"It is not likely——" He paused.

"What?"

"That I should wish to save a man who had tried to murder me."

"But this is precisely what you are doing."

Renwick smiled.

"What would you? Have me invent a story for your record? I can say no more than I remember. I remember nothing."

The magistrate took off his glasses and rubbed them rigorously, as if by so doing he could clear his own mind as to what had best be done. Then he put them upon his nose and took up his hat and papers. It was certain that the patient's brain was still far from strong.

"I shall not pursue this investigation now," he said to Nurse Roth. "I shall wait a few days in which Herr Langer may have time to reflect. He is still very weak. In the meanwhile, Herr Langer, I would tell you that it would be wise for you to recover your memory."

"A desire which I sincerely share," said Renwick with a smile.

"If not," continued the magistrate with his most magisterial manner, "you will be detained, as a material witness, in Sarajevo."

"I have no intention of leaving Sarajevo unless someone should happen to pay my railroad fare," replied Renwick wearily.

The man left, followed by his clerk, and Nurse Roth closed the door behind them. When the sounds of their footsteps had faded away along the corridor, she turned to the table where she rearranged some roses in a vase.

"You lie very ingeniously, Herr Twenty-eight," she said with a smile.

Renwick regarded her calmly.

"It is not my nature, Nurse Roth. But a cracked skull doesn't improve the brains beneath."

She came over to him quickly, and stood beside the bed.

"You have some reason for concealing your identity. I know that you remember what happened. But I will protect you as far as I can, upon one condition."

"And that?" he asked anxiously.

"That you will give me your word of honor that it was not you who killed Nicholas Szarvas."

He caught her by the hand and smiled up at her with a look so genuine that there was no question as to his sincerity.

"I give it. I did not kill Nicholas Szarvas."

"Thank you," she said simply. "I believe you."



"I wish I could tell you," he whispered earnestly, "for I know that you are my friend, but"—and he relinquished her hand—"but I must keep silent."

She touched him gently upon the shoulder in token of understanding, and from that moment said no more.

The days passed slowly, but it was evident to those who were interested in the case that Number 28 gained strength very rapidly. His wounds had healed, and he was soon permitted to get up and sit in an armchair near the window, where he could look out over the minarets of the city below the hill. But to all except Nurse Roth, it seemed that the injury to his head had done something to retard the recovery of his memory. He spoke quite rationally to Colonel Bohratt upon matters regarding his physical condition, but sometimes even when the Head Surgeon was talking with him, he relapsed into a state of mental apathy which caused that worthy man to remove his bandage and examine the wound in his head. After which the Colonel would leave the room with a puzzled expression. And in consequence of this curious mental condition, it was thought wise to defer the visit of the officer of the law until the patient's mind should show a change for the better. There was even a consultation upon the advisability of another operation upon the head, but the patient showed such encouraging marks of growing lucidity that the operation was deferred.

It was a dangerous game that he was playing, and Renwick knew it, for the time would come when he must tell who he was, or find a chance to escape from the hospital. Escape was his hope and each day as he gained new strength, he thought of a hundred expedients by which it might be accomplished. He knew that even now he was under surveillance, and virtually a prisoner of the Austrian government, until he could give some account of himself, and of the events of the night of the twenty-eighth of June. And so he conserved his energies carefully, gaining courage and weight with each new day, playing the game of delay until he was assured of his strength and the moment was propitious. The chief difficulty which confronted him was a means to procure clothing. He was allowed the privileges of the hospital, permitted to walk upon the terrace, but he had no clothing except the sleeping suit of cotton and a wrapper-like affair which he wore when out of his room. Whether his restriction to this costume was by neglect or by design, he did not know, for all the other convalescents whom he met out in the air wore the clothes in which they had come to the hospital. The fact that he had been brought here unclothed was of little comfort to him, and he feared to request a change of garments for this might excite suspicion. There was nothing for it but to wait, and when strength enough came, seize the first opportunity presented to slip quietly away.

He had been studying his chances with a discriminating eye. His room was upon the second floor, but there was a rain-spout which passed just beside it, and given the strength of hand and wrist to accomplish the descent, the matter would be simple. There was a row of shrubbery just below the terrace, which led to a path over the hills, where he might be lost under cover of the night. But even at night he could not go into Sarajevo without clothing. For a while the idea of appealing to Nurse Roth occurred to him, but he at last rejected it, aware that she had already done much that could not be repaid, and unwilling to subject her to the alternatives of refusal or acquiescence—one of which might be hazardous to his own chances, the other surely fruitful of unpleasantness to herself. He had no right to ask this of her. He wished to incur no new obligations, for when the time came, he intended to go, and he could not repay her kindness with deceit. And so he waited, simulating weakness, exercising in secret, and gaining in strength for the hopeless task before him.

He had made no plans. What plans could he make when he had no means of making inquiries? Goritz was gone with Marishka,—by this time perhaps far beyond the German border, the girl a prisoner—or——? For a moment he paused as the new thought came to him. What would be the status of the Countess Strahni since the outbreak of war? The conditions which existed before the pact of Konopisht were no more. Germany's ambitions stultified—Austria forgiving—both nations involved in a great undertaking the prosecution of which must make them careless of all less vital issues! Had Goritz been recalled from this secret mission to another more important? And if so, where was Marishka? Could she have been released? There was a chance of it, but it seemed a slender one. Goritz! Something—some deeply hidden instinct, some suspicion harbored perhaps in the long days and nights of his unconsciousness, some pang of fear born of pain and unrest, advised him that, behind the secret duty which had first brought Goritz to Vienna, he was now playing a game of his own. The brief glimpse he had had of the man, short but fearfully significant, had made an unpleasant impression. He had seen the look in the eyes of the German as he had asked Marishka to go with him from the house of the garden, a look courteous and considerate, that had in it, too, something more than mere admiration. If the man were in love with her! And what man of any vision, learning to know Marishka could help caring for her! Not love, surely! Not love from a man who sheltered himself from danger by using her as a shield. He had been safe then. Renwick could not have fired then. And Goritz was clever enough to know it. But the dastardliness of such a trick! There was a long score to pay between Renwick and Goritz, a score the items of which had begun with the attempts upon the Englishman's life in Vienna and Konopisht, the imprisonment of Marishka, and the shooting in Sarajevo which had nothing to do with politics. They were enemies. Their countries were enemies. It was written.

Absorbed in these unpleasant meditations, Renwick sat upon the terrace of the hospital after supper, idly manicuring his nails with Nurse Roth's scissors. As it grew dark, he got up, slowly pacing up and down the length of the terrace. The moment was approaching when he would be called in to go to his room, but he grudgingly relinquished the moments in the soft evening air. It was curious how much latitude they gave him—curious, also, that the magistrate, after his second fruitless visit a few days ago, had not returned. As Renwick had continued evasive the magistrate had grown angry and at last had threatened him with the visit of one who would make him speak. Who was this new inquisitor to be? Someone in higher authority? Or perhaps some secret service agent who had finally succeeded in getting some clews as to the murder of the colossal Szarvas?

Of one thing Renwick was sure—that soon he must make a break for liberty. Tonight—now—into the dusk beyond the hills. He was not very strong yet, but it might be——

"Herr Twenty-Eight," said the voice of Nurse Roth at his elbow, "you are to go at once to your room for examination."

"Thanks, Fraeulein. I shall go. It is the magistrate?"

She nodded soberly.

"The magistrate and another whom I have never seen. They are now in the office consulting the Head Surgeon."

Renwick smiled at her as he whispered, "I am to be grilled?"

"I fear so."

He shrugged. "The time for subterfuge is past." And then, taking her hand again, "I shall go at once. But whatever happens I want you to know that I shall never forget what you have done for me."

"It is nothing. Now go, please."

He bowed and preceded her into the hallway. As they passed the office the door was open and Renwick glanced in. The magistrate was there and another man, talking to Colonel Bohratt, all of them unaware of the patient in the darker hallway looking at them. Renwick started, and then gazed again at the third man leaning over the table facing him. His figure seemed familiar, his bowing and gestures more so, and yet for a second Renwick could not place him. And then the man smiled, showing a gold tooth which caught the reflection of the electric light upon the table. A gold tooth——

Nurse Roth was regarding Renwick who glanced at the open door behind him and then at Nurse Roth. The pause was momentous. Renwick quickly recovered his poise and went on a few steps.

"They wish to see me—in the office?" he asked in a whisper.

"In your room, please. I shall tell them that you are waiting."

"Thanks, again," said Renwick abruptly, with outstretched hand, "and good-by."

"Good-by?" she asked in alarm.

He smiled over the shoulder as he went up the stairs.

"I think I shall exchange the hospital—for the jail."

He left her standing there looking up at him in wonder or pity, and then turning the stairhead went on down the upper corridor. There were nurses conversing here, and a patient or two, so Renwick went slowly until he reached his room. But once within the door he acted with speed and resolution. First he turned the key in the lock and softly shot the bolt, then crossed the room quickly, his heart beating rapidly. He was not strong and his nerves already were warning him, but they did not fail him. He peered out of the window upon the terrace. It was not yet dark and there was a nurse below standing beside a man in a wheel chair. He could not go now for they would see him and surely give the alarm, and so he waited, going back to the door and listening for the sound of approaching male footsteps. As yet no sound. He peered down upon the head of the luckless nurse, mutely imprecating. The moments were precious. Would they never go in? It was past the hour for loitering on the terrace. For a moment the idiotic notion came to him to go out into the corridor and call the attention of the nurse in charge of the floor to the infraction of rules, but he turned again to the window. The nurse was moving now, slowly pushing the wheel chair toward the door. It was barely a hundred feet away, but to Renwick it seemed an eternity before the pair vanished within. Then taking off his slippers he put them in the pocket of his wrapper, and rolling it into a bundle, dropped it noiselessly upon the terrace below. His nerves quivered as he sat astride the window-sill but he set his jaw and lowered himself from the window, catching the iron gutter-pipe with bare fingers and toes. The spout seemed to creak horribly, and for a moment he thought that it was swaying outward with him. But the sensation was born of his own weakness. The pipe held and slowly he descended, reaching the ground, his knuckles bruised and torn, but so far, safe.

He paused for a moment to slip into his wrapper and then crossed the terrace quietly, reached the lawn and the shelter of the bushes below.



CHAPTER XIX

DISGUISE

Long ago he had planned the direction in which he should go when the time came for him to escape. And so without pausing to look behind him he hurried down the hill in the shelter of the hedge until he reached its end. A hundred yards away was a hillock. By going forward in a line which he had already marked he would have the partial protection of rocks and bushes. He paused just a moment to be sure that no one was coming after him. All was as before and the dark group of buildings, his home for nearly two months, loomed in silent dignity behind him. But Renwick knew that it would not be long before the whole countryside would be buzzing like a hornet's nest. In his enfeebled condition, he could hardly hope to cope with his pursuers in the matter of speed and so as he went on across the stream at the base of the hill, he tried to plan something that would outwit them. The nearest outlying houses of the town were but a few hundred yards distant, but instead of taking the road down the hill, he turned sharply to his left after crossing the road and entered the Moslem cemetery, laid according to the custom in a cypress grove. He now moved slowly and leaning against the bole of a tree regained his breath while he listened for the expected sounds of pursuit. The cemetery seemed to be deserted, but he decided to take no chances, so he found a tree with thick foliage, and climbed from one bough to another until he found a crotch of a limb where he disposed himself as comfortably as possible to wait until the pursuit had passed him by.

His pulses were still pounding furiously from the sudden effort of muscles long unused, and his nerves were tingling strangely, but he clung to his perch until the period of weakness passed and then planned what he had better do. Inside of an hour every policeman in Sarajevo would be warned by Herr Windt to look out for a man with a beard, wearing a sleeping suit and a blue woolen wrapper. The obvious thing therefore was to avoid Sarajevo or else find a means to change his costume. But if he begged, borrowed, or stole an outfit of native clothing—what then? Where should he turn? He had no money, for that, of course, had been taken by the ruffians who had carried his body into the woods and stripped him of his clothing. To all intents and purposes he had been born again—had come into the world anew, naked save for the unsightly flapping things in which he was wrapped. His English clothes were at the inn in the Bistrick quarter where he had left them, but to seek them now meant immediate capture. And if he wore English clothes in the streets of a town full of men in uniform he would be as conspicuous as though in sleeping suit and wrapper. A native costume was the thing—and a fez which would hide the plaster on his head. But how to get it? He heard voices, and two men passed below him weaving in and out among the trees; he blessed the inspiration which had bidden him climb. He would have known Windt. He was not one of them. They were men from the hospital, out of breath with running, and the phrases they exchanged gave Renwick comforting notion that they were already wearily impressed with the hopelessness of their task. A while they waited, and then he saw them go out on the further side of the copse as though glad to be well away from so melancholy a spot. Indeed the gray turban-carved tombstones were eloquent to Renwick and a newly made grave not far away was unpleasantly suggestive of the fate that had so nearly been his. It was starlight now, but dark, and the owls were already hooting mournfully as though the souls of those who lay in the sod beneath had come again to visit by night their last resting places. It was not the most cheerful spot for a man who had just come out of a bout with death, and Renwick had no mind to stay there. So when the men who had been searching for him had gone their ways, he clambered stiffly down. He lingered by the newly made grave, obsessed by the rather morbid notion of digging up the estimable Moslem who reposed there and exchanging his own hospital wrapper for the much to be desired native costume, but desperate as was his need the idea was too unpleasant. He would rob, if necessary, but not the dead.

As he wandered among the trees in the direction of the nearest lights, he felt a pair of scissors in the pocket of his wrapper—Fraeulein Roth's. His fingers closed upon them now. A weapon? Better than that. A plan had come to him which he proceeded immediately to put into practice. Taking off his wrapper he seated himself upon a tombstone and began cutting it into pieces, shaping a short sleeveless jacket. He cut the sleeves of the wrapper lengthwise and made a turban.

Its skirt made him a belt with something left over. He puzzled for awhile over the remnant of cloth left to him, thinking of his legs, but at last discarded it as useless, and hid it among the bushes. Then, laboriously, he trimmed his mustache and beard. It was low work without light or mirror, but he persevered until to the touch of his fingers the merest bristle remained, a stubble such as a man would have who had gone a few days without shaving. Then, satisfied that under cover of the darkness he might pass in a crowd of people unnoticed, he slipped the scissors into the coat of his sleeping suit and sallied forth.

At least he was rid of the flowing robe which would have made of him a marked man. Fortunately the night was hot and sultry, and so far he suffered no inconveniences, but he knew that this disguise was only a makeshift and that by fair means or foul, he must come into the possession of some sort of costume in which he could face the light of day. In the road, he passed a farmer returning from the bazaar, and the careless greeting of the man reassured him. A polyglot costume surely—but this was a city of polyglots. The disguise would do—at least for this night. But the appearance of Windt had seriously alarmed him. It meant, if he was taken, that he would surely be interned, or worse, perhaps that he might be accused of complicity in the murder of Szarvas, Windt's own man. In the back of his head a plan had been forming, which meant if not active help in escaping from the city, at least a short refuge from pursuit, and perhaps something more. He meant to go to the house where Marishka had been—and speak to the girl, Yeva. It was the only hope he had of a clew to Marishka's whereabouts—the only hope of help in this city of enemies. He was quite sure that he would not be a welcome visitor, for it was the old ruffian in the turban, of course, who had taken the clothing from Renwick's body and left him for dead upon the hillside. The theory in the hospital had been that those who had carried Renwick into the woods had intended burying the bodies—for a spade had been found later near the place—but that the murderers had been frightened away before being able to carry out their plan. And lacking information upon the subject, Renwick had come to the same conclusion. He might not be welcome at the house of the blue door, but he knew the old man's secret and decided to risk danger by playing the game with an open hand.

Instead of going into the city by the nearest way, which would have led him in a few moments into the European part of the town, he bore to the left again, climbing the hill behind the Tekija mosque, until he reached an eminence back of the fortress above the Golden Bastion, and then slowly descended into the Turkish quarter of the town where the streets were narrow and dark and the danger of detection minimized. He had already passed many people who had merely glanced at him and gone their ways, and the success of his disguise gave him confidence; but as he approached the Sirocac Tor he was badly frightened, for on turning the corner of a street he ran directly into the arms of a stout Bosnian policeman who was looking for him. The man swore at him in bad German and Renwick drew back against the wall, sure that the game was up, until he realized that the fellow was only cursing because he was almost, if not quite as much startled as Renwick. So the Englishman, regaining his composure, bowed politely and would have gone on, but the policeman spoke.

"Which way have you come?" he asked.

"From the Kastele."

"You have seen no bareheaded man with a beard, wearing a long blue coat?"

"A long blue coat? There are none with long blue coats in the Kastele in the month of August."

"Pfui—! I do not wonder!" said the fat Bosnian, and hurried on.

But the venture made Renwick more cautious, and he avoided the street-lights, moving under the shadows of walls and houses, at last reaching the tortuous alleyway down which he had once come to inspect the house with the meshrebiya windows. Almost two months had passed since he had stood in this spot, watching these same lighted windows, unaware of the success that had been almost within his grasp. Outwardly nothing was changed. The blue door faced him, and gathering courage, he crossed the street and entered the garden. It was very dark under the trees and he went quietly forward, stopping by the fountain to listen for sounds within the house. He realized that it was growing late, and that while the garden offered him a refuge from those who were seeking him in the city, daylight would make his tenure precarious even here. If the girl Yeva would only come down into the garden! He waited by the bench listening, and presently was rewarded by hearing a light rippling laugh from the room above the door. She was there—the girl—but not alone—with the old woman perhaps, or the man with the beard. Renwick listened again and watched the window, but heard nothing more. There was nothing for it but to put on a bold front, so summoning his courage, he walked to the door of the house and loudly knocked.

There was an exclamation, a sound of footsteps upon the stair, and at last the bolt of the door was shot and the door opened. Zubeydeh stood, a lantern in her hand, scrutinizing him.

He spoke in German at once. "I come upon an urgent matter," he said coolly. "Upon a matter very important to the owner of this house——"

"Speak—what do you want?" she asked.

"I bear a message."

"The Effendi is not at home——"

"Ah—then Yeva may receive it."

"Yeva! Who are you?"

He smiled. "For the present that need not matter."

Zubeydeh blocked the door more formidably with her body.

"No one enters this house in the Effendi's absence."

"I do not desire to enter the house. I merely wish to talk with Yeva, here——"

"That is not possible." The woman moved back and made a motion to close the door, but Renwick took a pace forward and blocked her effort with his foot.

"Wait," he said.

Something in the tone of his voice arrested her, and the hand which held the door relaxed. She regarded Renwick with a new curiosity. Her eyes narrowed as she peered into his face. She had seen someone who looked like this tall beggar, but where——?

"Who are you?" she asked again, this time with a note of anxiety, scarcely concealed.

Renwick smiled, but he had not yet removed his foot from the sill of the door.

"You do not remember me?"

"No—and yet——" She paused in bewilderment, and Renwick quickly followed his advantage.

"I am one who can save this house from a danger."

"Speak!"

"I have but to speak yonder," and he gestured eloquently toward the city below them, "and the danger will fall." He leaned forward, whispering tensely, "The secret police of the Austrian government wish to know more about the death of Nicholas Szarvas and——"

Zubeydeh dropped the handle of the door and seized Renwick's arm, while her narrow eyes glittered terrified close to his own.

"And you——?"

"It is merely that I did not die," he said coolly.

"You are——?"

"I am the man in the armor, Zubeydeh," he said solemnly.

She started back from him in affright, her hands before her eyes.

"Allah!" she whispered, and then leaned forward again touching his arm lightly, imploringly, while she looked past him into the dark recesses of the garden.

"Then they are there—the police are coming——?"

He quickly reassured her.

"No. I mean you no harm. Do you understand? I have said nothing—nor shall I speak unless——" he paused significantly.

"Unless——?"

"Unless you refuse to permit me to speak with Yeva. That is all. Listen, Zubeydeh; since that night I have been in the hospital. They would keep me here a prisoner. I have escaped—in this disguise. I make a bargain with you. You help me—I will be silent. If you refuse, I shall tell the police."

"What do you want?" she asked breathlessly.

"A disguise, a weapon, and some money—not much."

"Money! The Effendi has gone upon a journey."

"A few kroner only—enough to get me out of town."

"And you will keep silent?"

"As the grave. Don't you understand? I wish to go away from here—quickly, and then you will not see me again."

"How can I believe you?" she said suspiciously.

"Bah! Don't be stupid! If I had desired to betray you, I should have told the truth long ago."

Zubeydeh hesitated.

"You will go away?"

"Yes. I shall go——"

There was a sound upon the stairs behind Zubeydeh and Yeva thrust herself forward.

"I was at the window above. I heard. Allah be praised! You are alive?"

"Yeva! You know anything—of her?"

"No, nothing," sadly. And then as she examined him closely, "But you must come into the house. I will do what you wish."

The matter was now out of Zubeydeh's hands, for whatever her doubts, Yeva's swift confidence had swept them away. She stood aside and motioned for him to go up the stairs.

"You will not remain long?" she asked.

"Only long enough to change my clothing—you will provide?"

"Yes. There are garments."

"A fez, jacket, breeches, stout opankas."

"It shall be as you desire."

Renwick went up the stairs into the room where he and Goritz had met, recapitulating briefly in his mind the sequence of events which had led to his own downfall. If he had only shot the man when he had stood there a fair mark, defenseless! It had not been the sporting thing, but if he had known what was to follow, he would have done it nevertheless. At least he thought so now. The fateful armor had been restored to its place in the corner, and while he anxiously awaited Yeva's return he examined it casually with the rather morbid interest which one might display in the inspection of one's coffin. It was dented upon the sides with the marks of bullets which had glanced aside, but three neatly drilled holes, two in the breastplate and one in the helmet, reminded him again how narrow had been his escape from death. "Close shooting, that," he muttered to himself. "Emptied clip and not one miss."

Yeva, who had gone with Zubeydeh into the Harim, now returned (discreetly veiled) and with an air of restraint made a sign to the Englishman to be seated while Zubeydeh brought refreshments.

He heard Yeva speaking gently at his ear.

"Allah is good. Excellency, they told me that you were dead—that they would bury you. They took your body and that of the other man in a cart to the hills above the city. But someone came, and they were forced to go away."

"You saw her go with him?"

"Yes. She had fainted. I helped to carry her down through the selamlik to the street at the back of the house. Then an automobile came, and they took her away."

"There have been no inquiries here?"

"None. And you will say nothing?" she asked anxiously.

"Not a word. Would you have me deliver myself into the hands of my enemies?"

"I shall help you, Excellency, if you will try to find her."

"Yes. I shall try. I will follow, if you will provide me with clothing."

"It shall be done. But first you must eat and drink and then we shall plan."

Zubeydeh, now completely disarmed, brought cakes and sherbet, and when Renwick had eaten and drunk, gave him cigarettes and the clothing, showing him into a room where he quickly divested himself of his rags of wrapper and put on the garments which she had brought. They were curiously familiar. His own disguise—that which he had bought in the bazaar and had worn when he had first come to this house. He felt in the pockets of his trousers but the money was gone. And when he was dressed, Zubeydeh colored his face with some liquid which she brought from the kitchen.

The clock on the mantle indicated the hour of eleven when Renwick prepared to take his departure. It had been a market day in the Turkish quarter, and late at night the farmers would be returning to their homes. Aware of the difficulties which might lie in the way of his leaving the city, Yeva proposed that Renwick should leave the Carsija in the cart of a cousin of Zubeydeh's, a farmer who lived on the Romanja Plain; and Renwick, quick to see the advantages of the plan, readily agreed, for it was toward the Visegrader Gate, he had learned, that the automobile of Captain Goritz had departed.

As he left the lower door with Zubeydeh, who was to accompany him as far as the Carsija, Renwick caught Yeva by the hand.

"I cannot thank you, girl. But some day I shall pay. You will remember. I promise."

"It is nothing," she said; and then with a laugh: "But if in Vienna or Paris or London, you should see a silk dress of blue——"

"You shall have two of them—and two of pink——"

"Excellency——!" she cried, clapping her hand childishly.

"And if I find her—jewels——!"

"It is too much——" she cried. And then eagerly, as though she feared he might misinterpret, "Still, I should like them——"

"You shall have them—some day."

"I shall pray to Allah that you may find her. Go, Excellency. Go to her and tell her that I have done what I can."

"Allah will bless you."

"May Allah bless you both," she sighed, "for it is all so very beautiful."

The last glimpse that Renwick had of her was from the gate of the garden, where he turned to wave his hand as she stood, leaning wistfully against the doorpost of the house, looking after him.

The arrangements for his journey were readily made and the business of the night being concluded, in half an hour Renwick, passing again as Stefan Thomasevics on his way to Rogatica to help in gathering the harvest, was seated beside Selim Ali, Zubeydeh's cousin, driving in a cart through the silent Kastele. Renwick saw several Bosnian police officers in uniform, who inspected the empty vehicle, but merely glanced at the slouching figures on the seat. At the Visegrader Gate they were detained and questioned, but Selim had a clever tongue and told a straight story which Renwick corroborated with nods and gestures. It would have been dangerous to risk his too fluent German on the officer of the guard. No, they had seen no bearded man in a blue coat. It had been a hot day in the bazaar. One didn't like to think of blue coats on such a day. Even tonight it was still sultry, but soon the harvest time would be here, and after that the snows. Would the Excellency like a fine melon, for forty hellers—the only one left in all the day? No? Then we will give it to the Excellency for nothing.

The officer grinned and let them pass, but he took the melon. It was after midnight for in the distance behind them they had heard the bell of the cathedral tolling the hour. Safely past all military barriers, Selim, who had had a long day, yawned and clambered into the tail of the cart to sleep, leaving the horse to its own devices. But sleep was not for Renwick. His escape had been accomplished without much trouble, and given a little luck and some skill he thought he could manage to lose himself quickly in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. But the magnitude of his undertaking in finding Marishka was formidable. Most of Bosnia and all of Austria Hungary lay between Sarajevo and the German border—five hundred miles of enemy's country to be traversed without other resources than eighteen kroner pieces and a pair of somewhat worn opankas! And after that—the heart of the enemy's country!

Eighteen kroner! His own, probably, filched from the pockets of the clothing he had worn when he had entered the house in search of Marishka. His own clothing, the disguise he had bought in the bazaar. Then perhaps——! Feverishly he felt along the upper lining, where he had pinned the larger sum of money he had taken from his purse when he had changed from mufti at the inn over in the Bistrick quarter of the town. They had found it? Something crinkled under the pressure of his fingers, and a pin pricked his thumb. It was there—his money. They had not searched for it, thinking of course that the money they had found in the pockets was all that he had possessed. He found the head of the pin and opened the lining, counting the notes—ten of them in all—of one hundred kroners each.

A thousand kroners! He could have shouted for glee. But caution came to him in time. He looked around to find that Selim had awakened and was sitting up rubbing his eyes.



CHAPTER XX

RENWICK QUESTIONS

Had the man observed him when he was counting his money? The hazard of his position made Renwick suspicious. Selim was a crafty rogue as his conversation with the officer at the Visegrader Gate had shown, and one of Zubeydeh's breed needed watching. But the man yawned and stretched his arms, then got up and looked about with so genuine an air of drowsiness and fatigue that Renwick concluded that he had been mistaken. How much or how little Selim had been told of Renwick's affair the Englishman did not know. But the man had already done him a service and might be in a position to help him further. So he decided upon an attitude of friendliness and gratitude which might perhaps be measured by a few of his eighteen kroners but no more.

It was about three o'clock, when having met no adventures upon the way, they reached the farm of Selim Ali upon the border of the Romanja Plain. Twenty hours at a stretch, nine of which had been spent in the tension of his escape, were more than Renwick's strength permitted, and he sank upon the straw pallet to which Selim assigned him, weary and shaken, and with a hand which instinctively clutched the lining of his trousers where his money was pinned, he fell into a deep sleep, from which he did not awaken until the sun was high in the heavens.

He did not rise at once, but lay on his cot, gazing at the ceiling, his mind adjusting itself slowly to his situation. He felt for the money in the lining of his trousers. It had not been touched. If Selim had discovered the notes in Renwick's possession he was either without design upon them or had concluded to postpone its consummation until some later hour. Where was the man? Renwick wanted to talk to him. He heard the sound of a voice in another part of the house, and getting up went outside and walked around to the rear of the building. A young woman in Turkish costume was washing some clothing in a tub by the door.

Renwick greeted her with a bow and a smile, and asked for Selim. She pointed toward a distant field, and then asked if he desired food. Renwick thanked her and replied that he would wait until Selim returned, and went back to bed. There, some moments later the woman brought him coffee, bread, and excellent soup, which the Englishman devoured hungrily, not aware until the moment that it was precisely food he required. When he had finished eating, he smoked a cigarette and planned his pilgrimage.

He had but two known facts with regard to the flight of Captain Goritz with his prisoner; first, the automobile had gone through the Kastele in the direction of the Visegrader Gate, over the very road by which Renwick had come with Selim; second, the object of Captain Goritz was to reach the German border as speedily as possible.

The fact that Goritz had left town by this road to the north and east indicated one of two things: that Goritz, seeking the more quietly to escape from the town, had chosen the road through the Kastele quarter, intending to make a detour over the mountains and reach the Bosna road, by which he would go straight through Hungary and Austria to his destination; the other inference was that Goritz had chosen the more easterly road to the north in order to avoid passing through Austria, seeking the shortest road into Silesia, through central Hungary and Galicia by way of Cracow. It seemed probable that Goritz had already reached Germany, and yet even this was no assured fact. If Goritz had chosen to return through Austria by the main traveled roads, by Bosna, by Agram, or by Budapest, there was scarcely a chance that he could have eluded the agents of the watchful Windt. The plot against the life of the Archduke had consummated in his death. Marishka had failed, but with her failure had come a restitution of her complete rights as an Austrian citizen. Herr Windt, no longer seeking to restrain her actions, would wish to save her from the results of her own imprudences, redoubling his efforts to come between Goritz and the German border.

Renwick tried to think as Goritz would think. Why had Goritz come by the circuitous road over the Romanja Plain? Surely not to go north by way of Serbian territory. Goritz had a reason. The shortest road—the least traveled road, the road which avoided Brod, the main gateway into Bosnia, was the road by which he would pass through the rural districts of eastern Hungary, proceeding all the while along the level country of the Danube or the Thiess, reaching Silesia—the long tail of the German Empire which thrust out between Poland and Galicia.

Renwick paced the room with quick strides. The theory hung together. And given this to be the plan of Goritz, had he succeeded in carrying it out? Possibly. But Hungary was wide. It was five hundred miles at least from Sarajevo to the Carpathians, and much may happen to an automobile in five hundred miles. Marishka, Yeva told him, had fainted. It would have been inhuman for Goritz to have taken her such a distance without a chance for rest or recuperation. Goritz! Every theory that Renwick devised seemed to fall to the ground when he thought of him. The cleverness of the man was amazing. And what lay behind his cleverness? What of decency or what of deviltry lay behind the mask that Renwick had seen? The man had treated her with consideration—for Marishka had not complained of his attitude toward her—until there in the Turkish house, when he had seized her by the arm....

Deliberation had gained something—only a theory as yet, but if a theory, one which stood the acid of inspection from every angle.

Renwick's task seemed hopeless, but that spirit of persistence, of which Marishka had once spoken, was one of the dominating characteristics of his nature. Given a sound purpose, a worthy desire, he was not easily dismayed, and desperate as his chances of finding Marishka now seemed, it did not enter his head to give up and seek his way—as he might easily have done—to the Serbian border and so to safety. Marishka had forgiven him! During the long days of his convalescence the memory of their brief joyous moments in the Turkish house had renewed and invigorated him. He had heard her calling to him across the distances—despairingly, but hoping against hope that the man she loved was still alive. It thrilled him to think that he could still come to her—if she would wait—come even from the grave and answer her call to him—the call of one brave spirit to another, which needed no material fact of physical utterance to make itself heard. He would find her—not soon perhaps, but all in good time. Providence had not saved him miraculously for failure, and it was written that he should succeed. The gods would be with him now and arm him against disaster. He rejoiced to find how strong he felt today. All the tremors had gone out of his nerves, and he was ready to begin his journey whenever it should be time. But first he wanted to question Selim—Goritz had passed this house—there was a chance ...

Selim Ali returned from the fields at supper time, greeted Renwick with bluff heartiness, and together they sat at a substantial meal of Jungfern-Braten, over which Selim's wife Zaidee presided. In the light of events, Renwick willingly reconstructed his estimate of Selim. Last night Renwick would have been suspicious of the angel Gabriel, but with the courage of the sunlight had come confidence in himself, and faith in his star. It seemed that Zubeydeh had told her cousin nothing of Renwick's nationality or predicament, but that he was a friend who had gotten into a trouble, and that the police of Sarajevo were looking for him. Selim was to shelter him and speed him upon his way. Selim asked many questions which Renwick answered as he chose, biding his own time. Yes, he, Stefan Thomasevics, had gotten into trouble in Sarajevo, all because of a woman (and this Renwick knew to be true), and desired to leave the country. He did not wish to go to the war and he would not fight against the Serbians who were not in the wrong. He, Thomasevics, wished to go north to Budapest where he would work in the factories and amass a fortune. Selim wagged his head wisely and laughed.

"You must work long, my young friend, and spend nothing," he said. "Come. You're a strong fellow—a little weak just now from smoking too many cigarettes and staying up too late at night. But I will give you work here upon my farm and pay you well."

But Thomasevics shook his head.

"Thank you. You are kind, but I have already made up my mind."

Selim shrugged and lighted his long pipe.

"As you will, but I have made you a good offer."

"A good offer. Yes. Which I would accept were my mind not set upon other matters." He paused and then, "Selim, you are a good fellow. I will tell you the truth. I would like to stay with you, but I am searching for something which may take me to the ends of the earth."

"That is a long way, my friend."

"Yes, a long way, when one doesn't know which way to go."

"Ah, that is even longer. There are but two things which will take a man like you so far as that—vengeance, or a woman."

Renwick smiled.

"I see that you are wise as well as clever. I go for both, Selim."

"A woman? Young?"

"Yes."

"Beautiful?"

"Yes."

"And the vengeance——"

"That shall be beautiful also."

Selim smoked his pipe solemnly and as Renwick hesitated,

"Will it please you to tell me more?" he asked.

Renwick deliberated.

"Yes. I am groping in the dark. And the darkness begins at Sarajevo. She left there in the night—with him."

"Ah, a man! Of course."

"They fled by the Visegrader Gate and they came upon this road, past this very house."

Selim shrugged.

"At night! It is a pity. I might have seen them but I sleep soundly."

"There are no other houses for a long distance in either direction. They might have stopped here."

"But they did not!" And as Renwick gave up despairingly, "You see, I worked very hard all last week and slept like a dead man."

"It was not last week," said Renwick gloomily, "almost two months ago——"

"Ah, as to that——" and Selim shrugged again. "One has no recollection of things that happened before the Hegira."

Of course it was hopeless. Renwick had only unraveled the thread to see how far it would lead. Here it broke off, and so he relinquished it. Rather wearily he sank back into his chair and gazed out of the window into the sunset.

Selim's wife entered with a tray to take away the dishes. She wore no yashmak, for Selim, though professing the Moslem faith, was somewhat lax in carrying out its articles. He did not believe in running a good thing into the ground, he said. So Zaidee came and went as she chose.

"I have been listening from the kitchen," she said with a smile. "It is always a woman that makes the trouble, nicht wahr?"

"Then how can Paradise be Paradise?" grunted Selim.

"Thou wouldst get on poorly without us, just the same," said Zaidee demurely.

"But I should not go to the ends of the earth, like Stefan, here."

"Thou! Thou dost not know the meaning of love. I wish I could help him."

"It is impossible," sneered Selim.

"But it is interesting," sighed Zaidee. "She went away with another man—that is cruel!"

"Perhaps Stefan is better off than he knows," said Selim.

"Selim," said Zaidee with great solemnity, "thou art a pig!"

"Pig I am not."

"Pig!" she repeated with more acerbity.

Renwick was in no mind to take a part in their quarrel and was moving toward the door of the adjoining room when a phrase caught his ear.

"And thou art a magpie, Zaidee, always croaking. It will get us into trouble, thy talking. I have but to set my foot outside the house and thy tongue wags like the clothing of a scarecrow."

"I have done no harm," she said angrily.

"It is no affair of thine—they will come again asking questions. I have no humor to talk with any of that accursed breed."

"What harm can come—if we tell the truth——?"

"Bah—what do the police care about the truth?"

Renwick turned and reentered the room.

"The police!" he said quickly.

"Zaidee talks too much. A month ago in my absence they came inquiring."

"And what wouldst thou have said?" cried Zaidee angrily. "To shelter a sick woman is no crime——"

"I should have said nothing."

"And what happened?" asked Renwick eagerly, now aware of the bone that chance had thrown in the way of a starving man.

"In the middle of the night which followed the day upon which the Archduke was assassinated——"

"And whose tongue is wagging now—thou magpie?" put in Zaidee spitefully.

"Be quiet——" said Selim.

Renwick glared at the woman as though he would have liked to choke her, and she subsided.

"An automobile stopped at my door. There were three people, an Austrian officer, a lady who was sick, and a man who drove the car. They asked admittance on account of the Excellency who was sick. I could not refuse, for they said that they would pay me well."

Selim paused, hunting in his pockets for a match to light his pipe, and Renwick, containing his patience with difficulty, stood, his hands clenched behind him, waiting. They had stopped here—at this very house.

"And then——?" he asked calmly.

"We put the Excellency to bed——"

"I did," said Zaidee.

"Bah! What matter? They were bound upon a journey over the mountains to Vlasenica, where the Excellency was taking his wife for the waters."

"His wife," mumbled Renwick.

"They traveled at night to avoid the heat of midday, but the sudden sickness of the Excellency made further travel impossible."

"The officer Excellency lied——!" said Zaidee.

"Be quiet, thou——!" roared Selim.

"Let Zaidee speak. I am no policeman," said Renwick.

"What interest is it of yours?"

Renwick caught the man by the shoulders with both hands and glared at him.

"Merely because this is the woman I seek."

"An Excellency like—and you?"

"What I am does not matter. A hundred kroner if you tell the truth——"

"A hundred kroner——!"

His eyes searched Renwick eagerly, and then, "There is little I would not tell for a hundred kroner, but——"

"I am not of the police, I tell you. This lady is an Austrian noblewoman in danger."

"And the Austrian officer——"

"Is no Austrian, but an enemy of Austria——"

"A Serb——?"

"No."

"Who are you?"

"What does that matter?"

Selim shrugged. "Nothing perhaps—still——"

"And if I tell you, you will keep silent?"

"A hundred kroner will make me dumb."

"I am an Englishman," said Renwick after a moment.

"Ah—a spy!"

"No. A prisoner who has escaped."

"That is better."

"Speak!"

And as the man still hesitated Renwick unpinned the notes in his pocket and tossed one of them upon the table, in front of him. Selim took it eagerly.

"I am quite ready to believe anything you say——"

But Renwick seized his wrist in a strong grip. "You have not spoken yet."

"I will speak, then," said Zaidee. "Selim is a fool to hesitate. I nursed the Excellency for two nights and a day. I cooked her eggs and chicken and soup, but she would not eat. She was very much frightened."

"The man—he treated her badly?"

"Oh, no. Very politely, and paid us for our service, but the Excellency was frightened. I was kind to her, and she was grateful, but she spoke nothing of where she was going. Perhaps she did not know. But it was not to take the waters."

"You, Selim," broke in Renwick, "you heard the men speaking? What did they say?"

He shrugged.

"How can I remember? They planned their journey with a map, but I had no interest——"

"What map——?"

"A map—how should I know——"

"Of Hungary——"

"Hungary!" And then scratching his head, "Yes, it must have been of Hungary, for they spoke of Budapest——"

"And what else? The Danube—the Thiess?"

"I do not remember?"

"You must——!" Renwick's fingers closed again upon the hundred kroner note which Selim had put back on the table.

"What good would it do if I lied to you?"

"Think, man, think! They made marks upon the map?"

"Marks? Oh, yes—marks."

"Up and down, the way they were sitting?"

"Yes. I think so. By the beard of the Prophet! You can't expect a fellow to remember such things as this for two months."

"Did they speak of mountains?"

"Mountains——!" Selim scratched his head again. "How should I know?"

"The Carpathians?"

"The Carpathians. Perhaps. Ah——"

Selim tapped his brow with a stubby forefinger.

"There was a name they spoke many times. It was a strange name."

"What?"

"I can't think."

"Zaidee, you heard?" Renwick asked.

"I was listening, but I could not understand."

"Was it a city?"

"I do not know."

"Was it Cracow? Kaschau? Agram? Was it Bruenn?"

But they made no sign.

"Think!" said Renwick. "At the top of the map—away from them—near the edge?"

Selim shrugged hopelessly. "I can't remember," he said.

Renwick despaired.

"Was the map large?"

"Yes. I remember that. It covered this table——"

"Ah—then you can tell me how they stood?"

"Yes. I can tell you that."

He got up and placed himself at the side of the table. "The Excellency was here—the map spread out——"

"Did he lean to the left or to the right?"

"He leaned well forward with both elbows upon the table—straight forward—yes—almost across—a pencil in his hand—the other was pointing. The lamp was just there——" pointing to the left center of the table.

"The lamp was on the map?"

"Yes—to keep it in position——"

"On the left-hand side?"

"Yes."

"And they didn't move the lamp?"

"No. It remained there until they raised it to take the map away."

"I understand. And they made marks up and down with a pencil?"

Selim shrugged.

"It is what I think, merely."

"And the name was——?"

"How can one be sure of a name? It is a wonder just now that I can remember my own. Had I known what was to happen——" And he shrugged and dropped wearily again into his chair.

"And the police—? What has Zaidee said to the police?"

"Merely that the Excellencies were here—in this house."

"The police are coming again?"

"I do not know. It would seem that they have forgotten."

"And if they come, you will speak?"

"The hundred kroner will make me dumb."

"And Zaidee?"

"I will not speak."

"Nothing of me, you understand. I am but Stefan Thomasevics——"

"It is understood."

"And you remember nothing more?"

"Nothing."

"You are sure. The Excellency left no message—no note——?"

"Nothing."

Renwick pushed the hundred kroner note toward Selim and straightened.

"You have done me a service, Selim. They have gone to the east of the Tatra——"

"Tatra!" suddenly shouted Selim triumphantly. "It is the name!"

"Are you sure?" asked Renwick excitedly.

"Yes. Tatra—that is it. They spoke of it for half an hour. Eh—Zaidee?"

"Yes. It is the name."

Renwick paced the floor with long steps.

"Selim," he said at last, "it is now dark. I must go at once."

"Tomorrow."

"Tonight. The stars are out."

He moved to the door and peered out.

"You will keep silent?" he asked.

"Have I not promised?" said Selim.

He caught them both by the hand.

"Allah will bless you."

"A hundred kroner—that is blessing enough for one day, Stefan Thomasevics," he laughed.

"Adieu!" said Renwick, and walked bravely off into the starlight.



CHAPTER XXI

AN IMPERSONATION

At least he now had a goal—"the center of the map, near the top"—the Tatra region by which Goritz had passed (if he had not been intercepted) into Galicia and so into Germany. Aside from the value of Selim's information, one other fact stood out. The secret service men who had visited Selim a month ago had not returned. Did this mean that Herr Windt had already succeeded in closing the door of escape? The passes through the Carpathians could of course be easily guarded and closed, for there were few of them accessible to traffic by automobile. Was Renwick's goal, after all, to be there and not beyond? He had put in one summer in the Tatra region with Captain Otway of the Embassy, and he knew the district well,—a country of mountain villages, feudal castles, and rugged roads. Otway had been interested in the military problems of the Austro-Hungarian empire, and Renwick remembered the importance of the Tatra as a natural barrier to Russian ambitions. The shortest automobile road into Silesia lay to the east of the Tatra range—and the passes through the Carpathians at this point were few and well known. By process of elimination, Renwick had at last assured himself that his first theory was tenable, for Selim had confirmed it. A hundred conjectures flashed into the Englishman's mind as he trudged onward, to be one by one dismissed and relegated to the limbo of uncertainty. But assuming that Selim had told the truth, Renwick had found the trail, and would follow wherever it might lead him, to its end.

His idea of traveling afoot by night and of hiding by day, at least for the first part of his journey, was born of the desire to leave nothing to chance. His own capture meant internment until the end of the war, or possibly an exchange for some Austrian in England. But they should not catch him! Concealed in his belt he wore the American revolver, and carried some cartridges which Zubeydeh had restored to him.

The weather fortunately had been fine, and the days and nights in the open were rapidly restoring him to strength. The discomfort at the wound in his body which had bothered him for a few days had disappeared. He was well. And with health came hope, faith even, in the star of his fortunes. It took him two weeks to reach Polishka, below which he crossed the Save at night in a boat which he found moored to the bank, and daylight found him at a small village through which a railroad ran north towards the plains of the Danube. Here he paused dead-tired for food and rest.

The innkeeper, who spoke German fairly well, swallowed Renwick's story, his taste somewhat stimulated by the sight of the ten-kroner piece which the Englishman used in paying for his breakfast.

But the time had now come for the execution of a bold plan which for some days and nights Renwick had been turning over and over in his mind. It was a good plan, he thought, a brave plan which stood the test of argument pro and con. The British Embassy in many of its investigations during times of peace,—investigations of a purely personal or financial nature,—had been in the habit of calling in the services of one Carl Moyer, an Austrian who ran a private inquiry bureau in Vienna. He was an able man, not directly connected with the secret service department of the Empire, but frequently brought into consultation upon matters outside the pale of politics. Renwick's interest in Moyer had been limited to the share they had both taken in some inquiries as to the standing of a Russian nobleman who had approached the Ambassador with a scheme of a rather dubious character. But a physical resemblance to Moyer, which had been the subject of frequent jokes with Otway, had now given Renwick a new and very vital interest in the personality of the man which had nothing to do with their business relations. Moyer was thinner than Renwick, and not so tall, but their features were much alike. When at first the idea of an impersonation had come to Renwick, he had rejected it as dangerous, but the notion obsessed him. The very boldness of the project was in its favor. He could now move freely along the railroads and if one ignored the hazard of meeting the man himself or someone who knew him intimately, he could pursue his object of following the trail of Captain Goritz with a brave front which would defy suspicion. True, he would have no papers and no credentials, but this, too, was a part of the guise of a man who might be moving upon a secret mission. Carl Moyer, disguised as an Austrian of the laboring class, moving from Bosnia to the Carpathians—what could be more natural?

As Renwick ate his breakfast in the small inn at Otok, he came to a sudden decision to put this bold plan into practice. And so, exhibiting another ten-kroner piece, he made known his wishes to the innkeeper. He was a Bosnian, he said, but in Hungary he did not wish to attract attention by wearing his native costume. In parts of Hungary there was a feeling that the Bosnians who lived near the Serbian border were not loyal to the Emperor and this, it had been said, might make it difficult for him to obtain employment. His purse was not large but if his host would procure for him a suit of western clothing, a coat, a pair of trousers, a shirt, a cravat, and a soft hat, he, Thomasevics, would offer his Bosnian clothing in exchange and do what was fair in the matter of money. The train from Britzka did not go north for an hour. Would it be possible to find these things in so short a time? The innkeeper regarded the worn and mud-stained garments of his guest rather dubiously, but the terms of the offer in the matter of money having been made clear, the transformation was accomplished without difficulty and Renwick boarded the train rather jubilant at the celerity and speed of his journey. By nightfall, with luck, he would be across the Danube and well within the borders of Hungary, mingling in crowds where all trace of his identity would be lost. He spent most of his afternoon on the train trying to recall the mannerisms of the man Moyer, a trick of gesture, a drawl and a shrug which he thought he could manage. Carl Moyer he now was, on a mission from Bosnia to the North, in which the better to disguise himself he was permitting his hair and beard to grow.

Hut success had made him over-confident, for at the Bahnhof at Zombor where he had to change into a train for Budapest, something happened which drove all thought from his head save that of escape from the predicament into which his imprudence had plunged him.

He was sitting upon a bench on the platform waiting for his train when a man approached and sat beside him. Renwick needed no second glance to reassure himself as to the fellow's identity. He was Spivak, Windt's man, the fellow who had kept guard on the cabin at Konopisht. The Englishman feared to get up and walk away, for that might attract attention. So he sat, slouched carelessly, his hat pulled well down over his eyes, awaiting what seemed to be the inevitable. Spivak—one of Windt's men sent of course to Zombor, one of the important railway junctions, to watch all arrivals from the south. Renwick had been ready with his story when he debarked from the train but there had been a crowd and he had been in the last carriage. Renwick's mind worked rapidly, and to an imagination already prescient of disaster, the man seemed to be inspecting him. As Spivak's chin lifted, Renwick faced him squarely. Their glances met—and passed. Renwick calmly took out a cigarette and bending his head forward lighted it coolly, aware that the man was saying something in Hungarian.

Renwick made a gesture of incomprehension, wondering meanwhile how he could kill the man on the crowded platform without attracting observation.

"The train from the south was crowded today," said Spivak in German.

"Crowded? Yes."

"Do you come from Brod or Britzka?"

"From Britzka," said Renwick without hesitation, and then with the courage of desperation—

"I have seen you before," he went on, calmly puffing at his cigarette.

"I have, I think, the same impression."

"Your name is Spivak—of the Secret Service——"

"You——"

"My name is Carl Moyer."

It was a gambler's chance that Renwick took. If Spivak intimately knew the man—but he did not and the effrontery disarmed him.

"You are Carl Moyer? I must have seen you," he muttered. "I have been in Vienna a little—with Herr Windt, but I am of the Hungarian branch. You have been in Sarajevo?"

"Yes," said Renwick easily following out a wild plan that had come into his mind. "I have been employed by the Baroness Racowitz to find the Countess Marishka Strahni."

"Ah, I see. It has come to that!" And then, regarding his companion with a new interest, "When did you come from Sarajevo?"

"Last night. It is a strange case."

"And you have found a lead?"

"Several——"

"You can do nothing against such a man as Goritz."

"It is Goritz—yes—but I will find her if I have to go through Germany with a harrow."

"They have not gone to Germany, my friend. Every gate out of Hungary has been closed to them since the assassination."

Renwick smiled. The thing had worked. The spirit of the venture glowed in him—its very impudence fascinated.

"Perhaps!" he replied. "Still, a man who could outwit Nicholas Szarvas——"

Spivak caught him so suddenly by the arm that Renwick trembled.

"You think he killed Szarvas——?" whispered Spivak eagerly.

"If not himself, it was by his orders. And the Englishman—Renck——"

"Renwick."

"I've found the evidence that Renck was lured to Sarajevo. He possessed a secret dangerous to Germany and so Goritz killed him."

"And this Peter Langer—who escaped from the hospital——?" asked Spivak cynically.

"The chauffeur of Goritz, left for dead in the fight with Szarvas and stripped of his clothing to hide all marks of identity. It is no wonder that he wished to escape——" The Englishman broke off with a rough laugh and rose. "But this won't do, I'm giving you all my thunder. Herr Windt does not relish my employment in this service, but since he has accomplished nothing you cannot blame my clients. I am on my way to Germany. The surest way to catch a fox is to smoke him out of his hole."

Spivak took a few paces away, and then slowly returned.

"What you say is interesting, Herr Moyer, and the theory hangs together, but you will waste your time in Germany."

"Why?"

"Because Captain Goritz is still in Hungary."

"What further reason have you for believing that he is here?"

Spivak smiled and hesitated a moment. And then, "You have talked freely. One good turn deserves another. I will tell you. We know that Captain Goritz is still in Hungary because within the past week the Wilhelmstrasse has sent urgent messages to Vienna inquiring for him."

"Ah—that is interesting," said Renwick slowly, trying to hide the throb of triumph in his throat. "Then you think——?"

"Merely that he is in hiding—with the lady," said Spivak with a leer. "It is no new thing for a man to go in hiding with a lady."

Renwick's laugh was admirably managed, for fury was in his heart. "This information is helpful," he said. "You believe that it is true?"

"I am sure. Berlin is anxious because he has not returned. I do not know what they suspect over there, but the situation is changed. The war has made a difference. We have no idea where he has gone. All that we know is that it will be very difficult for him to get out."

In the distance the train was rumbling up the track, and Renwick was thankful. But he caught the fellow by the hand.

"You are a good fellow, Spivak. If at any time you wish to leave the government service and take a good place at a fair payment, you will come to see me in Vienna."

"Thanks, Herr Moyer. I shall remember. You are going on to Budapest?"

"Yes. And you?"

"I am detained here to watch for a Russian spy who is trying to get through to the Galician border." He laughed. "You're sure you're not——?"

"That's a good joke, Spivak," he smiled. "A Russian! I'd have precious little chance——" And then as the train rolled in—

"Don't forget—Ferdinand Strasse, Number 83——"

"I will not. Adieu!"

"Adieu, my friend."

And with a final wave of the hand Renwick turned and slowly mounted into his third class carriage. The plan had worked and the man, it seemed, had not the slightest suspicion. He was, as Renwick remembered from Konopisht, not infallible, and the ease with which Renwick had accomplished his object and the remarkable nature of his newly acquired information could only be explained by the fact that Spivak was seeking the Russian and not himself, and by the boldness of his impersonation, which had immediately pierced the crust of Spivak's professional reserve. All had gone well, but it seemed an age before the train drew out of the station. Renwick did not dare to look out of the window to learn if the man were still there, and until the bell of the locomotive rang announcing the departure of the train, he was unpleasantly nervous, for fear that a suspicion might dawn in the man's mind which would lead him to pursue the conversation.

Renwick never learned whether Spivak's second thoughts had warned him that all was not as it should be, for instead of taking any chances, the Englishman got down from the train at the first stop and disappeared into the darkness.

It was with a feeling of elation mingled with apprehension that Renwick made his way forward. Elation because of the new crumbs of information, apprehension because of the definite assurance that Goritz still held Marishka a prisoner somewhere within the borders of Hungary. Definite it seemed, for Spivak had spoken with the utmost confidence of things with which he was intimately concerned. The trail narrowed. It seemed as though Providence, aware of past impositions, was bent on making amends to one who had suffered much from her disfavor. The sudden appearance of Spivak, which had seemed to threaten disaster, had been turned by a bold stroke from calamity to good fortune. But Renwick determined to avoid further such encounters if possible. And so, resuming the mode of progress which had been so effective on the way to Tuzla, he walked at night, and slept under cover by day, reaching a town upon the banks of the Danube, where he bought new clothing, a straw hat, a change of linen, and a hand bag with which (representing himself as a grain merchant of Ujvidek), he boldly boarded a steamer upon the river, reaching Budapest without further incident.

It was not until he had passed the Quai and was safely in the Karoly Korut that Renwick breathed easily. He was now safe, finding his way to his immediate destination, the house of a person connected with the English Secret Service, into whose care he confidently entrusted himself.



CHAPTER XXII

THE NEEDLE IN THE HAYSTACK

Herr Koulas was by birth a Greek, by citizenship, an Austrian, and by occupation, a chemist; but his real metier, concealed under a most docile and law abiding exterior, was secret inquiry in behalf of the British government into all matters pertaining to its interests, either social, political, or military. He knew his Hungary from Odenburg to Kronstadt, from the Save to the Carpathians, and Renwick, while somewhat dubious as to the wisdom of his visit under the circumstances, found himself received at this excellent man's home with a warmth of welcome which left no doubt in his own mind as to the unselfishness of his host. Even before the war Renwick and Constantine Koulas had met in secret, so that if trouble came no plan should mar the man's impeccable character in Austrian eyes. And Renwick would not have come to him now, had not his own need been great. But Herr Koulas, having heard the tale of his adventures and reassured as to the present danger of pursuit, gave willingly of his hospitality and counsel, and when he learned the character of Renwick's mission, volunteered to procure him a set of papers which would rob his pilgrimage to the north, at least, of its most obvious dangers. He was ready with information, too, and offered a mind with a peculiar genius for the kind of problem that Renwick presented. The fact that the great Prussian secret agent, Leo Goritz, was involved in the affair lent it an individuality which detracted nothing from its other interest. Leo Goritz! Only last year there had been a contest of wits between them, both under cover, and Koulas had managed to get what he wanted, not, however, without narrowly escaping the revelation of his own part in the investigation. Goritz was a clever man and a dangerous one, young, brilliant, handsome, unscrupulous, who wore an armor of impenetrability which had not yet revealed a single weak link. And yet, Herr Koulas reasoned, broodingly, that there must be one. A weak link! Where was the man without one? The messages from the Wilhelmstrasse! Why had Goritz not returned to Berlin upon the outbreak of the war? What was keeping him in Hungary? He was in the Tatra region? Possibly. Which were the passes by which he might try to go? Uzoker, Dukla, or perhaps even Jablunka. The Russians were already battering at Przemysl—Uzoker Pass was out of the question. Jablunka—that was nearer the German border, but eagerly watched even in times of peace. Goritz would not have dared to try to abduct the Countess Strahni by way of Jablunka! The railroad went through Jablunka, a narrow highway with no outlet for many miles. It was not the kind of cul-de-sac that Goritz would have chosen. Dukla? Perhaps. A little farther to the east, of course, but not yet menaced by the Russian advance.

The thing was puzzling, but interesting—very. The abduction of a loyal citizen of Austria—a lady of noble birth—a hurried flight by unfrequented roads and then an impasse! Had Herr Windt blocked the way? Was the lady ill? Or had something else detained them?

Renwick sat in the back room of the small laboratory, his arms folded, his brows tangled in thought, as Herr Koulas, puffing great clouds of smoke from his long pipe, thus analyzed the situation.

"I have thought of all of these things, Herr Koulas," Renwick muttered, "and my mind always comes back to the same point. If I know that Goritz has come to this region, if I know that he has not gone out of it, I also know that he remains. I do not care why—my question is where—where?"

Koulas ran his long forefinger over the map upon the table.

"It is the map Goritz might use—a road map of the government," he grumbled.

"The center near the top—Poprad—he would get through there with difficulty——"

Renwick had risen and paced the floor slowly.

"I have not been through Dukla. It is accessible?"

"Yes. Svidnik to Przemysl. Rocks—a schloss or two——" He turned. "It was there that the Baron Neudeck was killed—you remember—three years ago?"

"I have forgotten—Neudeck—an Austrian?"

"A German—Neudeck was selling military plans to the Russians—Goritz!"

Koulas sprang to his feet triumphantly—"Goritz! It was Goritz who discovered him——"

Renwick was listening eagerly, and Koulas turned with a shrug. "Nothing much, my friend. And yet—a coincidence perhaps—Goritz, Neudeck, Dukla. Goritz—Strahni—'the center of the map—at the top.' It might be worth trying."

"I shall try it. There is nothing else for me to do. The Pass is used for transport?"

"No. The line of communication is through Mezo Laborcz."

"It will be risky——"

"Not unless you make it so. With luck you shall bear a letter to General Lechnitz (which you need never deliver) as a writer for a newspaper."

"That can be managed?"

"I hope—I believe—I am confident."

Renwick smiled. Herr Koulas was something of a humorist.

"Tell me more of this Neudeck case," asked the Englishman.

"There is unfortunately little more to tell. Neudeck was a German baron with military connections, not too rich and not above dishonesty. Goritz traced the plans to Schloss Szolnok, an ancient feudal stronghold which an elder Baron Neudeck had bought——"

"In the Dukla?"

"—in the Dukla—where some Russian officers were invited for the shooting. They did not know how little they were to enjoy it——" Koulas chuckled and blew a cloud of smoke—"for Goritz shot Neudeck before their very eyes, and took the plans back to Germany. This is secret history—a nine days' wonder—but it passed and with it a clever scoundrel who well deserved what he got."

"And since his death who lives in Schloss Szolnok?"

"I don't know." He laughed again. "You jump very rapidly at conclusions, my friend."

"Time passes. I must jump at something. I am going to Dukla Pass—tomorrow if you will help me."

"That goes without saying. For the present you shall go to bed and sleep soundly. I would like to go with you, but alas—I am not so young as I was and I can best serve all your interests here."

Renwick shook Koulas by the hand and took the bedroom candle that was offered him.

"Good night," he said. "I pray that no harm may come to you from this imprudence of mine."

"Do not worry, my friend. I am well hedged about with alibis. Good night."

The next evening after dark Renwick, now Herr Max Schoff of the Wiener Zeitung, supplied with a pass which Herr Koulas by means of his underground machinery had managed to procure, took the night train for Kaschau, which he reached in the early morning of the following day, going on later to Bartfeld, the terminus of the railroad, a small and ancient town under the very shadow of the mountains. Here, it being late in the afternoon, he found the Hungaria, a hotel to which he had been directed, where he made arrangements to stop for the night while he leisurely pursued his inquiries.

Now at last, so very near his destination, he was curiously oppressed with the futility of his pilgrimage. He had come far, braving the danger of detection and death, for he had no illusions regarding the status of an Englishman approaching the battle lines under the guise of a newspaper writer. If taken, it would be as a spy, and he would be treated as such.

Herr Koulas had warned him not to be too sanguine, for the roads out of Hungary were many, and Dukla Pass, merely because of a bit of forgotten secret history, a possibility not to be neglected. Herr Koulas had also warned him that the methods in induction which had been open to him had also been open to the Austrian secret service men who, perhaps, had already taken measures to follow the same scent. And so it was that the golden smile of Herr Windt still persisted in Renwick's dreams by night, and in his thoughts by day. If Spivak had told his story of his meeting with the spurious Moyer, his conversation about Szarvas would immediately identify him as Renwick the Englishman. But however near the two trails ran, Windt's men had not yet come up with him, and, until they did, Renwick knew that he must move boldly and quickly upon his quest. And so at last resolution armed him anew.

It was now approaching dusk, and he cast about for a person to whom he might talk without arousing suspicion, and so he turned into an inn at the corner of the street and ordering beer sat himself upon a bench along the wall before a long wooden table. The few men who sat drinking and smoking gave him a curious glance, and the proprietor of the establishment, aware of a stranger, felt it to be his duty to learn something of his mission to this small town and of his identity. This was what Renwick wanted, and as the man spoke in German, he told with brief glibness his well rehearsed story, inviting his host to join him in a glass, over which they were presently chatting as thick as thieves. He was a newspaper writer, Renwick said, upon his way to the front, and showed the letter to General Lechnitz. But he had never before been in this part of the country and intended to see it, upon the way. It was an interesting town, Bartfeld, a fine church too, St. Aegidius. Had his host lived in Bartfeld a long time?

The man was a native, and very proud of his traditions, expanding volubly in reply to Renwick's careless questions. His father and grandfather had kept this very inn, and indeed for all he knew their fathers' fathers. A quiet town, but interesting to those who were fond of historical associations. Renwick listened patiently, slowly drawing the man nearer to the subject that was uppermost in his mind. It was a short distance to Dukla Pass, a very picturesque spot, he had been told, one well worth a visit, was it not?

"Dukla Pass!" said the man. "A name well known in the annals of the country in the days of John Sobieski, long before the railroad went through beyond; a wonderful spot with cliffs and ravines. I have been there often. In the season, before the war, one drove there—for the view. Now alas! what with the Cossacks running over Galicia, the people had more serious things to think about."

"It is easily reached?" asked Renwick.

"By the road beyond the town—a short cut—a climb over the mountains, but not difficult at this time of the year."

"There is a village there?"

"A few farmhouses merely, in the valley along the streams. The glory of the Dukla is its ruins."

"Ah, of course, there are feudal castles——"

"Javorina, Jaegerhorn, Szolnok——"

"Szolnok!" said Renwick with sudden interest. "I have heard that name before——"

He paused in a puzzled way.

"It was the summer residence of Baron Neudeck——"

"Ah, then it is not a ruin?"

"Until three years ago he lived there—in the habitable part—when something terrible happened. No one about here is sure—but the place has an evil name."

"That is interesting. Why?"

"The facts have never been clearly explained. The story goes that Baron Neudeck was in the midst of entertaining guests—a hunting party of gentlemen; that there was a night of revelry and of drinking. One of the servants, entering the dining-hall in the morning, found Baron Neudeck lying dead upon the hearth with a bullet wound in his forehead. The guests had disappeared—vanished as if the earth had swallowed them."

"And the police?"

"The police came and went. It was very strange. Nothing further was heard of the matter. But no one about here will go within a mile of the place after nightfall."

"And the servants—what became of them?"

The man shrugged. "They did not come from around here. They were Germans, who came with the Baron. If the police are satisfied, I am."

The man shrugged and drained his glass.

"The other castles are ruined, you say? Then it cannot be long before Szolnok will share their fate—since it is not occupied," suggested Renwick.

"Perhaps," said the man indifferently, rising with a view to closing the conversation.

Renwick ordered another glass of beer, and sat looking out of the small casement window at the passers-by, thinking deeply.

The inspiration of Herr Koulas had at least set him upon a scent which still held him true upon this trail. The information he had received might mean much or little. German servants? Had Goritz used the servants of Baron Neudeck in unraveling the secret of the stolen plans? Had they been implicated in the affair? Did he hold them his creatures by a knowledge of their share in the guilty transaction? Three years had passed since the killing of Neudeck. What had happened in the meanwhile? Had the title of the property passed to others? Had the Schloss been occupied since the Baron's death, or was it deserted? He evolved a theory rapidly, determining to test it at once. It would perhaps be imprudent to question further this innkeeper, a public character, and it seemed quite probable that he knew little more than had already been told. A visit to the farmhouses in the valley would reveal something. He would go——

Renwick had been gazing out of the window, but his attention was suddenly arrested by the figure of a man at the corner of the street, who stood, smoking a cigarette. There was nothing unusual in his clothing or demeanor, but the thing which had startled Renwick into sudden alertness was the rather vague impression that somewhere he had seen this man's face before. A vague impression, but definite in the sense that to Renwick the face had been associated with something unpleasant or disagreeable. But even as Renwick looked, the man tossed his cigarette into the cobbles and turning on his heel walked up the street, passing out of Renwick's range of vision. The Englishman started up from his unfinished glass with the notion of following, but a second thought urged caution. It was still light outside, and if the stranger's memory for faces were better than his own, a meeting face to face would merely court unnecessary danger. So Renwick returned to his bench and made a pretense of finishing his beer, awaiting in safety the darkness. Where had he seen this man before? He searched his mind with painful thoroughness—wondering if the injury to his head had robbed his brain of some of its clearness. He had seen this man's face before—before his sickness—he was sure of that. Hadwiger, Lengelbach, Linder—one by one he recalled the secret service men. The face of the stranger was that of none of these. Someone—a shadowy someone—out of darkness—or dreams. Could the idea have been born of some imaginary resemblance, some fancied recollection? The thing was elusive, and so he gave it up, aware that if his brain had played him no trick, there was here another confirmation of his hope that he was on the true scent. Were the threads converging?

The plan that he now had in mind was to go over the mountains afoot and make some quiet inquiries among the farmhouses in the valley below the Pass, in regard to Schloss Szolnok. And so as the light had grown dim, he got up and went forth into the street, pulling his soft hat well down over his eyes, and making his way toward the road which led to Dukla Pass. He verified the innkeeper's direction by inquiry at the end of the main street, and as the night was clear, set forth briskly upon his walk over the mountain road, for the idea of spending the evening in inactivity was not to be thought of until all the facts regarding this Schloss Szolnok were in his possession.

A ruin—uninhabited? And with its crumbling, his own hope.... It was no time for despair. Had he not come miraculously from death and traveled safely from one border of the enemy's country almost to the other, as though led or driven by some secret impelling force—some inspiration, some hidden guidon or command? At each turn, at each danger, he remembered he had acted with swiftness and decision, and had at no time been at a loss. Fortune had favored him at each stage of his journey and had directed his steps with rare assurance in this direction. Fortune or a will-o'-the-wisp? Or was Marishka calling to him? He had had the impression of her nearness often—there in the hospital—and since, at Selim Ali's—upon the road. It seemed strange and a little mystifying too, that he had never doubted that he would be able to find her.... And now—if not at Schloss Szolnok—elsewhere.