memory for faces were better than his own, a meeting face to face would
merely court unnecessary danger. So Renwick returned to his bench and
made a pretense of finishing his beer, awaiting in safety the darkness.
Where had he seen this man before? He searched his mind with painful
thoroughness--wondering if the injury to his head had robbed his brain
of some of its clearness. He had seen this man's face before--before his
sickness--he was sure of that. Hadwiger, Lengelbach, Linder--one by one
he recalled the secret service men. The face of the stranger was that of
none of these. Someone--a shadowy someone--out of darkness--or dreams.
Could the idea have been born of some imaginary resemblance, some
fancied recollection? The thing was elusive, and so he gave it up, aware
that if his brain had played him no trick, there was here another
confirmation of his hope that he was on the true scent. Were the threads
converging?

The plan that he now had in mind was to go over the mountains afoot and
make some quiet inquiries among the farmhouses in the valley below the
Pass, in regard to Schloss Szolnok. And so as the light had grown dim,
he got up and went forth into the street, pulling his soft hat well down
over his eyes, and making his way toward the road which led to Dukla
Pass. He verified the innkeeper's direction by inquiry at the end of the
main street, and as the night was clear, set forth briskly upon his walk
over the mountain road, for the idea of spending the evening in
inactivity was not to be thought of until all the facts regarding this
Schloss Szolnok were in his possession.

A ruin--uninhabited? And with its crumbling, his own hope.... It was no
time for despair. Had he not come miraculously from death and traveled
safely from one border of the enemy's country almost to the other, as
though led or driven by some secret impelling force--some inspiration,
some hidden guidon or command? At each turn, at each danger, he
remembered he had acted with swiftness and decision, and had at no time
been at a loss. Fortune had favored him at each stage of his journey and
had directed his steps with rare assurance in this direction. Fortune or
a will-o'-the-wisp? Or was Marishka calling to him? He had had the
impression of her nearness often--there in the hospital--and since, at
Selim Ali's--upon the road. It seemed strange and a little mystifying
too, that he had never doubted that he would be able to find her.... And
no