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