The weather fortunately had been fine, and the days and nights in the open were rapidly restoring him to strength. The discomfort at the wound in his body which had bothered him for a few days had disappeared. He was well. And with health came hope, faith even, in the star of his fortunes. It took him two weeks to reach Polishka, below which he crossed the Save at night in a boat which he found moored to the bank, and daylight found him at a small village through which a railroad ran north towards the plains of the Danube. Here he paused dead-tired for food and rest.

The innkeeper, who spoke German fairly well, swallowed Renwick's story, his taste somewhat stimulated by the sight of the ten-_kroner_ piece which the Englishman used in paying for his breakfast.

But the time had now come for the execution of a bold plan which for some days and nights Renwick had been turning over and over in his mind.

It was a good plan, he thought, a brave plan which stood the test of argument pro and con. The British Embassy in many of its investigations during times of peace,--investigations of a purely personal or financial nature,--had been in the habit of calling in the services of one Carl Moyer, an Austrian who ran a private inquiry bureau in Vienna. He was an able man, not directly connected with the secret service department of the Empire, but frequently brought into consultation upon matters outside the pale of politics. Renwick's interest in Moyer had been limited to the share they had both taken in some inquiries as to the standing of a Russian nobleman who had approached the Ambassador with a scheme of a rather dubious character. But a physical resemblance to Moyer, which had been the subject of frequent jokes with Otway, had now given Renwick a new and very vital interest in the personality of the man which had nothing to do with their business relations. Moyer was thinner than Renwick, and not so tall, but their features were much alike. When at first the idea of an impersonation had come to Renwick, he had rejected it as dangerous, but the notion obsessed him. The very boldness of the project was in its favor. He could now move freely along the railroads and if one ignored the hazard of meeting the man himself or someone who knew him intimately, he could pursue his object of following the trail of Captain Goritz with a brave front which would defy suspicion. True, he would have no papers and no credentials, but this, too, was a part of the guise of a man who might be moving upon a secret mission. Carl Moyer, disguised as an Austrian of the laboring class, moving from Bosnia to the Carpathians--what could be more natural?

As Renwick ate his breakfast in the small inn at Otok, he came to a sudden decision to put this bold plan into practice. And so, exhibiting another ten-_kroner_ piece, he made known his wishes to the innkeeper.

He was a Bosnian, he said, but in Hungary he did not wish to attract attention by wearing his native costume. In parts of Hungary there was a feeling that the Bosnians who lived near the Serbian border were not loyal to the Emperor and this, it had been said, might make it difficult for him to obtain employment. His purse was not large but if his host would procure for him a suit of western clothing, a coat, a pair of trousers, a shirt, a cravat, and a soft hat, he, Thomasevics, would offer his Bosnian clothing in exchange and do what was fair in the matter of money. The train from Britzka did not go north for an hour.

Would it be possible to find these things in so short a time? The innkeeper regarded the worn and mud-stained garments of his guest rather dubiously, but the terms of the offer in the matter of money having been made clear, the transformation was accomplished without difficulty and Renwick boarded the train rather jubilant at the celerity and speed of his journey. By nightfall, with luck, he would be across the Danube and well within the borders of Hungary, mingling in crowds where all trace of his identity would be lost. He spent most of his afternoon on the train trying to recall the mannerisms of the man Moyer, a trick of gesture, a drawl and a shrug which he thought he could manage. Carl Moyer he now was, on a mission from Bosnia to the North, in which the better to disguise himself he was permitting his hair and beard to grow.

Hut success had made him over-confident, for at the Bahnhof at Zombor where he had to change into a train for Budapest, something happened which drove all thought from his head save that of escape from the predicament into which his imprudence had plunged him.

He was sitting upon a bench on the platform waiting for his train when a man approached and sat beside him. Renwick needed no second glance to reassure himself as to the fellow's identity. He was Spivak, Windt's man, the fellow who had kept guard on the cabin at Konopisht. The Englishman feared to get up and walk away, for that might attract attention. So he sat, slouched carelessly, his hat pulled well down over his eyes, awaiting what seemed to be the inevitable. Spivak--one of Windt's men sent of course to Zombor, one of the important railway junctions, to watch all arrivals from the south. Renwick had been ready with his story when he debarked from the train but there had been a crowd and he had been in the last carriage. Renwick's mind worked rapidly, and to an imagination already prescient of disaster, the man seemed to be inspecting him. As Spivak's chin lifted, Renwick faced him squarely. Their glances met--and passed. Renwick calmly took out a cigarette and bending his head forward lighted it coolly, aware that the man was saying something in Hungarian.

Renwick made a gesture of incomprehension, wondering meanwhile how he could kill the man on the crowded platform without attracting observation.

"The train from the south was crowded today," said Spivak in German.

"Crowded? Yes."

"Do you come from Brod or Britzka?"

"From Britzka," said Renwick without hesitation, and then with the courage of desperation--

"I have seen you before," he went on, calmly puffing at his cigarette.

"I have, I think, the same impression."

"Your name is Spivak--of the Secret Service----"

"You----"

"My name is Carl Moyer."

It was a gambler's chance that Renwick took. If Spivak intimately knew the man--but he did not and the effrontery disarmed him.

"You are Carl Moyer? I must have seen you," he muttered. "I have been in Vienna a little--with Herr Windt, but I am of the Hungarian branch. You have been in Sarajevo?"

"Yes," said Renwick easily following out a wild plan that had come into his mind. "I have been employed by the Baroness Racowitz to find the Countess Marishka Strahni."

"Ah, I see. It has come to that!" And then, regarding his companion with a new interest, "When did you come from Sarajevo?"

"Last night. It is a strange case."

"And you have found a lead?"

"Several----"

"You can do nothing against such a man as Goritz."

"It is Goritz--yes--but I will find her if I have to go through Germany with a harrow."

"They have not gone to Germany, my friend. Every gate out of Hungary has been closed to them since the assassination."

Renwick smiled. The thing had worked. The spirit of the venture glowed in him--its very impudence fascinated.

"Perhaps!" he replied. "Still, a man who could outwit Nicholas Szarvas----"

Spivak caught him so suddenly by the arm that Renwick trembled.

"You think he killed Szarvas----?" whispered Spivak eagerly.

"If not himself, it was by his orders. And the Englishman--Renck----"

"Renwick."

"I've found the evidence that Renck was lured to Sarajevo. He possessed a secret dangerous to Germany and so Goritz killed him."

"And this Peter Langer--who escaped from the hospital----?" asked Spivak cynically.

"The chauffeur of Goritz, left for dead in the fight with Szarvas and stripped of his clothing to hide all marks of identity. It is no wonder that he wished to escape----" The Englishman broke off with a rough laugh and rose. "But this won't do, I'm giving you all my thunder. Herr Windt does not relish my employment in this service, but since he has accomplished nothing you cannot blame my clients. I am on my way to Germany. The surest way to catch a fox is to smoke him out of his hole."

Spivak took a few paces away, and then slowly returned.

"What you say is interesting, Herr Moyer, and the theory hangs together, but you will waste your time in Germany."

"Why?"

"Because Captain Goritz is still in Hungary."

"What further reason have you for believing that he is here?"

Spivak smiled and hesitated a moment. And then, "You have talked freely.

One good turn deserves another. I will tell you. We know that Captain Goritz is still in Hungary because within the past week the Wilhelmstrasse has sent urgent messages to Vienna inquiring for him."

"Ah--that is interesting," said Renwick slowly, trying to hide the throb of triumph in his throat. "Then you think----?"

"Merely that he is in hiding--with the lady," said Spivak with a leer.

"It is no new thing for a man to go in hiding with a lady."

Renwick's laugh was admirably managed, for fury was in his heart. "This information is helpful," he said. "You believe that it is true?"

"I am sure. Berlin is anxious because he has not returned. I do not know what they suspect over there, but the situation is changed. The war has made a difference. We have no idea where he has gone. All that we know is that it will be very difficult for him to get out."

In the distance the train was rumbling up the track, and Renwick was thankful. But he caught the fellow by the hand.

"You are a good fellow, Spivak. If at any time you wish to leave the government service and take a good place at a fair payment, you will come to see me in Vienna."