mbling up the track, and Renwick was
thankful. But he caught the fellow by the hand.

"You are a good fellow, Spivak. If at any time you wish to leave the
government service and take a good place at a fair payment, you will
come to see me in Vienna."

"Thanks, Herr Moyer. I shall remember. You are going on to Budapest?"

"Yes. And you?"

"I am detained here to watch for a Russian spy who is trying to get
through to the Galician border." He laughed. "You're sure you're
not----?"

"That's a good joke, Spivak," he smiled. "A Russian! I'd have precious
little chance----" And then as the train rolled in--

"Don't forget--Ferdinand Strasse, Number 83----"

"I will not. Adieu!"

"Adieu, my friend."

And with a final wave of the hand Renwick turned and slowly mounted into
his third class carriage. The plan had worked and the man, it seemed,
had not the slightest suspicion. He was, as Renwick remembered from
Konopisht, not infallible, and the ease with which Renwick had
accomplished his object and the remarkable nature of his newly acquired
information could only be explained by the fact that Spivak was seeking
the Russian and not himself, and by the boldness of his impersonation,
which had immediately pierced the crust of Spivak's professional
reserve. All had gone well, but it seemed an age before the train drew
out of the station. Renwick did not dare to look out of the window to
learn if the man were still there, and until the bell of the locomotive
rang announcing the departure of the train, he was unpleasantly nervous,
for fear that a suspicion might dawn in the man's mind which would lead
him to pursue the conversation.

Renwick never learned whether Spivak's second thoughts had warned him
that all was not as it should be, for instead of taking any chances, the
Englishman got down from the train at the first stop and disappeared
into the darkness.

It was with a feeling of elation mingled with apprehension that Renwick
made his way forward. Elation because of the new crumbs of information,
apprehension because of the definite assurance that Goritz still held
Marishka a prisoner somewhere within the borders of Hungary. Definite it
seemed, for Spivak had spoken with the utmost confidence of things with
which he was intimately concerned. The trail narrowed. It seemed as
though Providence, aware of past impositions, was bent on making amends
to one who had suffered much from her disfavor. The sudden appearance o