een Goritz and the German border.

Renwick tried to think as Goritz would think. Why had Goritz come by the
circuitous road over the Romanja Plain? Surely not to go north by way of
Serbian territory. Goritz had a reason. The shortest road--the least
traveled road, the road which avoided Brod, the main gateway into
Bosnia, was the road by which he would pass through the rural districts
of eastern Hungary, proceeding all the while along the level country of
the Danube or the Thiess, reaching Silesia--the long tail of the German
Empire which thrust out between Poland and Galicia.

Renwick paced the room with quick strides. The theory hung together. And
given this to be the plan of Goritz, had he succeeded in carrying it
out? Possibly. But Hungary was wide. It was five hundred miles at least
from Sarajevo to the Carpathians, and much may happen to an automobile
in five hundred miles. Marishka, Yeva told him, had fainted. It would
have been inhuman for Goritz to have taken her such a distance without a
chance for rest or recuperation. Goritz! Every theory that Renwick
devised seemed to fall to the ground when he thought of him. The
cleverness of the man was amazing. And what lay behind his cleverness?
What of decency or what of deviltry lay behind the mask that Renwick had
seen? The man had treated her with consideration--for Marishka had not
complained of his attitude toward her--until there in the Turkish house,
when he had seized her by the arm....

Deliberation had gained something--only a theory as yet, but if a
theory, one which stood the acid of inspection from every angle.

Renwick's task seemed hopeless, but that spirit of persistence, of which
Marishka had once spoken, was one of the dominating characteristics of
his nature. Given a sound purpose, a worthy desire, he was not easily
dismayed, and desperate as his chances of finding Marishka now seemed,
it did not enter his head to give up and seek his way--as he might
easily have done--to the Serbian border and so to safety. Marishka had
forgiven him! During the long days of his convalescence the memory of
their brief joyous moments in the Turkish house had renewed and
invigorated him. He had heard her calling to him across the
distances--despairingly, but hoping against hope that the man she loved
was still alive. It thrilled him to think that he could still come to
her--if she would wait--come even from the grave and answer her call to
him--the call of one brav