"--in the Dukla--where some Russian officers were invited for the shooting. They did not know how little they were to enjoy it----" Koulas chuckled and blew a cloud of smoke--"for Goritz shot Neudeck before their very eyes, and took the plans back to Germany. This is secret history--a nine days' wonder--but it passed and with it a clever scoundrel who well deserved what he got."
"And since his death who lives in Schloss Szolnok?"
"I don't know." He laughed again. "You jump very rapidly at conclusions, my friend."
"Time passes. I must jump at something. I am going to Dukla Pass--tomorrow if you will help me."
"That goes without saying. For the present you shall go to bed and sleep soundly. I would like to go with you, but alas--I am not so young as I was and I can best serve all your interests here."
Renwick shook Koulas by the hand and took the bedroom candle that was offered him.
"Good night," he said. "I pray that no harm may come to you from this imprudence of mine."
"Do not worry, my friend. I am well hedged about with alibis. Good night."
The next evening after dark Renwick, now Herr Max Schoff of the _Wiener Zeitung_, supplied with a pass which Herr Koulas by means of his underground machinery had managed to procure, took the night train for Kaschau, which he reached in the early morning of the following day, going on later to Bartfeld, the terminus of the railroad, a small and ancient town under the very shadow of the mountains. Here, it being late in the afternoon, he found the Hungaria, a hotel to which he had been directed, where he made arrangements to stop for the night while he leisurely pursued his inquiries.
Now at last, so very near his destination, he was curiously oppressed with the futility of his pilgrimage. He had come far, braving the danger of detection and death, for he had no illusions regarding the status of an Englishman approaching the battle lines under the guise of a newspaper writer. If taken, it would be as a spy, and he would be treated as such.
Herr Koulas had warned him not to be too sanguine, for the roads out of Hungary were many, and Dukla Pass, merely because of a bit of forgotten secret history, a possibility not to be neglected. Herr Koulas had also warned him that the methods in induction which had been open to him had also been open to the Austrian secret service men who, perhaps, had already taken measures to follow the same scent. And so it was that the golden smile of Herr Windt still persisted in Renwick's dreams by night, and in his thoughts by day. If Spivak had told his story of his meeting with the spurious Moyer, his conversation about Szarvas would immediately identify him as Renwick the Englishman. But however near the two trails ran, Windt's men had not yet come up with him, and, until they did, Renwick knew that he must move boldly and quickly upon his quest. And so at last resolution armed him anew.