His pulses were still pounding furiously from the sudden effort of muscles long unused, and his nerves were tingling strangely, but he clung to his perch until the period of weakness passed and then planned what he had better do. Inside of an hour every policeman in Sarajevo would be warned by Herr Windt to look out for a man with a beard, wearing a sleeping suit and a blue woolen wrapper. The obvious thing therefore was to avoid Sarajevo or else find a means to change his costume. But if he begged, borrowed, or stole an outfit of native clothing--what then? Where should he turn? He had no money, for that, of course, had been taken by the ruffians who had carried his body into the woods and stripped him of his clothing. To all intents and purposes he had been born again--had come into the world anew, naked save for the unsightly flapping things in which he was wrapped. His English clothes were at the inn in the Bistrick quarter where he had left them, but to seek them now meant immediate capture. And if he wore English clothes in the streets of a town full of men in uniform he would be as conspicuous as though in sleeping suit and wrapper. A native costume was the thing--and a fez which would hide the plaster on his head. But how to get it? He heard voices, and two men passed below him weaving in and out among the trees; he blessed the inspiration which had bidden him climb.

He would have known Windt. He was not one of them. They were men from the hospital, out of breath with running, and the phrases they exchanged gave Renwick comforting notion that they were already wearily impressed with the hopelessness of their task. A while they waited, and then he saw them go out on the further side of the copse as though glad to be well away from so melancholy a spot. Indeed the gray turban-carved tombstones were eloquent to Renwick and a newly made grave not far away was unpleasantly suggestive of the fate that had so nearly been his. It was starlight now, but dark, and the owls were already hooting mournfully as though the souls of those who lay in the sod beneath had come again to visit by night their last resting places. It was not the most cheerful spot for a man who had just come out of a bout with death, and Renwick had no mind to stay there. So when the men who had been searching for him had gone their ways, he clambered stiffly down. He lingered by the newly made grave, obsessed by the rather morbid notion of digging up the estimable Moslem who reposed there and exchanging his own hospital wrapper for the much to be desired native costume, but desperate as was his need the idea was too unpleasant. He would rob, if necessary, but not the dead.

As he wandered among the trees in the direction of the nearest lights, he felt a pair of scissors in the pocket of his wrapper--Fraulein Roth's. His fingers closed upon them now. A weapon? Better than that. A plan had come to him which he proceeded immediately to put into practice. Taking off his wrapper he seated himself upon a tombstone and began cutting it into pieces, shaping a short sleeveless jacket. He cut the sleeves of the wrapper lengthwise and made a turban.

Its skirt made him a belt with something left over. He puzzled for awhile over the remnant of cloth left to him, thinking of his legs, but at last discarded it as useless, and hid it among the bushes. Then, laboriously, he trimmed his mustache and beard. It was low work without light or mirror, but he persevered until to the touch of his fingers the merest bristle remained, a stubble such as a man would have who had gone a few days without shaving. Then, satisfied that under cover of the darkness he might pass in a crowd of people unnoticed, he slipped the scissors into the coat of his sleeping suit and sallied forth.

At least he was rid of the flowing robe which would have made of him a marked man. Fortunately the night was hot and sultry, and so far he suffered no inconveniences, but he knew that this disguise was only a makeshift and that by fair means or foul, he must come into the possession of some sort of costume in which he could face the light of day. In the road, he passed a farmer returning from the bazaar, and the careless greeting of the man reassured him. A polyglot costume surely--but this was a city of polyglots. The disguise would do--at least for this night. But the appearance of Windt had seriously alarmed him. It meant, if he was taken, that he would surely be interned, or worse, perhaps that he might be accused of complicity in the murder of Szarvas, Windt's own man. In the back of his head a plan had been forming, which meant if not active help in escaping from the city, at least a short refuge from pursuit, and perhaps something more. He meant to go to the house where Marishka had been--and speak to the girl, Yeva.

It was the only hope he had of a clew to Marishka's whereabouts--the only hope of help in this city of enemies. He was quite sure that he would not be a welcome visitor, for it was the old ruffian in the turban, of course, who had taken the clothing from Renwick's body and left him for dead upon the hillside. The theory in the hospital had been that those who had carried Renwick into the woods had intended burying the bodies--for a spade had been found later near the place--but that the murderers had been frightened away before being able to carry out their plan. And lacking information upon the subject, Renwick had come to the same conclusion. He might not be welcome at the house of the blue door, but he knew the old man's secret and decided to risk danger by playing the game with an open hand.

Instead of going into the city by the nearest way, which would have led him in a few moments into the European part of the town, he bore to the left again, climbing the hill behind the Tekija mosque, until he reached an eminence back of the fortress above the Golden Bastion, and then slowly descended into the Turkish quarter of the town where the streets were narrow and dark and the danger of detection minimized. He had already passed many people who had merely glanced at him and gone their ways, and the success of his disguise gave him confidence; but as he approached the Sirocac Tor he was badly frightened, for on turning the corner of a street he ran directly into the arms of a stout Bosnian policeman who was looking for him. The man swore at him in bad German and Renwick drew back against the wall, sure that the game was up, until he realized that the fellow was only cursing because he was almost, if not quite as much startled as Renwick. So the Englishman, regaining his composure, bowed politely and would have gone on, but the policeman spoke.

"Which way have you come?" he asked.

"From the Kastele."

"You have seen no bareheaded man with a beard, wearing a long blue coat?"

"A long blue coat? There are none with long blue coats in the Kastele in the month of August."

"Pfui--! I do not wonder!" said the fat Bosnian, and hurried on.

But the venture made Renwick more cautious, and he avoided the street-lights, moving under the shadows of walls and houses, at last reaching the tortuous alleyway down which he had once come to inspect the house with the _meshrebiya_ windows. Almost two months had passed since he had stood in this spot, watching these same lighted windows, unaware of the success that had been almost within his grasp. Outwardly nothing was changed. The blue door faced him, and gathering courage, he crossed the street and entered the garden. It was very dark under the trees and he went quietly forward, stopping by the fountain to listen for sounds within the house. He realized that it was growing late, and that while the garden offered him a refuge from those who were seeking him in the city, daylight would make his tenure precarious even here. If the girl Yeva would only come down into the garden! He waited by the bench listening, and presently was rewarded by hearing a light rippling laugh from the room above the door. She was there--the girl--but not alone--with the old woman perhaps, or the man with the beard. Renwick listened again and watched the window, but heard nothing more. There was nothing for it but to put on a bold front, so summoning his courage, he walked to the door of the house and loudly knocked.

There was an exclamation, a sound of footsteps upon the stair, and at last the bolt of the door was shot and the door opened. Zubeydeh stood, a lantern in her hand, scrutinizing him.

He spoke in German at once. "I come upon an urgent matter," he said coolly. "Upon a matter very important to the owner of this house----"

"Speak--what do you want?" she asked.

"I bear a message."

"The Effendi is not at home----"

"Ah--then Yeva may receive it."

"Yeva! Who are you?"

He smiled. "For the present that need not matter."

Zubeydeh blocked the door more formidably with her body.

"No one enters this house in the Effendi's absence."

"I do not desire to enter the house. I merely wish to talk with Yeva, here----"

"That is not possible." The woman moved back and made a motion to close the door, but Renwick took a pace forward and blocked her effort with his foot.

"Wait," he said.

Something in the tone of his voice arrested her, and the hand which held the door relaxed. She regarded Renwick with a new curiosity. Her eyes narrowed as she peered into his face. She had seen someone who looked like this tall beggar, but where----?

"Who are you?" she asked again, this time with a note of anxiety, scarcely concealed.

Renwick smiled, but he had not yet removed his foot from the sill of the door.

"You do not remember me?"

"No--and yet----" She paused in bewilderment, and Renwick quickly followed his advantage.

"I am one who can save this house from a danger."

"Speak!"

"I have but to speak yonder," and he gestured eloquently toward the city below them, "and the danger will fall." He leaned forward, whispering tensely, "The secret police of the Austrian government wish to know more about the death of Nicholas Szarvas and----"

Zubeydeh dropped the handle of the door and seized Renwick's arm, while her narrow eyes glittered terrified close to his own.

"And you----?"

"It is merely that I did not die," he said coolly.

"You are----?"

"I am the man in the armor, Zubeydeh," he said solemnly.

She started back from him in affright, her hands before her eyes.

"Allah!" she whispered, and then leaned forward again touching his arm lightly, imploringly, while she looked past him into the dark recesses of the garden.

"Then they are there--the police are coming----?"

He quickly reassured her.

"No. I mean you no harm. Do you understand? I have said nothing--nor shall I speak unless----" he paused significantly.

"Unless----?"

"Unless you refuse to permit me to speak with Yeva. That is all. Listen, Zubeydeh; since that night I have been in the hospital. They would keep me here a prisoner. I have escaped--in this disguise. I make a bargain with you. You help me--I will be silent. If you refuse, I shall tell the police."

"What do you want?" she asked breathlessly.

"A disguise, a weapon, and some money--not much."

"Money! The Effendi has gone upon a journey."

"A few _kroner_ only--enough to get me out of town."

"And you will keep silent?"