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 f