foremost of which he recognized Archduke Franz and his
guests of the rose garden.

"The roses of Konopisht," he muttered, thinking of Marishka's fatalism.
"Were they symbols, those innocent red blossoms?" And then with an
inward smile, "Marishka! What bitterness could the roses of Konopisht
bring between Marishka and him?"

A sense of the grave importance of his mission came over Renwick with a
rush. He looked at his watch. Six o'clock. It would have been hazardous
to use the wire to reach the Embassy even had he possessed a code. He
knew enough of the activities of the Austrian secret service to be sure
that in spite of his entree at the Castle, his presence at Konopisht at
this time might be marked. He sauntered down the street with an air of
composure he was far from feeling. There was nothing for it but to obey
Marishka's injunctions and wait, upon his guard against surprises, but
ready to go to any extreme to reach Vienna and the Embassy with a sound
skin. He found the owner of a motor car, and telling the man that he was
traveling by night, he paid its owner in advance and engaged it to be at
a certain place by nightfall, promising a further payment if the matter
were kept secret. Then he went to the inn, took supper, and lighting his
pipe, paced the cobbles and waited.

As the summer dusk fell slowly upon the streets of the little village,
Renwick found himself a prey to renewed apprehensions as to Marishka.
Had her presence and his in the rose garden been discovered by one of
the Archduke's retainers? And was she now a prisoner in the castle where
a few hours ago she had been so free a guest? She was clever, as he
knew, but the burden of her secret had marked its shadows upon her face.
What excuse would she offer the Duchess for her sudden departure? The
girl was dear to him, dearer than anything in the world but England, and
the thought of making a choice between her safety and the performance of
his duty was bitterly painful to him. Eight o'clock passed--nine. He had
gone inside the house again, for the actions of any stranger in
Konopisht were sure to be conspicuous and he felt himself already an
object of notice. But at last unable to bear the suspense inactive, he
went out, crossed the road and stood, his teeth clenched upon his
extinguished pipe, his gaze upon the road which led to the gates of the
Park.

There she came to him, out of the darkness. At the touch of her fingers
he started, for he had no