Captain Leo Goritz made it a habit to neglect no detail. There was but a little more than an hour of time, but he acted swiftly. At his request the Ambassador procured money, and from the War Ministry the necessary papers, a safe conduct for an officer of the Fifteenth Army Corps, returning to his regiment at Sarajevo with his wife. Graf von Mendel attended to the secret arrangements for their departure from the Embassy and booked the passage. Captain Goritz sat at a desk in a private office, upon which was a small copper teapot above a spirit lamp. The water in the pot was steaming. A servant knocked at the door and brought him a letter.
"Ah! You followed my directions about the paper and ink?"
"As you ordered, Herr Hauptmann. And a maid is with the Countess Strahni."
"Very good. Wait outside and be prepared to take a message in an automobile."
"Zu befehl, Herr Hauptmann."
As the servant reached the door Goritz halted him.
"The room which the Countess Strahni has is not on the side toward the British Embassy?"
"No, Herr Hauptmann."
"Very good. You may go."
The man withdrew, closing the door gently. And Captain Goritz took the note of the Countess Strahni and held it in front of the copper teapot, moving it to and fro, the back of the envelope in the jet of steam. In a moment the flap of the envelope curled back and opened. The thing was simplicity itself. He took two slips of paper out of the envelope and read them through attentively, smiling amusedly as he did so. Then without waste of time, he put one of the notes before him, and drawing some writing paper nearer wrote steadily for ten minutes, tearing up sheet after sheet and burning each in turn. At last apparently satisfied with what he had written he put the sheet aside and burned the original note in which he had been so interested. Then he addressed several small envelopes, glancing from time to time at the other note of the Countess Strahni upon the desk in front of him. The envelopes all bore the words,
Herr Hugh RenwickStrohgasse No. 26 Wien.
Herr Hugh RenwickStrohgasse No. 26 Wien.
At last, critically selecting one of those he had written, he burned the others, and folding the note enclosed it in the smaller envelope, which he sealed carefully, putting it with the Countess Strahni's letter into the original and larger envelope, which he pasted anew and carefully closed. Then he rang the bell, and when the man appeared:
"You will take this note to the given address. You will explain that the note within is to be delivered tonight at eight o'clock. Then you will wait twenty minutes for a suitcase or valise and bring it here. That's all. And hasten."
"Zu befehl, Herr Hauptmann."
Goritz sat for a moment—just a moment of contemplation. It was merely a thread of possibility, a chance, if other expedients had failed, but thoroughly worth taking. His man Kronberg was a good shot, but he might have missed, and if so Europe was large, and Herr Renwick clever. The hook of Leo Goritz was baited with a delectable morsel—most delectable—it would have been childish not to use it. Where Marishka Strahni was, there also was the heart of Renwick—the Englishman with the nine lives—the last of which must be taken.
This duty accomplished, Goritz went to a room upstairs, bathed and dressed in the uniform which had been provided, packing a large bag with several objects besides clothing and necessities of the toilet, including two automatic pistols, and went down to the Embassy office. All this had occupied an hour. He was awaiting Marishka when, somewhat refreshed and newly attired, she descended and entered the Embassy office. His Excellency rose and bowed over her hand—
"Captain Goritz tells me that you have consented to help us in this extraordinary affair. I wish you Godspeed, Countess Strahni, and a safe return," he added with some deliberateness.
She glanced at Captain Goritz who stood in a military attitude, but he only smiled politely and said nothing.
"I thank Your Excellency for your hospitality and protection," she said slowly. "I am sure that I shall be quite safe with Captain Goritz——"
"Ober Lieutenant Carl von Arnstorf, at your service," corrected Goritz, "of the Third Regiment, Fifteenth Army Corps."
Marishka smiled.
"And I?"
"Frau Ober Lieutenant von Arnstorf," said Goritz shortly.
"It is necessary, I suppose?"
Goritz bowed, and his Excellency added, "It simplifies matters greatly, Countess Strahni."
Marishka shrugged. It was no time for quibbling.
"The way is clear?" asked the Ambassador of von Mendel.
"Quite, Excellency. The side street has been patrolled for ten minutes."
Goritz opened a door which led to a small staircase, and he and Marishka descended and went through the kitchens to a small street or alley where a machine was awaiting them. A question—a reply from a man who had brought down their bags, and they moved slowly out of the alley into a small street.
A bath, food, and a glass of wine had restored Marishka, and she now faced the immediate future with renewed hope and courage. Apart from the belief, fostered by the careful detail of her companions arrangements, that she might still be successful in reaching the ear of the Duchess before the royal train reached Sarajevo, there was an appeal in the hazard of her venture with Captain Goritz. He was a clever man and a dangerous one, who, to gain his ends, whatever they were, would not hesitate to stoop to means beneath the dignity of honorable manhood—an intriguer, a master craftsman in the secret and recondite, a perverted gentleman, trained in a school which eliminated compassion, sentiment and all other human attributes in the attainment of its object and the consummation of its plans. And yet Marishka did not fear Captain Goritz. There is a kind of feminine courage which no man can understand, that is not physical nor even mental, born perhaps of that mysterious relation which modern philosophy calls sex antagonism—a spiritual hardihood which deals in the metaphysics of emotion and pays no tribute to any form of materiality. Captain Goritz, whatever his quality, to Marishka was merely a man. And whatever the forces at his command, her promise, the half uttered threat as to her fate—which she had refused to take seriously—she was aware that she was not defenseless. The elaborateness of the Ambassador's manner, the graces of Graf von Mendel, and Captain Goritz's now covert glances advised her that she was still armed with her woman's weapons. Marishka was young, but her two years in the life of the gayest court in Europe had sharpened her perceptions amazingly, but she knew that if beauty is a woman's letter of credit worth its face value with a man, it can also be a dangerous liability. Captain Goritz differed from the gay idlers of the Viennese Court. The signs of interest he had given her were slight,—a courtesy perhaps a trifle too studied, a lingering glance of his curiously penetrating eyes which might even have been impelled by professional curiosity, a thoughtfulness for her comfort which might have been any woman's due, and yet Marishka did not despair.
They reached the railway station uneventfully, where she learned that men from the Embassy had followed on bicycles as a matter of precaution, and the travelers found their compartment and were safely installed. She sank into her place silently and looked out of the window into the blur of moving lights as Vienna was left behind them. Upon the seat opposite her sat the newly created officer of the Fifteenth Army Corps, Ober Lieutenant Carl von Arnstorf, looking rather smart in his borrowed plumage. The intimacy of their new situation did not frighten her, for she thought that already she had read enough of her companion's character to know that at least so far she was on safe ground. She gave him permission to smoke without his asking it, and this, it seemed, made for the beginnings of a new informality in their relations.
"There isn't the slightest reason," she said with a smile, "that you should be uncomfortable. Since you are doomed for the present to share my imprisonment——"
"Doomed?" he exclaimed civilly. "You may be sure that I don't look upon such a doom with unhappiness, Countess. Are you very tired?"
"A little. I shall sleep presently."
"Do you know," he said as he thoughtfully inhaled his cigarette, "for the first time in my rather variegated career, I find myself in a false position."
"Really! How?"
"I will explain. I have had much dealing to do with women—with women of a certain sort. It is a part of my trade. Were you unscrupulous, intriguing, you would meet your match. As it is you have me at a disadvantage."
"I?"
"I have felt it—from the first. Even a secret agent has eyes, dimensions, senses. I am a little abashed as if in the presence of phenomena. Your helplessness and innocence, your loyalty and unselfishness—you must be sure that I am not unaware of them."
Marishka laughed easily.
"You restore my faith in human kind, Captain Goritz. You'll admit that your attitude toward me has been far from reassuring."
"Countess, I beg of you——"
"The alternative to disobeying your wishes—destruction—death!" she went on, shuddering prettily.
"I am merely a cog in the great wheel of efficiency. I spoke figuratively——"
"But of course you know," she broke in quickly, with another laugh, "that I didn't believe you. I haven't really been frightened at all. HowcouldI be? You're not in the least alarming. To face the alternative you imposed would take courage. I am easily frightened at a mouse. The deduction is obvious——"
He laughed and then said soberly, "It is far from my wish to frighten you. That kind of brutality has its justification, but this is not the occasion, nor you the woman."
"I was sure of it. If I hadn't been I shouldn't have come with you."
"Ah!" Goritz straightened and stared at her. "But—your promise——"
"I should have broken that and asked the firstgendarmein the Ringstrasse to take me home. You admit that the plan would have been feasible?"
He shrugged.
"The Countess Strahni's word of honor——"
"Honor is as honor does and I am here, Captain Goritz."
"I trust that you will have no reason to regret your decision."
"That sounds like another threat."
"It isn't. I actually mean what I say. A secret agent doesn't permit himself such a luxury very often," he laughed.
"Then you're not going to murder me offhand——"
"Countess, I protest——"
"You wish my last moments to be graced with courtesy. I shall at least die like a rose—in aromatic pain."
Her irony was not lost on him. He was silent a moment, regarding her soberly.
"Countess, you are too clever to be unkind—your lips too lovely to utter words so painful. I could not do you harm—it is impossible. I pray that you will believe me."
"I am merely taking you at face value, Herr Hauptmann," she returned coolly. "You have told me that you are merely a thinking machine, or a cog in the wheel of efficiency, which plans my elimination——"
"A figure of speech. Your silence was what I meant."
"Ah, silence! Perhaps. It seems that I have already said enough."
"Quite," he smiled. "You have set Europe in a turmoil—another Helen——"
"With another Paris in your background?" she shot at him.
He smiled, lowering his gaze to the ash of his cigarette.
"You speak in riddles."
"It's your trade to solve them."
"Do not underestimate my intelligence, I understand you," he laughed. "It is a fortunate thing for me that you are not a secret agent. My occupation would be gone."
"It is a villainous occupation."
"Why?"
"Because no secret agent can be himself. It's rather a pity, because I'd like to like you."
"And don't you—a little?"
"I might if I thought that I could believe in you. If a man is not true to himself, he cannot be true to those that wish to be his friends."
He was silent for a moment.
"I think perhaps," he said quietly at last, "that you do me an injustice. I am merely the servant of my government——"
"Which, stops at no means—even death."
"I too look death in the face, Countess," he said with a slow smile. "It lurks in every byway—hangs in every bush."
"It is frightful," she sighed, "to live like that, preying upon others, and being preyed upon—when the world is so beautiful."
"The world is just what men have made it. I, too, once dreamed——" His words trailed off into silence, and he looked out of the window into the night.
"And now?" she asked.
Something in the tone of her voice made him straighten and glance at her. He had seen the same look in other women's eyes.
"And now, I dream no more, Countess Strahni," he said abruptly.
Marishka's gaze fell before his.
"I am sorry," she said.
There was another silence in which Captain Goritz took out another cigarette.
"I do not think that I quite—understand you, Countess Strahni——"
"Naturally," she broke in. "You have known me—let us see—a little less than twelve hours."
Her smile disarmed him.
"You are far from transparent, Countess," he said quizzically.
"And if I were?"
"It would probably be because you wished me to see something beyond," with a laugh.
"To one who deals in mystery and intrigue, sincerity must always be bewildering."
"H—m! I was once stabbed in the back by a woman who was too sincere."
The smile left Marishka's face. "How terrible!"
"It was. I nearly died. It was my mistake, you see."
Marishka was silent for a long moment. And then,
"I'm afraid, Captain Goritz, that the world has left you bitter."
"To the secret agent the world is neither sweet nor bitter. He has no sense of taste or of feeling. He is merely a pair of ears—a pair of eyes which nothing must escape——"
"Deaf to music—blind to beauty," sighed Marishka. "From the bottom of my heart I pity you."
Captain Goritz gazed at her for a long moment, in silence, then his eyes narrowed slightly and his voice was lowered.
"It is rather curious, Countess Strahni, that you should hold in such low esteem a profession practiced by one of your most favored friends."
"Mine?" she questioned, startled.
"Herr Renwick," he replied dryly, "is a secret agent of the Serbian government."
A gasp escaped her, and she struggled for her composure at the mention of Hugh Renwick's name.
"That is impossible."
"I beg your pardon," he said politely, "I happen to know it to be the truth."
She laughed uneasily.
"Until two weeks ago Herr Renwick was an attaché of the British Embassy," she asserted.
"Of course. But he has been also in the pay of the Serbian government—Austria's enemy."
"You are misinformed," she gasped.
"I beg your pardon. England and Serbia are on excellent terms. You will not deny that Herr Renwick has been to Belgrade in the last two weeks?"
"You—you——" she paused in consternation, aware again of this man's omniscience.
"The details had not been clear until my return to Vienna. Think for a moment. Herr Renwick visits Belgrade and Sarajevo while a plan is arranged to take the life of the Archduke Franz. It is well within the bounds of possibility——"
"Your skill in invention does you credit," she put in quickly, "but Herr Renwick has no interest in the death of the Archduke. On the contrary, he has done what he could to save him."
"You will admit that it was Renwick who gave you the information of this plot."
"Yes—but——"
"One moment. You'll also admit that he gave no authority for his information."
"But he did what he could to help me warn the Archduke."
"H—m! You did not know perhaps that it is to Serbia's interest and to Renwick's to warn the Archduke. Austria needs a pretext to make war on Serbia. Every diplomat in Europe is aware of that. If the Archduke is attacked in Sarajevo, war will be declared on Serbia within a week."
He paused a moment watching Marishka's face, intent upon its changing expressions.
"Herr Renwick is no enemy of Austria," she asserted firmly.
"If he is no enemy of Austria, how could he act for the Serbian government, which follows instructions from St. Petersburg? Herr Renwick knew of the plot against the life of the Archduke, for he told you of it. Where did he learn of it? In Sarajevo or Belgrade, where it was hatched. Who informed him? His friends of the Serbian Secret Service who live among the anarchists at Sarajevo and Belgrade."
"I do not believe you."
"You must. Serbia has done what she can to prevent this crime. His Excellency tells me that today the Serbian Minister in Vienna pleaded with the Austrian Ministry to use its efforts to have the visit of the Archduke Franz postponed. He was ignored."
He paused and flecked his cigarette out of the window, while Marishka gazed straight before her, trying to think clearly of Hugh Renwick. A Serbian spy! It was impossible. And yet every word that this man spoke hurt her cruelly. Renwick had been in Sarajevo and Belgrade, for he had told her so. He alone of all persons outside the Secret Government of Austria had been in a position to know the details of the plot and to prepare her for them. He had sought to use her in warning the Duchess, not as an agent of humanity and Christian charity, but as the emissary of the cowardly and vicious government across the border, Austria's enemy, Serbia the regicide and the degenerate, about the fate of which hung the peace of Europe. Hugh Renwick!
Her mind refused her. Fatigue and want of sleep were making her light-headed. She would not believe. She shut her eyes and by an effort of will managed to get control of her voice. "I find that I am very tired, Captain Goritz," she said quietly.
"Ah, it was very thoughtless—inconsiderate of me," he said, with sudden accents of civility. "It is very painful to believe ill of those to whom one is attached," he finished suavely.
"You are mistaken," she said slowly. "There is no attachment between Herr Renwick and me."
"A friend, let us say, then," he put in keenly, "in whom one is disappointed."
"It is nothing to me, Captain Goritz," she said, meeting his eyes bravely, "what Herr Renwick is or does."
He smiled and bowed.
"Still," he said with his exasperating pertinacity, "it is of course interesting to know the truth. It would perhaps be still more interesting to know what Herr Renwick has to say in regard to the matter."
"I do not care what Herr Renwick would have to say. I do not expect to see Herr Renwick again, Captain Goritz, in Vienna or elsewhere."
He smiled at her politely.
"But you will admit, it is not within the bounds of possibility. Herr Renwick is clever—indefatigable——"
Marishka started up in her seat.
"You mean?"
"Merely that Herr Renwick is not easily discouraged. I would not be in the least surprised if he followed us on to Sarajevo."
Marishka stared at her companion for a moment and then sank back in her seat.
"Oh," she gasped.
Her long sustained effort to keep pace with events had been too much for her. Her faculties failed to respond, and she closed her eyes in an attempt to obliterate all sight and sound. Dimly she heard the voice of Captain Goritz above the grinding of the brakes of the train.
"I am sorry that you are so tired, Countess Strahni. I shall now leave you to your own devices. We have reached Brück, and I shall go to another compartment. I shall arrange with the guard to see to your comfort."
The train stopped and the guard opened the door.
"Good-night,liebchen," he said with a smile. And as she opened her eyes in astonishment, she heard him say to the guard:
"Frau Lieutenant von Arnstorf desires to sleep. I am going to smoke with a friend in the adjoining carriage. She is not to be disturbed. You understand."
The man saluted and closed the door, and Marishka was alone. With an effort she rose and mechanically made her dispositions for sleep, thinking meanwhile of the words of Captain Goritz and feeling a dull and unhappy sense of disappointment and defeat. There was a latent cruelty under his air of civility which astonished and terrified her. And the revelations with regard to Hugh Renwick, astounding though they were, had in them just enough of a leaven of fact to make them almost if not quite credible. Hugh Renwick, the man she had chosen—a friend, a paid servant of atrocious Serbia! She could not—would not believe it. And yet this man's knowledge of European politics was simply uncanny. If his civility had disarmed her earlier in the day, if she had been able to speak lightly of the threat of her imprisonment, the fear that had always been in her heart was now a blind terror—not of the man's passions but of his lack of them. He was cold, impenetrable, impervious—a mind, a body without a soul. He haunted her. She lay on her couch and stared wide-eyed at vacancy. The sound of his voice still rang in her ears. She wondered now why the memory of it was so unpleasant to her. And then she thought she knew that it was because the magnetism of his eyes was missing. His body was a mere shell covering an intricate piece of machinery. She tried to think what it must be like to be actuated by a mind without a soul. She had pledged herself obedience to this man, trusting to her implicit faith in the ultimate goodness of every human creature to bring her through this venture safe from harm.
Vaguely, as though in dreams, she remembered that this man had thought that Hugh Renwick would follow her to Sarajevo. She had written him a note of warning telling him to leave for England at once. Would he disregard her message, discover where she had gone, and if so, would he follow? Renwick's sins, whatever they were, seemed less important in this unhappy moment of her necessity. He had failed her in a crucial hour——
She started up from her couch a smile upon her lips. Hugh Renwick was no Serbian spy. The man, Goritz, lied. Hugh Renwick and Goritz—it was not difficult to choose! One a man who let no personal suffering—not even the contempt of the woman he loved interfere with his loyalty to his country; the other, one who used a woman's loyalty as a means to an end—cruelly, relentlessly—which was the liar? Not Hugh Renwick. Weary and tortured, but still smiling, Marishka sank back upon her couch and at last, mercifully, she slept.
It was after dark when the train bearing Herr Windt and Renwick reached the Franz Josef station, the stolen machine of Altensteig having been left at Budweis with Hadwiger, who was to return it to its owner and in the name of the state to make proper arrangements for compensation. Herr Windt, sadder if no wiser, took afiacreand drove off hastily, leaving Renwick to his own devices.
To the Englishman, Marishka's case seemed desperate, for though the identity of the driver of the green limousine was unknown, his cleverness in eluding the net which Herr Windt had spread for him indicated him to be an agent of the Wilhelmstrasse, a personal emissary of those near the Kaiser, who was moving with great skill, using every means of a great organization to keep Marishka's mission and identity a secret. But Renwick was not the sort of a man that gives up easily. In the back of his head an idea persisted, and he planned to follow its development for good or ill to its conclusion.
The correctness of his surmise as to the direction of Marishka's flight in the green limousine had convinced him that Vienna was not her final destination. He, too, took afiacreand drove at once to the apartment of Baroness Racowitz. Marishka's guardian was away, but a fee to the Austrian maid put him in possession of the facts.
"No, Herr Renwick," she replied, "Countess Strahni did not return to the apartment, but she was in Vienna and had sent for a suitcase and clothing, which were delivered to a man who waited in an automobile."
"What sort of a man?"
"I couldn't exactly say, sir, a servant, a butler, perhaps; but there was a note for Herr Renwick."
"Ah—give it to me."
"My instructions were to deliver it at eight o'clock at Herr Renwick's residence in the Strohgasse. I have but just returned from there."
Renwick started down the steps and then turned. "There was nothing else?"
"Nothing."
"You do not know where Countess Strahni is?"
"I know nothing more than I have told you, sir."
Renwick rushed out to the waitingfiacre, and bade the driver go at top speed. A note from Marishka! Under different circumstances this would not perhaps have been surprising. The difference that the change in their personal relations had wrought in the last few weeks, her mood during their hurried flight to Konopisht, her desertion of him, all of these circumstances made the fact of her writing to him the more significant. She had accepted his services in the escape from Windt, because he had forced them upon her, but he could not forget that she had afterward repudiated him and fled from him without a word of explanation of her sudden decision. His own personal danger had warned him that Marishka, his companion eavesdropper, would also be in jeopardy at the hands of those unseen forces which were working in the interests of the Wilhelmstrasse. Marishka had thrown herself into their power and was perhaps at this very moment in danger. But he was soon to know the facts. At his apartment his servant handed him the note and hastily he tore it open and read.
I have gone to Sarajevo. I must do what I can, but I need you. I am a prisoner and in great personal danger if we are stopped en route. Therefore move secretly, telling no one. Go to the Hotel Europa, where I will try to communicate with you.M. S.
I have gone to Sarajevo. I must do what I can, but I need you. I am a prisoner and in great personal danger if we are stopped en route. Therefore move secretly, telling no one. Go to the Hotel Europa, where I will try to communicate with you.
M. S.
Renwick read the communication through twice, and then glanced at his watch. Nine o'clock. There was no time to go to the British Embassy in the Metternichgasse, though he would have liked to know if anything had been seen of Marishka at the German Embassy which was just adjoining. But he wrote a note to Sir Herbert, then called his servant, who packed a bag while Renwick bathed and dressed. At ten he was seated in the train for Budapest—a slow train that he had taken two weeks before on his mission to Belgrade.
He had made this move on impulse, without second thought, for Marishka's message as to her destination again justified his surmises and corroborated his fears as to her perilous situation. No other thoughts save those of her danger and her need of him had entered his head, and he had moved quickly, aware that any loss of time might be fatal to his hope of helping her. But seated in his compartment of the railway carriage, he had time to consider the note in all its aspects and in its relation to the extraordinary events of the day. There were but two other occupants of the carriage, an old gentleman with a white beard, and a young Hungarian officer—a vacuous looking youth in uniform—neither of them obviously of material from which secret service agents are made. After the experience at the Konopisht railway station, Renwick had no humor to be shot at in such close quarters, where the range would necessarily be deadly. He settled his automatic comfortably in his pocket, and after another and more reassuring inspection of his travelling companions he took out Marishka's note and examined it carefully.
The knowledge he possessed as to her situation suggested caution. An agency which could attempt to take his life would not be above forgery. Marishka's hand? There seemed no doubt of it. It was not difficult for Renwick to remember the peculiarities of her angular writing. The notes he had received from her, invitations, appointments, apologies—very often apologies, he remembered with a slow smile—dainty, faintly scented missives on gray paper which bore her crest, differed from this hurriedly written scrawl on a heavier paper which he had no means of identifying. Only upon closer inspection did he discover a hesitation in the lower curves and upward strokes of the letters which were not characteristic of the decisive Marishka.
Without being certain of its spuriousness, he came to the conclusion that because of its contents, the note was for the present to be regarded as an object for suspicion. Would Marishka—the Marishka who a few hours ago had treated him with such acidulous politeness—write, "I need you"? Could contemptuous silence be turned so quickly into urgent appeal? Her danger made such a transition a possibility, and if she was now ready to recant, all the more reason why he should obey. The one thing about the message which struck a jarring note was the request for secrecy under plea of personal danger. And if a forgery—why should his enemies speak of her personal danger? A lure! So obvious a one that only the veriest dolt could be deceived by it. The situation then resolved itself into this: He was invited to go to Sarajevo—if by Marishka, to save her from personal danger or abduction by her captor—if by the German agent, with Marishka as a lure, to be the victim of a conspiracy which planned either murder or imprisonment. And, however keen his own prescience, Renwick realized that the note had so far succeeded in its object. He was on his way.
He was too tired tonight to do the situation justice, for the blow at the back of his head had taken some of his strength, and he realized that without sleep his utility would be impaired for the morrow. And after a glance at his companions, he decided to chance it, and settling himself comfortably, he was soon heavily sleeping.
Renwick was awakened some while later by the young Hungarian officer's cursing as he stumbled over the Englishman's feet. A glance at his watch showed Renwick that he had slept four hours. It was dawn. Beside him at the further end of the seat the old man with the white beard still slept. Renwick glanced out of the window and found that the station was Vacz. They were twenty or thirty miles from the Hungarian capital. The morning was cool, and Renwick stepped down from the open door upon the platform and stretched his limbs, sniffing the air eagerly. He felt renewed, invigorated, and the ache at his head was gone. He had made no plans beyond the very necessary one of getting money at the British Consulate and taking the first train south. The difficulties in making proper connections, the probability that somewhere he must desert the railroad and beg, buy, or steal a motor car, and the ever present danger of a shot from a German agent confronted him, but in his early morning humor nothing seemed impossible. He would get through in some way and find a means of reaching Marishka! And if Marishka were already spirited away? He would find her and the green limousine chap with whom he would have a reckoning.
Impatient of the delay of the train, he took out his cigarette case and was about to smoke, when the warning of the guard was shouted, and he got into his carriage, followed by another traveler who clambered in at the last moment and sank into the seat opposite. As the train moved, the two men scanned each other in the light of the growing dawn which now vied with the flickering light of the overhead lamp in their compartment. The stranger was a very tall man in dark clothes, who gave an instant impression of long rectangularity. He had a long nose, a long upper lip which hung over a thin slit of a mouth which resembled a buttonhole slightly frayed by wear. His chin was long and square and, like his upper lip, blue, as though a stiff black beard were in constant battle with a razor. His eyes were large and regarded Renwick with a mild melancholy as he bowed the Englishman a good morning. Renwick nodded curtly. He had planned another nap and hardly relished sitting awake and staring at the sepulchral visitor. Where last night's weariness had sealed his eyes to the ever-present sense of danger, morning brought counsel of caution and alertness. The leanness of the huge intruder was of the kind that suggested endurance rather than malnutrition, a person who for all his pacific and rather gloomy exterior, could be counted on to be extremely dangerous.
In a situation where any man might prove to be his hidden enemy, Renwick was learning to be wary. And so upon his guard for any movement of hostility, he sat bolt upright and smoked his cigarette, puffing it indolently into the face of his solemn companion. Beyond the first greeting, no words passed between them, and the Englishman, more at his ease, looked out of the window at the low marshlands along the river and planned the business which brought him. Day came swiftly, and before the train reached the city the sun was up in smiling splendor, melting the pale fogbanks of the Danube valley beneath its golden glow.
At the Westbahnhof, Renwick got down, and bag in hand made his way to the railway restaurant for a cup of coffee. The keen morning air had made him hungry, and he breakfasted like a man who does not know where his next meal is coming from. It was not until he paid his check and got up from the table that he noticed his gigantic companion of the train doing likewise, but he gave the matter no thought, and getting into a waitingfiacredrove to the British Consulate to make some necessary arrangements, including the procuring of money for possible large expenses. The Archduke and Duchess, he discovered, had slept in their car, which had been shifted to a train that had left for the south in the early hours of the morning. The service on the road was none too good, except that of the Orient Express, which had gone through last night, but by haste Renwick managed to catch the nine o'clock train for Belgrade, planning to get off it at Ujvidek and trust to Providence for an automobile.
He was no sooner comfortably seated in his compartment and congratulating himself upon its emptiness, which would permit of opportunity for sleep, when the door was thrown open and his tall companion of the early morning solemnly entered. Renwick did not know whether to be surprised or angry, and finished by being both, glancing at the intruder through his monocle in a manner distinctly offensive. But the tall man if aware of the Englishman's antagonism gave no sign of it, clasping his cotton umbrella with large bony hands and gazing gloomily at the passing landscape.
An accidental meeting of two travelers bound in the same direction? Perhaps. But there was too much at stake for Renwick to be willing to take chances, and yet he could not kill and throw out of the window an entire stranger who looked like the proprietor of a small confectionery shop, in mourning for a departed friend. Of course there was nothing to be done, but the man's presence irritated Renwick. As the moments went on, and the man still silently stared out of the window, Renwick's choler diminished. The fellow was quite harmless, a person from whom murder and secret missions were miles asunder. If the man of the green limousine had foreseen that Renwick would take the nine o'clock train for Budapest and had set this behemoth upon him, the man would have made an attempt upon his life this morning in the ride between Vacz and the capital. And how, since the telegraph lines were closed to the German agent, could this person have been put upon the scent? It hardly seemed possible that this was an agent of Germany. And yet as the miles flew by, the stranger's silence, immobility and unchanging expression got on Renwick's nerves. He was in no mood to do a psychopathic duel with a sphinx.
The morning dragged slowly. At Szabadka he got down for lunch and was not surprised to see his traveling companion at his elbow, eating with a deliberation which gave Renwick a momentary hope that the train might get off without him. Renwick was already in his carriage and the guard calling when the fellow stalked majestically from the eating-room munching at the remains of hisBöhmische Dalkenand entered the carriage, still clinging to the cotton umbrella, and quite oblivious of the powdered sugar with which he was liberally besmeared. Secret agent! The man was a joke—a rectangular comedy in monosyllables.
There was no connection for Brod at Szabadka until late in the afternoon and Renwick hoped to make better time by going on to Ujvidek, a large town, somewhat sophisticated, where the buying or hiring of a machine would be a possibility. During the afternoon he took Marishka's letter from his pocket and studied it again, now quite oblivious of the creature who had curiously enough resumed the same seat opposite him. And in his concentration upon the problem of the note the man was for the moment forgotten. It was only when he glanced up quickly and quite unintentionally that he saw the gaze of his neighbor eagerly watching him. It was only a fleeting glance, but in it, it seemed, the whole character of his fellow traveler had changed. His hands still clasped the umbrella, the sugar was still smeared upon his sallow cheeks, but it seemed that his eyes had glowed with a sudden intentness. A second later when Renwick looked at him again, the man was staring dully at the passing cornfields and vineyards and he thought he had been mistaken. He would have liked to know more of this fellow, and was again tempted to try to draw him out but the recollection of his former venture dismayed him. So he relapsed into silence and lying back in his seat, one hand in his pocket, he closed his eyes and feigned slumber, watching the man through his eyelashes. For a long while nothing happened. Then at last as Renwick's breathing became regular the giant's head turned, and his eyes regarded the Englishman stealthily. Renwick did not move. But he saw his companion lean slightly forward while one hand left the umbrella handle, unbuttoned his coat and then moved very slowly behind him. That was enough for Renwick, who started upright and covered the man with his automatic. But the other had merely drawn a large and rather soiled handkerchief from a pocket of his trousers and was in the act of blowing his nose when he looked up and saw the impending blue muzzle of Renwick's weapon.
Then his jaw dropped and his eyes flew wide open.
"Herr Gott!" he stammered in a husky whisper. "Don't shoot!"
Whether it was the pleasure of discovering that the man had at last found his tongue or whether the innocence of his purpose was explained, Renwick found himself much relieved.
"Are you crazy?" the other was saying. "To draw a pistol upon me like that! What do you mean?"
But Renwick still held the pistol pointed in his neighbor's direction.
"I will trouble you to stand," he said quietly, "with your hands up and back toward me."
The man stared at him wide eyed but at last obeyed, lifting his huge back to its full height, and Renwick ran an investigating hand over his hip pockets. They were empty.
"Thanks," he said at last, "you may be seated." He felt a good deal of a fool but he managed an uncomfortable laugh as he returned the automatic to his pocket. "You see," he explained, "I owe you an apology——"
"Yes, sir—such an outrage upon my dignity. I do not understand——"
"Let me explain," went on Renwick, feeling more idiotic every moment; "I have an enemy who seeks my life and when you put your hand in your pocket I thought that you——"
"It is strange that a gentleman in a railway carriage may not be permitted to blow his nose without being threatened with a pistol," he said hotly.
"But you will admit, my friend, that your always being next to me in trains is at least suspicious."
"Donnerwetter!And why, for the same reason, should I not be suspicious ofyou?"
"I trust at least that you have no enemies who seekyourlife."
"Who knows?" he shrugged. "Every man has enemies. I will thank you, sir, to keep your pistol in your pocket."
"Willingly. And in return I may say that you may blow your nose as often as you please."
"Danke," with some irony. "You are very kind. I suppose, if when reaching Ujvidek, I should happen to be going in your direction you would shoot me without further question."
"That would depend on which direction you are taking," replied Renwick, with a sense of abortive humor.
"I go to Brod—thence to Sarajevo——"
"The devil you do——!" cried Renwick in English, starting forward and staring at the man. And then more calmly in German,
"And how are you going?"
The fellow paused and looked out of the window again. "As to that—I do not know," he said slowly.
He had resumed his air of settled gloom, the dignity of which was somewhat marred by a vestige of powdered sugar upon his chin, but in spite of the low esteem in which Renwick had held him, all his former suspicions of the creature rushed over him in a moment.
"And suppose that I, too, should be going to Brod and Sarajevo?" he asked brusquely.
The stranger turned toward him a slow bovine gaze which gradually relaxed into the semblance of a smile.
"Ach so," he replied blandly, "then it is just possible that we may go together."
His manner was sphinxlike again, and the Englishman eyed him curiously, feeling a strong desire to kick him in the shins. But luckily he refrained, saying coolly.
"And what means of transportation do you propose to employ? Of course you know there are no trains——"
"Natürlich."
"Then how shall you travel?"
"And you, Herr Shooter, how shall you go?"
Renwick smiled indulgently.
"If I took an automobile——"
"I should be constrained to go with you."
"Constrained?"
"If you would invite me—or condescend to permit me to pay my share of the expenses."
The man's personality was slowly expanding. Second class confectioners who venture on wild goose chases were rare in Renwick's acquaintance. He was becoming interesting as well as elusive, but Renwick was in no humor for further quibbling.
"I regret that that is impossible. I go on alone," he said decisively.
"Ach, so," said the other sadly. "That is too bad——" His words trailed off into a melancholy silence and he resumed his occupation of looking out of the window. The incident in so far as Renwick was concerned, was concluded.
At least he thought that. At Ujvidek, when Renwick, bag in hand, got down upon the station platform, the stranger stood beside him, fingering his cotton umbrella foolishly and looking this way and that. But when the Englishman after an inquiry of a loiterer, started in search of a garage, he found his fellow traveler at his heels, and the frown which Renwick threw over his shoulder failed utterly to deter him from his purpose—which clearly seemed to be that of continuing his journey in the Englishman's company.
When Renwick reached the garage and talked with the proprietor, a Hungarian whose German was almost negligible, the man of the cotton umbrella abandoned the doorway which he had been darkening with his shadow, and shuffled forward awkwardly.
"If you will permit me," he said solemnly. "I speak the Hungarian quite well. I should be glad to interpret your wishes."
The man's impertinence was really admirable. Renwick's desire to get forward on his long journey made him impatient of obstacles. He shrugged.
"Very well, then. Tell him I must have a machine and chauffeur to take me to Sarajevo by way of Brod. I will pay him handsomely and in advance. I must travel today and all night. I must reach Sarajevo in the morning."
"Ach, so," said the stranger, and Renwick listened to the conversation that ensued, endeavoring by the light of his small knowledge of the language to make out what was said. But he was lost in the maze of consonants.
In a moment the interpreter turned with a smile.
"It is good. There is a machine. This man will drive himself. The price is two hundredkronerand the petrol."
"Thank you. That is very good. I must leave within half an hour."
Renwick produced money, the sight of which brought about an amazing activity on the part of the garage man. Renwick strolled to and fro outside, alternately smoking and watching the preparations for departure, while the melancholy giant stood leaning upon his umbrella in the doorway. What was he waiting for? Renwick thought that he had made his intentions sufficiently explicit. At last, his impatience getting the better of him, he stopped before the man with the umbrella.
"I am greatly obliged to you for your kindness. But you understand? I go on alone."
The man in black regarded him blandly.
"That is not a part of the arrangement," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"That I am to go with you."
"I asked you to make no such arrangement."
"It is a pity that perhaps I misunderstood."
Renwick angrily approached the garage owner and tried to make him understand, but he only proceeded with his work with greater alacrity, bowing and pointing to the man in the doorway.
"You observe," said the tall man, "that you will only complicate matters?"
Renwick glared at the other, but he returned the look with an impudent composure, and Renwick, in fear of losing his self-control, at last turned away. Nothing was to be gained by this controversy. After all, what difference did the fellow's presence make? As a source of danger he had already proved himself a negligible quantity. So Renwick with an ill grace at last acquiesced, and within an hour they were on their way, crossing the Danube and turning to their right along a rough road by the Fruska mountains.
The first accident happened before the machine reached Sarengrad, a blowout which made another tire a necessity. The second, a broken leaf of a spring, which made rapid travel hazardous. But it was not until nightfall, in the midst of a desolation of plains, that carburetor trouble of a most disturbing character developed. Renwick paced up and down, offering advice and suggestion and then swearing in all the languages he knew, but the chauffeur only shrugged and sputtered, while the tall man gurgled soothingly. An hour they remained there when Renwick's patience became exhausted, and he gave way to the suspicion which had for some time obsessed him, that the pair of them were conspiring to delay him upon his way.
He came up behind the tall man who was bending over the open hood of the car, and catching him roughly by the elbow, swung him around and faced him angrily.
"I've had about enough of this," he said. "Either that car moves in five minutes or one of you will be hurt."
He moved his hand toward his pocket to draw his weapon but his wrist was caught in midair by a grip of steel that held Renwick powerless. The Englishman was stronger than most men of his weight and made a sharp struggle to get loose, but the man in black disarmed him as he would have disarmed a child, and calmly put the pistol into his own pocket. It was not until then that his bulk had seemed so significant, and the real purpose of his presence been so apparent. There was no use in battling with this melancholy Colossus who might, if he wished, break every bone in Renwick's body.
"Herr Renwick, if it will please you to be reasonable," he said, releasing the Englishman and speaking as if soothing a spoiled child.
At the mention of his name, Renwick drew back in growing wonder.
"Who—who are you?" he asked.
"My name is Gustav Linke," he said suavely. "I have been sent to keep you from coming to harm. You see"——and he patted the pocket which contained Renwick's pistol, "it is not difficult to run into danger when one is always pulling one's pistol out."
"Who sent you?" demanded Renwick furiously.
The man in black coolly picked up his cotton umbrella which in the struggle had fallen to the ground.
"That is not a matter which need concern you."
"I insist upon knowing and in going on to Brod without delay."
The other merely shrugged.
"I regret to say that that is impossible."
"Why?"
"Because my instructions were to keep you from reaching the Bosnian border until tomorrow morning."
"You are——?"
"Herr Gustav Linke—that is all, Herr Renwick."
"An agent of——"
"The agent of Providence—let us say. Come. Be reasonable. I am sure that the trifling disorder in the carburetor may be corrected. We shall go on presently. The night is young. We shall reach Brod perhaps by daylight. What do you say? Shall we be friends?"
There was nothing else to be done. The disgusted Renwick shrugged and got into the tonneau of the machine, awaiting the pleasure of his captor. Out of the chaos of his disappointment came the one consoling thought, that whatever Linke was, he was not a German.
The visions which disturbed Marishka Strahni in that dim borderland between sleep and waking persisted in her dreams. And always Goritz predominated—sometimes smiling, sometimes frowning but always cold, sinister and calculating. He made love to her and spurned her by turns, threatened her with the fate of the Duchess, whom she saw dead before her eyes, the victim of a shot in the back. There was a smoking pistol in Marishka's hand, and another figure lying near, which wore the uniform of an Austrian general—the Archduke Franz it seemed, until she moved to one side and saw that the figure had the face of Hugh Renwick. She started up from her couch, a scream on her lips—calling to Hugh——! Was she awake or was this another dream, more dreadful than the last? There followed a conflict of bewildering noises, as though night had mercifully fallen upon a chaos of disaster. She sat up and looked around her. A train.
She gasped a sigh of relief as her gaze pierced the dimness of the elusive shadows. She remembered now. Captain Goritz. But she was still alone. She lay down again, trying to keep awake in dread of the visions, but exhaustion conquered again and she slept, dreaming now of another Hugh, a tender and chivalrous lover who held her in his arms and whispered of roses.
It was daylight when she awoke. Captain Goritz was now sitting by the window smiling at her. She started up drowsily, fingering at her hair.
"You have slept well, Countess?" he asked cheerfully and without waiting for her reply. "It is well. You have probably a trying day before you."
Marishka straightened and looked out of the window past him at the sunlit morning. Could it be possible that this alert pleasant person was the Nemesis of her dreams? The world had taken on a new complexion, washed clean of terrors by the pure dews of the night.
"Thanks, Herr Hauptmann," she smiled at him. "I am quite myself again."
"That is fortunate," he said. "We are nearly at our journey's end—at least this part of it. Our train goes no further than Marburg."
"And then?"
"An automobile—a long journey."
"I am quite ready."
At Marburg they got down, and after Marishka had made a hurried toilet, they breakfasted in comfort at the Bahnhof restaurant. If Captain Goritz nourished any suspicion that they were being followed he gave no sign of it, and after breakfast, to Marishka's surprise, Karl the chauffeur appeared miraculously and announced that their car was awaiting them.
"If I were not sure that you were Herr Lieutenant von Arnstorf," laughed Marishka, "I should say you were the fairy of the magic carpet."
"The magic carpet—ach, yes—if we but had one!" he said genuinely.
The motion of the automobile soothed and satisfied her. At least she was doing what she could to reach Sarajevo before the archducal party arrived, and as her companion hopefully assured her, with a fair chance of success. If Marishka could see Sophie Chotek, all her troubles would be over, for then the Wilhelmstrasse would not care to oppose the dictum of the Duchess in favor of one who whatever her political sins in Germany's eyes, had made endless sacrifices to atone.
If Marishka succeeded! But if she failed?
The morning was too wonderful for thoughts of grim deeds or the authors of them. The poisons distilled in her mind the night before were dispelled into the clear air of the mountainside, over which singing streams gushed joyously down. Birds were calling—mating; wild creatures scampered playfully in thicket and hedge; and the peaceful valleys were redolent of sweet odors.
In the long hours of the afternoon Marishka's thoughts were of Hugh Renwick. Perspective had given him a finer contour, for she had Goritz to compare him with. She loved Hugh. She knew now how much. Her happiness had been too sweet to have had such a sudden ending. She had been unkind—cruel—broken with him even when he was bending every effort to aid her. He was trying to help her now for all that she knew.... She had written him a note from the German Embassy—just a few lines which she had enclosed with the message to her maid at the apartment—warning him that he was in danger and praying that he leave the country and return to England, a kindly note which by its anxiety for his safety conveyed perhaps more of what was in her heart than she would have cared to write had she believed that she was to see him again.
What reason had Captain Goritz for believing that Hugh would follow her in this mad quest? How could Hugh be sure where she had gone and with whom? There had been a quality of the miraculous in the judgment of Captain Goritz. What if even now Hugh Renwick were near her? Her pulse went a little faster. Pride—the pride which asks in vain—for a while had been dashed low, and she had scorned him with her eyes, her voice, her mien, her gestures, all, alas! but her heart. The women of the house of Strahni——! Hugh Renwick had kissed her. And the memory of those kisses amid the red roses of the Archduke was with her now. She felt them on her lips—the touch of his firm strong fingers—the honest gaze of his gray eyes—these were the tokens she had which came to her as evidence that the readings of her heart had not been wrong. A Serbian spy——! She smiled confidently.
In a moment she stole a glance at Captain Goritz, who was bent forward studying his road map. She waited until he gave directions to the chauffeur and then spoke.
"Captain Goritz," she said carelessly, "you manage so cleverly that I am beginning to trust implicitly to your guidance and knowledge. But there is one thing that puzzles me. It must be more than a whim which makes you think that Herr Renwick will follow us to Sarajevo."
"Notus, Countess," he smiled; "I saidyou."
"But granting that he would follow me—which I doubt—how could he know where I have gone?"
Goritz laughed easily.
"He will find a way."
Marishka's face grew sober.
"I fear Herr Renwick's friendship cannot achieve miracles. The last he saw of me was in a hut in Bohemia. What clew could he have——? What possible——"
"Ah, Countess," Goritz broke in, "you do not realize as I have done the cleverness of the Austrian Secret Service. We have so far eluded them. We were very lucky but it cannot be long before the green limousine will be discovered, and the direction of our journey."
"But even that——"
"To a clever man like Herr Renwick—to a man whose affections are involved," he added slowly, "it would not be difficult to decide where you have gone. He knows the discomforts and dangers you have passed through to achieve your object. He will, of course, seek your apartment and read the meaning of your sending for your clothing just as easily"—he paused a moment and smiled at the back of Karl's head—"just as easily," he repeated slowly, "as though you yourself had written him a note telling him—er—exactly which train you had taken."
Marishka felt the warm color flooding her neck and brows. In writing Renwick she had broken her promise to this man not to communicate with her friends. Goritz watched her pretty distress for a moment with amusement which speedily turned to interest.
"Of course, Countess, you didnotwrite to him?" he said, with sudden severity.
"I owe you an explanation, Captain Goritz——" she said timidly.
"You wrote—Countess?" evincing the most admirable surprise.
"I inclosed a few words in my note to my maid—a warning of danger and a request that Herr Renwick leave at once for England——"
And as Goritz frowned at her, "Surely there is no harm in that."
"Your word of honor——"
"I betrayed nothing of my whereabouts or plans," she pleaded.
"How can I know that you speak the truth?"
"I swear it."
Goritz shrugged lightly.
"It is, of course, a woman's privilege to change her mind. Still, you put me upon my guard. It is unfortunate. How can I be sure that you will not be sending other notes without my permission to the Europa when we reach Sarajevo?"
"The Europa——? I fail to understand."
"The Europa Hotel," he said with a curious distinctness, "where all English people stop, and where of course your friend Mr. Renwick will stop."
Marishka examined him keenly.
"Your prescience cannot be infallible."
"No. But Herr Renwick will come to Sarajevo," he repeated confidently.
He was still studying the road map and she was silent, thinking. But in a moment he raised his head and shrugged again.
"Of course it is nothing to me. As an English subject he has the protection of his Ambassador. Even if my orders demanded his arrest I should be without power to carry them out."
"It is easier to deal with the credulity of women," she said quietly.
"Countess Strahni, you make it very difficult for me—doubly difficult since I have learned how lightly you hold your promise."
"But confession absolves——"
"With me, perhaps, because I could refuse you nothing, but not with those that have sent me."
"But why should you be uneasy at the possibility of Herr Renwick following to Sarajevo?"
"I do not relish the disturbance of my plans."
She smiled a little at that.
"I think I should be a little happier if I knew just what those plans were."
He did not reply at once. Then he went on slowly, choosing his words with care.
"My sentiments of respect must by this time have told you that no harm can come to you. Last night His Excellency, the German Ambassador, informed me that I shall do a great damage to the friendship between your nation and mine, if I presume to take you across the German border without your consent. I have been much moved by his advice. He has already written to the Wilhelmstrasse in your behalf. I cannot yet absolve you from your promise since my own actions in Austria have been far from conventional. Herr Renwick, if he chooses, can make my visit to Sarajevo most unpleasant. But I see no reason, after our purpose has been achieved, why you should not be restored to your friends, even to Herr Renwick, if that is your desire," and then in a lower tone, "I can assure you, Countess Strahni, that I relinquish you to him with an ill grace."
"Herr Renwick is no Serbian spy, Captain Goritz," she said steadily.
He smiled.
"Oh, you do not believe me. Very well. You will discover it for yourself."
"How?" she asked timidly.
He looked at her with every mark of admiration, but his reply did not answer her question.
"Herr Renwick is indeed fortunate in having so loyal a friend—even though, as you say, there is nothing between you in common. I envy him the possession. I hope that he may better deserve it."
She smiled but did not speak for a moment and then, "Why is it that you so dislike a man whom you do not know—whom you—you have never seen?"
Goritz bent forward toward her, his voice lowered while his strange dark eyes gazed full into hers:
"Need I tell you?" he whispered. "You have thought me cruel, because I have done my duty, heartless—cold—a mere piece of official machinery which could balk at nothing—even the destruction of a woman's happiness—because my allegiance to my country was greater than any personal consideration. But I am not insensible to the appeals of gentleness, not blind to beauty nor deaf to music, Countess Strahni, as you have thought. Beneath the exterior which may have seemed forbidding to you, I am only human. Last night I took advantage of your weariness and weakness in telling you, with cruel bluntness, of Herr Renwick's relations with the Serbian government. I learned what you have labored to conceal—that you care for him—that you care for one who——"
"It is not true," she broke in calmly. "I do not care for Herr Renwick."
"It would delight me to believe you," he went on with a shake of the head, "but I cannot. It has been very painful to me to see you suffer, for whatever you have done in a mistaken sense of loyalty to your country, nothing can alter the fact of your innocence, your virtue, and your dependence upon my kindness in a most trying situation. I have told you the facts about Herr Renwick because I have believed it my duty, to you and to Austria. If I have hurt you, Countess Strahni," he finished gently, "I pray that you will forgive me."
Marishka was silent, now looking straight before her down the mountain road which they were descending slowly. The voice of Captain Goritz had a sonorous quality which could not have been unpleasant to the ears of any woman. She listened to it soberly, trying to detect the tinkle of the spurious, but she was forced to admit that beyond and behind the mere phrases which might in themselves mean nothing, there was a depth of earnestness that might have proved bewildering to one less versed in the ways of the world than herself. His eyes, singularly clear and luminous, dominated and held her judgment of him in abeyance. For the moment she was able to forget her terrors of the night before, his enmity for Hugh Renwick, and the threat he had hung over her freedom. She did not dare to trust him. Too much still hung in the balance of her favor or disfavor. And yet she was forced to admit the constraint of his fervor, his kindness and courteous consideration. A woman forgives much to those who acknowledge without question the scepter of her femininity.
At last she turned toward him with a smile and gave nun her hand. Nor did she withdraw it when bending low he pressed it gently to his lips. This was a game that two could play at.
"We are to be friends, then?" he asked quietly.
"Of course," she smiled at him.
Toward six of the afternoon a trifling mishap to the motor delayed them for two hours, and it was long after midnight before they reached Brod and learned that the train of the Archduke had left within the hour. This was a terrible disappointment, which seemed to menace the success of their venture. But Captain Goritz determined to go on as rapidly as possible, trusting to reach their destination before the royal party left its train, hoping that the sight of Countess Strahni by the Duchess would be sufficient to let down any official barriers which might be interposed. But an unforeseen difficulty at Brod still further delayed them, a difficulty which required all of the ingenuity of Captain Goritz to get them once more upon their way. It was three o'clock in the morning, when having made some necessary repairs to the machine, they reached the Austrian end of the great bridge across the Save. Here they were halted by an iron chain across the bridge entrance and a police officer who, it seemed, looked upon their night traveling with suspicion. Captain Goritz protested indignantly and produced his papers, which the officer inspected by the dim light of an ancient lantern held by a subordinate.
"I am sorry," he said firmly, "but no motor cars are permitted to cross into Bosnia until tomorrow morning."
"But, my friend," said Goritz with an air of outraged patience, "I am an officer of the Third Regiment of the Fifteenth Army Corps returning to Sarajevo from a leave of absence which expires at nine in the morning. It is necessary that my party goes through at once."
"I must obey orders, Herr Ober Lieutenant."
"But my papers are correct. They are signed, you will observe, by General von Hoetzendorf himself."
"I am sorry, but you cannot go through. If you choose to take up the matter with my superior officer, you will find the Kaserne in the main street near the mosque. I shall pass you only upon his visé. That is final. You will please turn your car and return to the village."
Captain Goritz gazed longingly along the pale beam of the motor lamps into the dark reaches of the bridge, and then at the shadow of the heavy chain. At last with reluctance he gave the order to turn back. There seemed no doubt that the restriction was unusual, and that the visit of the Archduke had much to do with the obstruction of traffic between Sarajevo and central Europe. The car moved slowly back through the darkened village in the direction from which they had come, while Goritz planned what was better to be done. The nearest other crossing at Kobas was twenty miles away, over the road by which they had come, and they knew that the roads upon the Bosnian side of the river were mere cow tracks. If the officer at the bridge refused to pass them, how were they to be certain that they would fare any better at the hands of his superior, probably a crusty village official who would not relish being awakened in the small hours of the morning even by a belated army officer? At the order of Captain Goritz, the chauffeur Karl backed the car into a meadow and put out the lights. Then Goritz lighted a cigarette and smoked rapidly.
"Brod is Serbian for ford. Is the passage above the bridge or below?"
"Below, Herr Hauptmann, but dangerous at this season. I should not risk it."
"Ah, I see." He paused a moment, thinking rapidly. "Is there a chain at the other end of the bridge?"
"I have never seen one, Herr Hauptmann."
"Very good. You will await me here."
And without further words he got down and disappeared into the darkness. Marishka sat trembling with uncertainty, trying to pierce the obscurity in the direction in which her companion had gone. Silence, except for the droning of the insects and the distant rushing of the river. Fifteen, twenty minutes in which Marishka sat tensely waiting, hoping, fearing she knew not what, and then silently, merely a darker shadow of the night itself, a figure appeared and silently mounted into the seat beside the waiting Karl.