rner of the room, and so she bathed her face
and hands and refreshed herself. The coffee still steamed upon the
table. There was rye bread, and there were eggs in the water of the
saucepan. She felt weak and dispirited, but it would not do to fail for
lack of strength, and so she sat and ate and drank. The plan born of her
talk with Hugh Renwick still turned over and over in her mind. Would
Renwick still be able to do something to help her? Which way should she
turn? If her own efforts to warn Sophie Chotek had been futile, if Hugh
Renwick could not do something, and England selfishly held aloof while
this horrible conspiracy which seemed to have its very tendrils hidden
in the hearts of those who should have been her friends, was under way,
what must she do? She felt dreadfully; alone, and fearfully guilty. Her
own death or the threatened imprisonment of which Herr Windt spoke
seemed slight atonements for the wrong that she had done Sophie Chotek.
If she could still succeed, by using the agents of the Archduke's
imperial friend and ally, in sending a warning through the German
ambassador at Vienna, to Budapest or Sarajevo, the consequences to
herself were immaterial. They might have her to do with as they chose;
for by this sacrifice only could she atone. She did not fear death, for
death to youth and health is inconceivable. She smiled incredulously as
she thought again of the ominous surmises of the impossible Herr Windt.
There was something of the opera bouffe about his methods which
abstracted from the brilliancy of his success. To Marishka he was still
the head waiter. This was the twentieth century. No political secret
could justify the imprisonment or death of a woman!... She shuddered a
little, as she thought of the very death that had been planned by the
employers of Herr Windt--Austrians--loyal Austrians he called them, of
the same blood and lineage perhaps as herself. She had not yet succeeded
in wholly believing it. There was some missing reason for the actions of
this secret service agent, some motive which neither she nor Hugh
Renwick had yet fathomed, which would explain her detention and his. It
was unbelievable that----

Marishka started at a small sound from the direction of the fireplace.
It was a curious sound, a subdued metallic clink which nevertheless
differentiated itself with startling clearness from among the already
familiar sounds of the quiet summer morning. She started up and peered
into t