Prague." Then turning to the door as a new thought came to him he spoke
to Hadwiger.

"Go to the wood on the Prague highroad where the machine is concealed
and bring it here. Quick. We may need it. You see, Herr Renwick, in ten
minutes all the roads into Prague will be closed to them. Even if they
reach the city they will be detained."

Renwick did not reply. He was weighing the probabilities in his own
thorough English way. His head still ached, but the pipe of tobacco
aided his faculties. The thought that persisted in his mind was that
Marishka had escaped from Herr Windt with the sole purpose of carrying
out the object of her visit to Konopisht. He remembered the sudden
interest she had displayed at the mention of the possibility of her
having been followed to Konopisht by an agent of the Wilhelmstrasse.
England could do nothing for her, Austria her own country stood
helpless, while the Military Party, which alone possibly had the power
to help her, still remained in ignorance of the plot. Germany! He
remembered the look that had come into her eyes as he had confirmed the
opinions of Herr Windt--an opinion borne out by the attempts upon his
life and her safety in Vienna. But what of the man in the green
limousine? She was a human document, as Herr Windt had said, which was
destined for the safe, or possibly for destruction. By what means had
the man in the green car lured her from the security of the cabin?
Renwick could not believe, after all that he had done for her, that she
would throw herself into the hands of a stranger on the barest chance of
success without at least confiding in him. A shadow had fallen between
them, a shadow and an abyss which had grown darker and deeper with the
hours, but that he was her enemy--political, personal--he could hardly
believe she could think him that; for he had done what he could--striven
earnestly to help her reach the Duchess in safety. That he had failed
was through no fault of his own. He could not understand her flight--not
from Windt, but from him--without a word or a sign. It was not like
her--not even like the Marishka who had chosen to call him dishonorable.
However much she could repudiate his political actions, there still
remained between them the ties of social consanguinity, the memory of
things which might have been, that no wounded pride could ever quite
destroy. But to repudiate him without a word--that was not like
Marishka--not even the Marishka of today a