The Secret Witness, George Gibbs [world of reading TXT] 📗

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 hundred kroner and 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.

CHAPTER XII FLIGHT

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."

"Not us, Countess," he smiled; "I said you."

"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