y 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