uatting cross-legged
with them upon the ground and learning much of all matters save of the
one with which he was most concerned.

"Few but Moslem people had passed through the Carsija upon this day,"
they said, "for the terrible happenings of the morning had kept the
Austrian Excellencies in their own part of the town and Islam--Islam in
time of trouble was always wise to find its company among its own
people."

Renwick's task seemed hopeless, but he did not despair, leaving the
bazaar at last, and climbing the hill to the old town beyond the
Bastion. Here he again questioned every passer-by. "Had the Effendi seen
a tall Excellency dressed in black who carried an umbrella? He, Stefan
Thomasevic, had sold the Excellency some sheep and goats, but the
Excellency had not yet paid all of that which he owed. It was not a
matter about which to laugh. If the Excellency did not soon appear in
the Carsija, it was a matter for the police."

But no one could help him. Herr Linke was moving with discretion, for it
was probable that if such a creature had strolled through the Carsija,
there would be a dozen idlers who would have observed and noted the
fact. Renwick's chief hopes were crumbling. And yet, if Linke suspected
that the note which had been sent to the Hotel Europa was a bait, he
would of course act with great caution. It was nearly midnight when,
weary and disappointed, Renwick returned from the Kastele quarter in the
direction of the Carsija. The houses were dark save for a glimmer of
light in an upper window here and there, but the moon had come out, and
Renwick, moving silently along in the shadow of walls and houses, gazed
about him with the eagerness of despair. For a while he stopped in the
angle of a wall, and listened to the sounds of the city below him, the
rush of the river below the Bastion, the motor and bell of the electric
tram-car, the whistle of a freight locomotive at the further end of the
town--strident noises brought from the West to break the drowsy murmur
of the Orient, but not a sight nor a sound which could give him a clew
as to the whereabouts of Linke or Countess Marishka. The inaction was
maddening. In his belt the American revolver hung its futile weight. Had
it not been for Linke, he might have had a chance at least to follow the
instructions of the note of the Hotel Europa to some conclusion whether
for good or ill--it did not matter. If Marishka herself had written
it!... She would be awa