Gibbs George
The Secret Witness
CHAPTER XVII
THE MAN IN ARMOR
Renwick waited in his place of concealment near the blue door, listening and watching eagerly. Something was happening in the house with the meshrebiya windows, for it was after midnight, and all Islam was asleep. There were sounds of whispering again, but when he peered out there was no one in sight. Then he thought he heard footsteps; but whether they came from the direction of the house of the lighted window, or whether from up the street he could not yet decide. Now he was sure of them. Someone was approaching over the rough cobbles—from the alley behind him! He crouched into a place of concealment behind a broken lattice, flattening himself against the door, and waited—breathless. He did not dare to look out, for the figure was almost upon him, but the footsteps now silent, now moving rapidly forward, indicated the stealth of a man who evades pursuit or fears detection. Presently a shadow loomed beside him as a man paused for a moment beside the doorway where Renwick stood, so close that the Englishman could hear his breathing, and then moved on to the corner of the wider street a few feet away. Even yet, Renwick feared to move, but at last, as the man went on toward the wall of the blue door, Renwick risked detection, and peered out.
The figure glanced at the blue door, and then turning quickly, went with long strides down the street toward the house with the meshrebiya windows. Renwick's glance had been but a momentary one, but in it he had marked a huge figure, in a squarish hat and ill-fitting clothes. Gustav Linke! In his hand, clutched like a weapon, he still carried his atrocious umbrella. A grotesque outlandish figure, an ink-blot on the velvet night! What was he doing here near the house of the lighted windows? Renwick sprang from his place of concealment, whispering Linke's name; but when he reached the corner of the alley the man was twenty paces away, and so bent upon his mission that he heard nothing. Renwick halted instinctively, and in the moment of hesitation, his opportunity was lost. As wisdom had urged caution while Renwick had waited, so doubly it urged it now. Linke moved like a man with a mission, and Renwick peered forth from the angle of the wall watching eagerly, sure now of what that mission was—the pursuit of Marishka Strahni!
He saw the man stop beneath the lighted windows, look up, and then with a glance to right and left, enter the shadow of the mosque and disappear within the small court beside the house. Renwick thought rapidly and clearly. In the court where Linke had disappeared there must be another entrance to the house. For a fleeting second, the idea entered Renwick's head to follow the man, and trust to fortune; but the wall and blue door opposite tempted him. Inside the garden, at least there would be a chance for concealment, and a vantage point from which he could watch and hear what went on within the house. He waited a moment, trying to decide whether or not he had better risk detection in the narrow strip of moonlight, or wait and see if anyone moved in the street below. He was on the point of taking the chance when from the door of a house just below him, several men emerged. It was difficult to determine how many there were, but Renwick thought that there were at least four—perhaps five; but whether Bosnians or Turks he could not decide. And from their stealth and silence, and the rapidity with which they followed the tall figure of Linke into the dark passage, the obvious inference was that they were bent upon mischief.
There was no further time to plan, so Renwick, with a quick look to right and left, darted furtively across to the gate of the blue door and tried the latch. It was unlocked, and quickly he entered the garden; with his hand upon the revolver in his belt he waited, listening, but there was no sound within but the plashing of the water of the fountain. His eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and he searched the shadows of the bushes by the reflected moonlight which silvered the upper stories of the building. He saw that there was a door near the center of the house facing the fountain, and upstairs in the windows over it was the dull glow of a lamp or lantern. The windows of the other room, which he had observed from across the street, were now darkened. This was curious, but there was no time to debate upon it. He must act quickly. He was sure now that Marishka was somewhere in this house, a prisoner. She had sent for him, or why should Linke be here? He drew the revolver from the folds of his sash, and with a keen glance to right and left, crouching below the level of the shrubbery, he reached the door of the house and tried it.
It was locked. He hesitated for a moment, looking over his shoulder, and then slipping his weapon into his belt again, he put a foot into the trellis beside the doorway and began climbing. It was a dangerous thing to attempt, for as he emerged from the shadows below, his figure would be clearly outlined against the moonlit wall, and a well directed shot from the garden would send him clattering down like a maimed squirrel from a tree. But the game was worth the candle, for he had seen that the window in the room above the door was open, and as he had decided to enter the house at any cost, this was the only way. But it was slow work, for the trellis was old, and creaked beneath his weight, and once, when his foot slipped, he thought he must surely be discovered. Then he waited, with his fingers almost at the window ledge, listening. He heard the low murmur of voices, but they seemed to come from another part of the building, and so risking the whole venture in one effort, he quickly raised his head above the level of the window-ledge, and peered in. At first he saw only the flickering shadows of a lamp hanging from the ceiling, and then a figure in the corner opposite, which startled him until he saw that it was immovable—a suit of armor upright against the wall. The room appeared to be empty, and so he grasped the inside of the sill, and hauled himself up until his shoulders were within the window opening.
It was then that a female figure started up from a couch just beside him, stifling a cry. The light from the lantern above fell full upon her face, and her eyes were staring at him in terror. It was Marishka. He whispered her name, but still she stared at him wildly, and it was not until then that he remembered his disguise. He took off his fez, and spoke to her again.
"Marishka, it is I, Hugh!"
He saw her stare and then take a pace toward him as he clambered into the room, and in a moment she was in his arms.
"Hugh—belovèd!" she murmured brokenly, as she leaned heavily against him. "I have been so frightened–"
"Marishka! Your hands are ice cold. They have kept you here—against your will?"
"Yes. And you—Hugh—they've tried–"
"Don't fear," he smiled. "I've as many lives as a cat. Didn't you hear me scratching my way up the wall? Sh–"
He left her for a moment, and peered out into the darkness of the garden. All was silent as before, and so he returned and took her in his arms again.
"You've forgiven me?" he whispered.
"Need you ask? Oh, Hugh, I've wanted you so!"
"Thank God for that." Their lips met and she clung to him, all the pitiful longings of her days and nights of misery in her caress, the dependence of helpless womanhood, but greater than that, the fear for his safety, which took precedence over her own.
He kissed her tenderly, the joy of possession the greater for the dangers that they ran.
"You're trembling, Marishka. Don't worry."
But she clung to him anew.
"If anything should happen now—that I have you again."
"Dearest! I, too, have suffered with you—but I haven't despaired. I would never have given you up, you know," he said with a smile.
"I've never wanted you to give me up, Hugh. I've tested you cruelly—because—because—my pride was hurt–"
"It had to be, Marishka. But you've survived it–"
"My love is greater—greater than anything in the world to me," she murmured. "Danger has proved it—and yours–"
"It needed nothing. I love you—now and always."
"You forgive?"
He kissed her again and again, and for a long moment they clasped each other in silence, their lips together, questioning, replying in broken syllables. To the woman, nothing else mattered. If death came now, she knew that it would be sweet. And it was Renwick who found his reason first. Her hands still in his, he led her to the window, where he scanned the garden anxiously. But there was still no sign of anything suspicious, nor, in the house, any sound. But Renwick now questioned her quickly.
"You sent me a note in Vienna?"
"Yes. A warning. I was afraid. I urged you to return to England, but I hoped–"
"Ah! The note—a forgery!"
"What do you mean?"
"Your note told me to come to Sarajevo—to the Hotel Europa, where you would communicate with me."
"A forgery! Goritz! Now I understand. He said that you would follow."
"Goritz—the limousine chap! He is here?"
"I don't know. I haven't seen him since this morning. Hugh! He has laid plans to kill you—a trap–"
"We shall outwit him–"
"But I am frightened, even now with you here beside me, Hugh. He is clever—I am no match for him—I wrote you to come—tonight. It was what he wished. Don't you understand? A trap! You are in danger—here—now–"
But Renwick did not seem to be greatly disturbed. His mind had cleared amazingly.
"We shall fight him with his own weapons–"
"I am frightened. Are you sure that no one saw you enter the garden?"
"Positive." And then pursuing his thought, "You sent a note to the Hotel Europa?"
"Yes—" she stammered, "this afternoon. I asked you to come here—tonight at twelve. You received it?"
"No. It was intercepted."
"I don't understand."
He laughed. "I don't wonder. It's the luckiest thing in the world that I've found you."
He kissed her again, and then quickly, "The Harim is—where?"
She pointed to the door with the grille, and he regarded it with a new interest. In the silence that followed, they heard again the murmur of voices, a woman's and a man's.
"Zubeydeh!" she whispered. "The woman here and—a man's voice."
"We must find a way out quickly. They may come around this way."
He noticed the door upon the other side of the room.
"Where does that lead?"
"To the selamlik, I think. But it is better to go by the window. I can climb. Let us go."
He shook his head.
"It's dangerous. The stairs–"
"It is dark below. I don't know where they lead."
"To the garden. They must. The door is locked on the inside, but perhaps there's another exit at the rear. Come."
He drew his revolver from his belt, and taking her by the hand, led her to the stair, and there they stopped, for Marishka clutched his arm in sudden consternation. From the Harim came a sudden muffled noise—as though some one were beating upon a carpet.
"Shots!" whispered Renwick. "We must hurry."
"Shots! What does it mean?"
"I'll explain later. Hurry!"
There were cries now—the shriek of a woman, and above all, a hoarse bellow as of some enraged animal. Renwick had already descended a few steps, Marishka following him, when the door to the selamlik opened, and a female figure clad in Marishka's silk drapery rushed forth. It was Yeva.
"Fräulein–" she whispered in awed tones to Marishka. "Forgive me!" she pleaded. "I have seen. It was beautiful. I could not see harm come to you. His Excellency has been in the street at the back of the house, but when the fighting began came up the rear stairway of the selamlik——"
"Goritz!" stammered Marishka in terror.
"But I have locked the upper door."
"He will come here, Yeva!"
"Excellency must go—if there is yet time."
"The garden!"
"No," said Renwick, looking about for a place of concealment. "I shall stay."
"It is death–" whispered Marishka.
But Yeva was resourceful. "The armor!" she whispered. "I have often hidden in it from Zubeydeh. Quickly, Excellency! It stands upon brackets in the wall."
And while Marishka watched the stairhead in terror, Yeva helped the Englishman into this strange place of concealment. Excited as Yeva was at her share in the affair, her fingers were nimble, and she buckled the straps quickly, then turning fled into the selamlik and unlocked the door. But Goritz by this time had managed to find a way to the stairs to the mabein, and came up stealthily, listening eagerly to the increasing commotion in the Harim. He found Marishka and Yeva hand in hand at the door to the selamlik staring in consternation at the door of the black grille. There were no more shots, but more ominous even than shots were the sounds of voices, strained, subdued, tense with effort—the heavy breathing of men, the crashing of furniture, and then at last the jar of heavy bodies falling—a cry of triumph—and silence.
Captain Goritz had folded his arms and waited expectant.
"It is very strange," he said coolly to Yeva. "Someone has broken into the Harim?"
"Excellency, I do not know. I was at the other end of the house. The Fräulein was frightened and called to me," she lied glibly.
"It is not to be wondered at–" he said with a strange smile. "They have made enough noise to raise the dead. I have a pardonable curiosity as to what has happened." But as he strode toward the door and laid a hand upon the knob, Yeva rushed forward.
"Excellency!" she whispered. "You dare not! The law!"
He looked at her for a moment, then shrugged and turned to Marishka.
"I would suggest, Countess Strahni, that you go with this girl at once into the selamlik. I have no idea of what has happened, but it must be something quite disagreeable—an intruder within the Harim—the penalty is severe–"
Marishka was leaning against the rail of the stairway near the suit of armor, and Goritz watched her curiously.
"I—shall not go," she stammered faintly, wondering at the growing mystery.
He shrugged. "As you please," he muttered, "but I warn you that the situation may be—unpleasant–"
"I shall remain—" she said again.
There were sounds of heavy footsteps, and the door of the dutap swung open, revealing the Beg of Rataj, torn and dishevelled, his face distorted with passion. He paused in the doorway, and looked from Goritz to Marishka, breathing rapidly.
"Ah, Excellency," he gasped. "I call you all to witness. A man has entered the Harim—a Christian. Yeva, I knew, was not there, but I saw him and followed from the street with my friends—my son, my brother-in-law, my cousins. He is here. We have killed him."
Goritz glanced at Marishka, but she stared past the dreadful apparition into the corridor, behind him, incapable of speech or thought.
"A Christian!" said Goritz. "Incredible!"
"You shall see," said the Effendi. And turning to those within he uttered a phrase in Turkish, and presently Zubeydeh and a man came forward dragging something behind them. Marishka hid her face in her hands, and crouched nearer the corner where the armor was.
She saw Goritz suddenly start forward, his gaze upon the prostrate figure in black, which its bearers had deposited none too gently in the middle of the rug. Then he peered into the upturned face, starting upright and glaring at the Effendi.
"Vermalerdeiter Hällen——" he cried. "It's not the man!"
"What do you mean, Excellency?" cried the Beg.
"What I say—Idiots!"
"A Christian—in my Harim!" wailed the old ruffian. "He has ruined my furniture and killed my brother-in-law and my cousin."
"What do I care?" cried Goritz furiously. "You've got us all into trouble with your bungling. Do you know who this man is?" he stormed.
"Who, Excellency?" cried the Effendi.
"Nicholas Szarvas—the most famous secret service agent in Hungary."
"What say you, Excellency?" the Effendi asked bewildered.
"You have heard."
"It is impossible. This was the man–"
"Bah! You are a sheep's head."
"Sheep's head I am not–"
"Then you are a fool!"
"By the beard of the Prophet—he was in my Harim," muttered the Effendi. "I call you all to witness–"
"I wash my hands of the matter," said Goritz furiously.
"I am within my rights—the Harim–"
"Bah—You have killed a police officer of the Empire!"
"And you?" The Effendi's face was the color of that of the man upon the floor, but his eyes glowed with fear and desperation.
"I know nothing of the matter," continued Goritz. "A Christian comes into your Harim and you kill him. If he turns out to be an officer of the law, what is it to me?"
"You will pay me that which you owe," shrieked the Effendi. "The man has broken my furniture."
"It is a pity he didn't break your head. I pay you nothing."
And then to Marishka, "Come, Countess, we must be upon our way."
Marishka stood staring at Goritz, a new horror in her eyes. She now understood. The Effendi thrust himself between them.
"You will pay me that which you owe," he stormed again.
"Stand aside!" said the German, and then to Marishka,
"If the Countess Strahni will be good enough to accompany me?" he said, civilly.
But Marishka stood fixed, staring at him with alien eyes, as the Effendi rushed forward toward her, his arms extended.
"She shall not go. She will see what has been done. He is not the man. She will remain here in my house until–"
"Stand aside, Effendi!" cried Goritz furiously, and as the man did not move, he caught him by the shoulder and thrust him roughly aside. He scorned to use a weapon, and the other man and the woman seemed completely dominated by his air of command.
"You will please come at once, Countess Strahni. There is no telling how soon the police will be coming."
And as Marishka did not move—
"You heard?"
"I will not go," stammered Marishka.
Goritz paused, examining her keenly, as though he had not quite understood.
"I have asked you quite courteously, Countess–"
"I will not go," repeated Marishka. Her voice was ice-cold, like her body, which seemed to be frozen into immobility.
"I beg to remind you of your promise—to go with me–"
"I will not go," she said again.
"Then I must take you," he said, striding toward her furiously, and reaching out a hand to seize her by the wrist.
Then a strange thing happened. The man in armor, in the corner behind Marishka, strode clanking forth into the room, while a voice reverberated in the iron helmet. What it said no one understood. The Effendi gazed at the moving thing in terror, and then with a shriek fled down the stairs, Zubeydeh and her companion, calling in loud tones upon Allah, at his heels. Goritz glanced at the thing and then stood irresolute a moment, as the man in the armor slowly raised an arm, for at the end of the arm Goritz saw a revolver pointed directly at him.
"Hold up your hands, Captain Goritz," rang the voice from the depths of the helmet. "Quickly, or I'll shoot."
Goritz bit his lips.
"Clever—Herr Renwick," he said coolly in English. "You've taken the trick."
"Hold up your hands–"
But Goritz with a sudden leap had sprung behind Marishka. Renwick fired once as he jumped, and missed. And now Goritz, shielding himself behind Marishka's body, drew his automatic and fired again and again, riddling the ancient armor like a sieve. Marishka struggled wildly in the arms of the German, and managed to draw the dagger concealed in her waist, but he caught her wrist and held her in front of him, taking careful aim at the man in the armor and firing deliberately. Renwick tottered forward silently and came crashing to the floor in the corner, where after a moment of struggle, he relaxed and lay motionless.
Goritz caught Marishka around the waist and disarmed her. But this act of precaution was unnecessary, for after one fleeting glance at the tangled heap of iron in the corner, she sank a dead weight in his arms.
CHAPTER XVIII
NUMBER 28
For a month the Landes Hospital had been greatly interested in the mystery of patient Number 28. In spite of the imminence of war, and the preparations which were being made to care for the wounded along the border, the physicians, the nurses, and the other patients had all formed theories as to the man's history and the possible causes of his injuries. And during the long period in which he lay unconscious, hovering in the dim realm between life and death, not a day passed in which his temperature, respiration, and other symptoms were not discussed from one end of the hospital to the other. The Head Surgeon, Colonel Bohratt, inclined to the opinion that if the man continued for a few days longer without change he would recover. But the Head Nurse shook her head sagely. The wound in the head had been difficult, as the operation was an unusual one, the wound in the shoulder was nothing, but the one in the stomach! If the operation of Colonel Bohratt proved successful, then a miracle had been performed.
The interest in the case, both from the sentimental as well as the professional point of view, was so great that the man's bed had been carefully wheeled from a ward where he had been taken from the operating table, into a private room, where every chance would be given him to recover.
On the twenty-seventh of July, Fräulein Roth, the nurse on duty at the bedside of the man of mystery, noted a slight change in his breathing, and saw that he had opened his eyes, which were regarding her calmly, but with the puzzled expression of one who has come a great distance into a strange country. She knew then that what the Head Surgeon had said was true, and that the man of mystery had turned the corner which led away from the land of the Great Beyond. But being a prudent person, she gave no sign of her delight, merely moving softly closer to the bedside, and in German quietly asked him if he felt better.
The man did not or could not reply at once, but she saw that his gaze slowly passed beyond her to the bare walls of the room and to the open window, beyond which were clouds, sunshine, and the distant drowsy murmur of the city.
"You are feeling more comfortable?" she asked again, in German.
"Yes," he muttered.
"You have been sick," she whispered softly, smoothing his pillow.
"Ah, yes, sick," the man muttered, and closing his eyes, slept again.
It was not long before the news of the awakening of Number 28 had reached the nurses and attending physicians. Colonel Bohratt, greatly pleased at the correctness of his prophecy and the end of the period of coma, at once a tribute to his wisdom as well as to his professional skill, came himself and viewed the patient, gave directions for treatment and predicted speedy recovery.
That night, the man of mystery awoke again, exchanged a few words with Fräulein Roth as before, and again slept. And on the morrow, a sure sign that all was going well with him, he had gained so much strength that he moved freely in his bed, and took more than the casual interest of the desperately sick in his situation and surroundings. Fräulein Roth had been given instructions to keep him quiet, but she smiled at him when quite rationally he questioned her.
"Is this a hospital?" he asked.
"Yes—the Landes Hospital."
"Where?"
"Sarajevo."
"Ah,—Sarajevo."
He remained silent for a long moment.
"I have been here long?" he asked again.
"A month."
"A month! And the date?"
"The twenty-eighth of July–"
"Yes. I understand."
Fräulein Roth wished him to be quiet, but after a long moment of contemplation of the ceiling, in which his brows puckered in a puzzled way, he spoke again.
And when Fräulein Roth anxiously desired him to be quiet, she discovered that Number 28 had a will of his own and only smiled at her earnestness.
"I am feeling quite strong," he said weakly. "It will do me no harm to talk, for some things puzzle me. I was brought here. Won't you tell me how?"
She debated with herself for a moment, but after an inspection of her patient she decided to tell him the facts.
"A peasant had discovered two men lying in a strip of woods near the road to Gradina. At first he had thought that both were dead, but upon closer examination he found that one of the men, although desperately wounded, still breathed, and notified the police, who summoned the ambulance."
"I?" asked the sick man.
She nodded. "You were brought here—to the Landes Hospital in a bad condition. The other man was dead."
"The other man—dead?"
"Yes," said the nurse, "with stab wounds in the back, and one in the heart." She regarded her patient keenly a moment, and then went on. "There were no marks of identification upon either of you. You were without clothing. Following so closely upon the assassination of the Archduke Franz and his wife, the circumstances were suspicious, and the police of Sarajevo and the secret service officials have done all they could to find some clew to the murderers. You see," she concluded with a smile, "you are a man of mystery and all Sarajevo awaits your recovery."
"Oh, I see. They are waiting for me to speak?"
Number 28 lay silent, regarding the ceiling intently, frowning a little. His mind worked slowly and Fräulein Roth saw that he found some difficulty in mental concentration.
"We will talk no more at present," she said firmly. "If you are no worse—perhaps again tomorrow."
But on the following day and the next the condition of the patient was not so favorable, for he lay in a drowsy condition and showed no interest in anything. It seemed that the pallid fingers of Death were still stretched over him. There were whispered consultations at the bedside, and a magistrate came to take a deposition, but the Head Surgeon advised delay. He had a reputation at stake.
The wisdom of his advice was soon proved, for at the end of three days Number 28 rallied, his fever subsided, and he smiled again at Nurse Roth. But she had learned wisdom and refused to talk.
Number 28 straightened in bed and ran his thin fingers through the beard with which his face was now covered. He ate of his food with a relish and then eagerly questioned.
"I am quite strong again, Fräulein. See—my hand does not even tremble. Will you not talk with me?"
"My orders are to keep you quiet."
"I have been quiet long enough—a month!" he sighed. "The world does not stand still for a month."
The nurse smiled. "I see that you are used to having your own way," she said.
"Is it not natural that I should wish to know what has happened in the world? Tell me. The Archduke Franz was killed. Did they discover a plot?"
"A plot? Yes. The boy Prinzep was employed by the Serbians."
"He confessed?"
"Not to that—but it is obvious."
"And what has happened?"
She examined him intently, aware now of what she herself had long suspected, that this patient was no ordinary kind of man. His German had a slight accent, but whether he came from central Europe or elsewhere she could not decide.
"Austria Hungary is on the eve of great events. A week or more ago Austria Hungary sent an ultimatum to the Serbian government, to which an unsatisfactory reply was received. The Austro-Hungarian minister has left Belgrade, and war has been declared upon Serbia."
"War! and Russia?"
"Russia, France and Germany have mobilized."
"And England?"
"Nothing is known of what England will do. But it is feared that she may join the cause of Russia and France."
Number 28 lay silent for a moment thinking deeply, and then—
"It has come at last. War. All of Europe–"
"It is frightful. There has already been fighting on the Serbian border. We are preparing here to receive the wounded."
He remained silent a moment, his eyes sparkling as he thought of what she had told him and then quietly, "War!" he muttered. "I must get well very quickly, Nurse, I must–"
She waited for him to go on, for, being a woman, curiosity as to his history obsessed her, but he said no more. And in spite of her interest in this man whom she had faithfully watched and served for more than a month, some delicacy restrained the questions on her tongue.
"You will not get well for a long while, Herr Twenty-Eight, if you do not keep quiet," she said quickly.
"You are very good to me," he replied. "I shall do as you wish."
Several days after this, the patient having gained strength rapidly, he was permitted solid food. He slept much, and in his waking hours seemed to be thinking deeply. He was very obedient, as though concentrating all his mind upon an effort toward speedy recovery, but he did not talk of himself. His strength now permitting more frequent conversation, the nurse brought him the news of the world outside, which included the declaration of war by Great Britain against Germany—and the certainty of a declaration against Austria Hungary.
"It is as I suspected," he muttered. "England–"
Again her patient was silent, and Nurse Roth glanced at him quickly. English!
She did not speak her thought, for the import of her news had sent her patient into one of his deep spells of concentration. No Englishman that she had ever met had spoken the German language so fluently. But concealing her interest and curiosity when he turned toward her again, she smiled at him brightly.
"You are now getting much stronger, Herr Twenty-Eight," she said. "The Head Surgeon has given permission for your examination."
"Examination?"
"A magistrate will come tomorrow to take your deposition."
"I don't understand."
"About all the facts connected with your injuries."
"They have learned nothing?"
"A little. The man who was found with you has been identified."
"Ah!"
"As Nicholas Szarvas, a Hungarian police officer–"
"Szarvas!"
"You knew him?"
The patient was silent again. She had come suddenly upon the stone wall which had balked all her efforts. Her hand was near him upon the bed. He took it and pressed it to his lips.
"Do not think me ungrateful for all your kindnesses, Fräulein. Some day perhaps I can repay you. But there are reasons why I cannot speak."
She drew her hand away from him slowly.
"But you must speak when the magistrate questions," she said gently.
"Perhaps!" And he was silent again.
With his growing strength had come wariness. If England declared war, he, Hugh Renwick, at present unknown, would be interned, a prisoner; and all hope of finding Marishka and the German, Goritz, would be lost. In the first few days of his awakening, he had thought of sending for Warwick, the British Consul, and putting the matter entirely in his hands. But before he had had the strength to decide what it was best to do, had come the declarations of war, and he had determined to remain silent and act upon his own initiative. Unless he had muttered something of his past in his fever, and this he doubted, or some sign of it would have come from Fräulein Roth, there would he no means of identifying him as an Englishman, and when he recovered, they would let him go. As it was, he was a man of mystery, and as such he intended to remain. He had noted the marks of interest in the face of the nurse, and in her questions, and his gratitude to her was very genuine, but he was sure now that he was in no position to take chances. War being declared, Warwick would have been given his passports, and would have left the country. No one in Sarajevo knew the Englishman, Renwick—at least no one who would be likely to connect the man of mystery of the Landes Hospital with the former secretary of the British Embassy in Vienna.
