laughed. "I don't wonder. It's the luckiest thing in the world that I've found you."

He kissed her again, and then quickly, "The Harim is—where?"

She pointed to the door with the grille, and he regarded it with a new interest. In the silence that followed, they heard again the murmur of voices, a woman's and a man's.

"Zubeydeh!" she whispered. "The woman here and—a man's voice."

"We must find a way out quickly. They may come around this way."

He noticed the door upon the other side of the room.

"Where does that lead?"

"To the selamlik, I think. But it is better to go by the window. I can climb. Let us go."

He shook his head.

"It's dangerous. The stairs——"

"It is dark below. I don't know where they lead."

"To the garden. They must. The door is locked on the inside, but perhaps there's another exit at the rear. Come."

He drew his revolver from his belt, and taking her by the hand, led her to the stair, and there they stopped, for Marishka clutched his arm in sudden consternation. From the Harim came a sudden muffled noise—as though some one were beating upon a carpet.

"Shots!" whispered Renwick. "We must hurry."

"Shots! What does it mean?"

"I'll explain later. Hurry!"

There were cries now—the shriek of a woman, and above all, a hoarse bellow as of some enraged animal. Renwick had already descended a few steps, Marishka following him, when the door to the selamlik opened, and a female figure clad in Marishka's silk drapery rushed forth. It was Yeva.

"Fraeulein——" she whispered in awed tones to Marishka. "Forgive me!" she pleaded. "I have seen. It was beautiful. I could not see harm come to you. His Excellency has been in the street at the back of the house, but when the fighting began came up the rear stairway of the selamlik——"

"Goritz!" stammered Marishka in terror.

"But I have locked the upper door."

"He will come here, Yeva!"

"Excellency must go—if there is yet time."

"The garden!"

"No," said Renwick, looking about for a place of concealment. "I shall stay."

"It is death——" whispered Marishka.

But Yeva was resourceful. "The armor!" she whispered. "I have often hidden in it from Zubeydeh. Quickly, Excellency! It stands upon brackets in the wall."

And while Marishka watched the stairhead in terror, Yeva helped the Englishman into this strange place of concealment. Excited as Yeva was at her share in the affair, her fingers were nimble, and she buckled the straps quickly, then turning fled into the selamlik and unlocked the door. But Goritz by this time had managed to find a way to the stairs to the mabein, and came up stealthily, listening eagerly to the increasing commotion in the Harim. He found Marishka and Yeva hand in hand at the door to the selamlik staring in consternation at the door of the black grille. There were no more shots, but more ominous even than shots were the sounds of voices, strained, subdued, tense with effort—the heavy breathing of men, the crashing of furniture, and then at last the jar of heavy bodies falling—a cry of triumph—and silence.

Captain Goritz had folded his arms and waited expectant.

"It is very strange," he said coolly to Yeva. "Someone has broken into the Harim?"

"Excellency, I do not know. I was at the other end of the house. The Fraeulein was frightened and called to me," she lied glibly.

"It is not to be wondered at——" he said with a strange smile. "They have made enough noise to raise the dead. I have a pardonable curiosity as to what has happened." But as he strode toward the door and laid a hand upon the knob, Yeva rushed forward.

"Excellency!" she whispered. "You dare not! The law!"

He looked at her for a moment, then shrugged and turned to Marishka.

"I would suggest, Countess Strahni, that you go with this girl at once into the selamlik. I have no idea of what has happened, but it must be something quite disagreeable—an intruder within the Harim—the penalty is severe——"

Marishka was leaning against the rail of the stairway near the suit of armor, and Goritz watched her curiously.

"I—shall not go," she stammered faintly, wondering at the growing mystery.

He shrugged. "As you please," he muttered, "but I warn you that the situation may be—unpleasant——"

"I shall remain—" she said again.

There were sounds of heavy footsteps, and the door of the dutap swung open, revealing the Beg of Rataj, torn and dishevelled, his face distorted with passion. He paused in the doorway, and looked from Goritz to Marishka, breathing rapidly.

"Ah, Excellency," he gasped. "I call you all to witness. A man has entered the Harim—a Christian. Yeva, I knew, was not there, but I saw him and followed from the street with my friends—my son, my brother-in-law, my cousins. He is here. We have killed him."

Goritz glanced at Marishka, but she stared past the dreadful apparition into the corridor, behind him, incapable of speech or thought.

"A Christian!" said Goritz. "Incredible!"

"You shall see," said the Effendi. And turning to those within he uttered a phrase in Turkish, and presently Zubeydeh and a man came forward dragging something behind them. Marishka hid her face in her hands, and crouched nearer the corner where the armor was.

She saw Goritz suddenly start forward, his gaze upon the prostrate figure in black, which its bearers had deposited none too gently in the middle of the rug. Then he peered into the upturned face, starting upright and glaring at the Effendi.

"Vermalerdeiter Haellen——" he cried. "It's not the man!"

"What do you mean, Excellency?" cried the Beg.

"What I say—Idiots!"

"A Christian—in my Harim!" wailed the old ruffian. "He has ruined my furniture and killed my brother-in-law and my cousin."

"What do I care?" cried Goritz furiously. "You've got us all into trouble with your bungling. Do you know who this man is?" he stormed.

"Who, Excellency?" cried the Effendi.

"Nicholas Szarvas—the most famous secret service agent in Hungary."

"What say you, Excellency?" the Effendi asked bewildered.

"You have heard."

"It is impossible. This was the man——"

"Bah! You are a sheep's head."

"Sheep's head I am not——"

"Then you are a fool!"

"By the beard of the Prophet—he was in my Harim," muttered the Effendi. "I call you all to witness——"

"I wash my hands of the matter," said Goritz furiously.

"I am within my rights—the Harim——"

"Bah—You have killed a police officer of the Empire!"

"And you?" The Effendi's face was the color of that of the man upon the floor, but his eyes glowed with fear and desperation.

"I know nothing of the matter," continued Goritz. "A Christian comes into your Harim and you kill him. If he turns out to be an officer of the law, what is it to me?"

"You will pay me that which you owe," shrieked the Effendi. "The man has broken my furniture."

"It is a pity he didn't break your head. I pay you nothing."

And then to Marishka, "Come, Countess, we must be upon our way."

Marishka stood staring at Goritz, a new horror in her eyes. She now understood. The Effendi thrust himself between them.

"You will pay me that which you owe," he stormed again.

"Stand aside!" said the German, and then to Marishka,

"If the Countess Strahni will be good enough to accompany me?" he said, civilly.

But Marishka stood fixed, staring at him with alien eyes, as the Effendi rushed forward toward her, his arms extended.

"She shall not go. She will see what has been done. He is not the man. She will remain here in my house until——"

"Stand aside, Effendi!" cried Goritz furiously, and as the man did not move, he caught him by the shoulder and thrust him roughly aside. He scorned to use a weapon, and the other man and the woman seemed completely dominated by his air of command.

"You will please come at once, Countess Strahni. There is no telling how soon the police will be coming."

And as Marishka did not move—

"You heard?"

"I will not go," stammered Marishka.

Goritz paused, examining her keenly, as though he had not quite understood.

"I have asked you quite courteously, Countess——"

"I will not go," repeated Marishka. Her voice was ice-cold, like her body, which seemed to be frozen into immobility.

"I beg to remind you of your promise—to go with me——"

"I will not go," she said again.

"Then I must take you," he said, striding toward her furiously, and reaching out a hand to seize her by the wrist.

Then a strange thing happened. The man in armor, in the corner behind Marishka, strode clanking forth into the room, while a voice reverberated in the iron helmet. What it said no one understood. The Effendi gazed at the moving thing in terror, and then with a shriek fled down the stairs, Zubeydeh and her companion, calling in loud tones upon Allah, at his heels. Goritz glanced at the thing and then stood irresolute a moment, as the man in the armor slowly raised an arm, for at the end of the arm Goritz saw a revolver pointed directly at him.

"Hold up your hands, Captain Goritz," rang the voice from the depths of the helmet. "Quickly, or I'll shoot."

Goritz bit his lips.

"Clever—Herr Renwick," he said coolly in English. "You've taken the trick."

"Hold up your hands——"

But Goritz with a sudden leap had sprung behind Marishka. Renwick fired once as he jumped, and missed. And now Goritz, shielding himself behind Marishka's body, drew his automatic and fired again and again, riddling the ancient armor like a sieve. Marishka struggled wildly in the arms of the German, and managed to draw the dagger concealed in her waist, but he caught her wrist and held her in front of him, taking careful aim at the man in the armor and firing deliberately. Renwick tottered forward silently and came crashing to the floor in the corner, where after a moment of struggle, he relaxed and lay motionless.

Goritz caught Marishka around the waist and disarmed her. But this act of precaution was unnecessary, for after one fleeting glance at the tangled heap of iron in the corner, she sank a dead weight in his arms.



CHAPTER XVIII

NUMBER 28

For a month the Landes Hospital had been greatly interested in the mystery of patient Number 28. In spite of the imminence of war, and the preparations which were being made to care for the wounded along the border, the physicians, the nurses, and the other patients had all formed theories as to the man's history and the possible causes of his injuries. And during the long period in which he lay unconscious, hovering in the dim realm between life and death, not a day passed in which his temperature, respiration, and other symptoms were not discussed from one end of the hospital to the other. The Head Surgeon, Colonel Bohratt, inclined to the opinion that if the man continued for a few days longer without change he would recover. But the Head Nurse shook her head sagely. The wound in the head had been difficult, as the operation was an unusual one, the wound in the shoulder was nothing, but the one in the stomach! If the operation of Colonel Bohratt proved successful, then a miracle had been performed.

The interest in the case, both from the sentimental as well as the professional point of view, was so great that the man's bed had been carefully wheeled from a ward where he had been taken from the operating table, into a private room, where every chance would be given him to recover.

On the twenty-seventh of July, Fraeulein Roth, the nurse on duty at the bedside of the man of mystery, noted a slight change in his breathing, and saw that he had opened his eyes, which were regarding her calmly, but with the puzzled expression of one who has come a great distance into a strange country. She knew then that what the Head Surgeon had said was true, and that the man of mystery had turned the corner which led away from the land of the Great Beyond. But being a prudent person, she gave no sign of her delight, merely moving softly closer to the bedside, and in German quietly asked him if he felt better.

The man did not or could not reply at once, but she saw that his gaze slowly passed beyond her to the bare walls of the room and to the open window, beyond which were clouds, sunshine, and the distant drowsy murmur of the city.

"You are feeling more comfortable?" she asked again, in German.

"Yes," he muttered.

"You have been sick," she whispered softly, smoothing his pillow.

"Ah, yes, sick," the man muttered, and closing his eyes, slept again.

It was not long before the news of the awakening of Number 28 had reached the nurses and attending physicians. Colonel Bohratt, greatly pleased at the correctness of his prophecy and the end of the period of coma, at once a tribute to his wisdom as well as to his professional skill, came himself and viewed the patient, gave directions for treatment and predicted speedy recovery.

That night, the man of mystery awoke again, exchanged a few words with Fraeulein Roth as before, and again slept. And on the morrow, a sure sign that all was going well with him, he had gained so much strength that he moved freely in his bed, and took more than the casual interest of the desperately sick in his situation and surroundings. Fraeulein Roth had been given instructions to keep him quiet, but she smiled at him when quite rationally he questioned her.

"Is this a hospital?" he asked.

"Yes—the Landes Hospital."

"Where?"

"Sarajevo."

"Ah,—Sarajevo."

He remained silent for a long moment.

"I have been here long?" he asked again.

"A month."

"A month! And the date?"

"The twenty-eighth of July——"

"Yes. I understand."

Fraeulein Roth wished him to be quiet, but after a long moment of contemplation of the ceiling, in which his brows puckered in a puzzled way, he spoke again.

And when Fraeulein Roth anxiously desired him to be quiet, she discovered that Number 28 had a will of his own and only smiled at her earnestness.

"I am feeling quite strong," he said weakly. "It will do me no harm to talk, for some things puzzle me. I was brought here. Won't you tell me how?"

She debated with herself for a moment, but after an inspection of her patient she decided to tell him the facts.

"A peasant had discovered two men lying in a strip of woods near the road to Gradina. At first he had thought that both were dead, but upon closer examination he found that one of the men, although desperately wounded, still breathed, and notified the police, who summoned the ambulance."

"I?" asked the sick man.

She nodded. "You were brought here—to the Landes Hospital in a bad condition. The other man was dead."

"The other man—dead?"

"Yes," said the nurse, "with stab wounds in the back, and one in the heart." She regarded her patient keenly a moment, and then went on. "There were no marks of identification upon either of you. You were without clothing. Following so closely upon the assassination of the Archduke Franz and his wife, the circumstances were suspicious, and the police of Sarajevo and the secret service officials have done all they could to find some clew to the murderers. You see," she concluded with a smile, "you are a man of mystery and all Sarajevo awaits your recovery."

"Oh, I see. They are waiting for me to speak?"

Number 28 lay silent, regarding the ceiling intently, frowning a little. His mind worked slowly and Fraeulein Roth saw that he found some difficulty in mental concentration.

"We will talk no more at present," she said firmly. "If you are no worse—perhaps again tomorrow."

But on the following day and the next the condition of the patient was not so favorable, for he lay in a drowsy condition and showed no interest in anything. It seemed that the pallid fingers of Death were still stretched over him. There were whispered consultations at the bedside, and a magistrate came to take a deposition, but the Head Surgeon advised delay. He had a reputation at stake.

The wisdom of his advice was soon proved, for at the end of three days Number 28 rallied, his fever subsided, and he smiled again at Nurse Roth. But she had learned wisdom and refused to talk.

Number 28 straightened in bed and ran his thin fingers through the beard with which his face was now covered. He ate of his food with a relish and then eagerly questioned.

"I am quite strong again, Fraeulein. See—my hand does not even tremble. Will you not talk with me?"

"My orders are to keep you quiet."

"I have been quiet long enough—a month!" he sighed. "The world does not stand still for a month."

The nurse smiled. "I see that you are used to having your own way," she said.

"Is it not natural that I should wish to know what has happened in the world? Tell me. The Archduke Franz was killed. Did they discover a plot?"

"A plot? Yes. The boy Prinzep was employed by the Serbians."

"He confessed?"

"Not to that—but it is obvious."

"And what has happened?"

She examined him intently, aware now of what she herself had long suspected, that this patient was no ordinary kind of man. His German had a slight accent, but whether he came from central Europe or elsewhere she could not decide.

"Austria Hungary is on the eve of great events. A week or more ago Austria Hungary sent an ultimatum to the Serbian government, to which an unsatisfactory reply was received. The Austro-Hungarian minister has left Belgrade, and war has been declared upon Serbia."

"War! and Russia?"

"Russia, France and Germany have mobilized."

"And England?"

"Nothing is known of what England will do. But it is feared that she may join the cause of Russia and France."

Number 28 lay silent for a moment thinking deeply, and then—

"It has come at last. War. All of Europe——"

"It is frightful. There has already been fighting on the Serbian border. We are preparing here to receive the wounded."

He remained silent a moment, his eyes sparkling as he thought of what she had told him and then quietly, "War!" he muttered. "I must get well very quickly, Nurse, I must——"

She waited for him to go on, for, being a woman, curiosity as to his history obsessed her, but he said no more. And in spite of her interest in this man whom she had faithfully watched and served for more than a month, some delicacy restrained the questions on her tongue.

"You will not get well for a long while, Herr Twenty-Eight, if you do not keep quiet," she said quickly.

"You are very good to me," he replied. "I shall do as you wish."

Several days after this, the patient having gained strength rapidly, he was permitted solid food. He slept much, and in his waking hours seemed to be thinking deeply. He was very obedient, as though concentrating all his mind upon an effort toward speedy recovery, but he did not talk of himself. His strength now permitting more frequent conversation, the nurse brought him the news of the world outside, which included the declaration of war by Great Britain against Germany—and the certainty of a declaration against Austria Hungary.

"It is as I suspected," he muttered. "England——"

Again her patient was silent, and Nurse Roth glanced at him quickly. English!

She did not speak her thought, for the import of her news had sent her patient into one of his deep spells of concentration. No Englishman that she had ever met had spoken the German language so fluently. But concealing her interest and curiosity when he turned toward her again, she smiled at him brightly.

"You are now getting much stronger, Herr Twenty-Eight," she said. "The Head Surgeon has given permission for your examination."

"Examination?"

"A magistrate will come tomorrow to take your deposition."

"I don't understand."

"About all the facts connected with your injuries."

"They have learned nothing?"

"A little. The man who was found with you has been identified."

"Ah!"

"As Nicholas Szarvas, a Hungarian police officer——"

"Szarvas!"

"You knew him?"

The patient was silent again. She had come suddenly upon the stone wall which had balked all her efforts. Her hand was near him upon the bed. He took it and pressed it to his lips.

"Do not think me ungrateful for all your kindnesses, Fraeulein. Some day perhaps I can repay you. But there are reasons why I cannot speak."

She drew her hand away from him slowly.

"But you must speak when the magistrate questions," she said gently.

"Perhaps!" And he was silent again.

With his growing strength had come wariness. If England declared war, he, Hugh Renwick, at present unknown, would be interned, a prisoner; and all hope of finding Marishka and the German, Goritz, would be lost. In the first few days of his awakening, he had thought of sending for Warwick, the British Consul, and putting the matter entirely in his hands. But before he had had the strength to decide what it was best to do, had come the declarations of war, and he had determined to remain silent and act upon his own initiative. Unless he had muttered something of his past in his fever, and this he doubted, or some sign of it would have come from Fraeulein Roth, there would he no means of identifying him as an Englishman, and when he recovered, they would let him go. As it was, he was a man of mystery, and as such he intended to remain. He had noted the marks of interest in the face of the nurse, and in her questions, and his gratitude to her was very genuine, but he was sure now that he was in no position to take chances. War being declared, Warwick would have been given his passports, and would have left the country. No one in Sarajevo knew the Englishman, Renwick—at least no one who would be likely to connect the man of mystery of the Landes Hospital with the former secretary of the British Embassy in Vienna.

As his mind had grown clearer, the wisdom of his decision became more apparent. If a magistrate came, he would be obliged to see him, but he knew that his period of illness could cover a multitude of remembrances.

The magistrate came with a clerk, and questioned with an air of importance. Renwick realized that if he refused to answer, he might make himself an object of suspicion, and endanger the chances of his release upon recovery, and so, as he was not under oath, he invented skillfully.

"What is your name?"

"Peter Langer."

"What nationality?"

"Austrian, if you like. I am a citizen of the world."

The magistrate examined him over his glasses.

"The world is large. From what part of Austria did you come?"

"Vienna."

"Your parents are Viennese?"

"They were in Vienna when I was young."

"Were they born there?"

"I do not know."

"It is necessary that you should."

"I am sorry if it is necessary. I do not know."

"What brought you to Sarajevo?"

"I am a wanderer. I wished to see the world."

"A wish that has almost proved fatal. You have no business?"

"Merely the business of wandering."

The magistrate frowned.

"I beg that you will take this matter seriously, Herr Langer."

"I do. It is not in the least amusing."

The man consulted his notes for a moment.

"Where were you on the night of June twenty-eight?"

"I have been ill for a month. Dates mean nothing to me. My memory is bad."

"Ah! Well, then, where were you on the night of the assassination?"

"What assassination——?"

"The assassination of the Archduke," replied the magistrate sternly.

"In Sarajevo, I should say."

"Natuerlich. But in what place?"

"In the street, perhaps—or in a house. I don't remember."

"I beg that you make the effort to remember."

"I cannot," said Renwick after a pause.

"You must."

"My mind is clouded."

The magistrate exchanged a glance with the nurse, who stood at the head of the bed, and spoke to her. "This man talks to you quite rationally?"

Fraeulein Roth hesitated and then said: "Yes. But he has been very ill. I should suggest that you excuse him where possible."

"H—m! This is a matter of great seriousness. A police officer has been murdered by a person or persons unknown. This man was found near his body, both of them left for dead. It is not possible that he can have forgotten the circumstances—the fight, the shooting which preceded his unconsciousness." And then to Renwick—"You knew Nicholas Szarvas?"

"No."

"I would remind you that this is the man who was found dead beside you."

"I did not know him."

"What are your recollections of the evening I have mentioned?"

"I have no recollections."

"You said that you were in a house."

"Or the street—I forget."

"You remember having an altercation with someone?"

"In my dreams—yes. Many."

"But before your dreams, when you were conscious?"

"None."

"Szarvas was stabbed. Did you see him attacked?"

"I did not."

"Have you any idea who shot you?"

"A man who was my enemy, I should say."

"Ah—you had an enemy?"

"What man has not?"

"What was his name?"

"I don't remember."

The magistrate got up frowning, and paced up and down the room, his hands behind his back.

"I should advise you, Herr Langer, that it is my opinion that you are willfully endeavoring to impede the steps of this investigation. I would remind you also that those who try to thwart the officers of the law in the performance of their duty, are alike amenable to it. Your reticence—I can call it by a less pleasant word—is aiding and abetting a criminal, who must be brought to justice."