"Ah!"
"As Nicholas Szarvas, a Hungarian police officer——"
"Szarvas!"
"You knew him?"
The patient was silent again. She had come suddenly upon the stone wall which had balked all her efforts. Her hand was near him upon the bed. He took it and pressed it to his lips.
"Do not think me ungrateful for all your kindnesses, Fräulein. Some day perhaps I can repay you. But there are reasons why I cannot speak."
She drew her hand away from him slowly.
"But you must speak when the magistrate questions," she said gently.
"Perhaps!" And he was silent again.
With his growing strength had come wariness. If England declared war, he, Hugh Renwick, at present unknown, would be interned, a prisoner; and all hope of finding Marishka and the German, Goritz, would be lost. In the first few days of his awakening, he had thought of sending for Warwick, the British Consul, and putting the matter entirely in his hands. But before he had had the strength to decide what it was best to do, had come the declarations of war, and he had determined to remain silent and act upon his own initiative. Unless he had muttered something of his past in his fever, and this he doubted, or some sign of it would have come from Fräulein Roth, there would he no means of identifying him as an Englishman, and when he recovered, they would let him go. As it was, he was a man of mystery, and as such he intended to remain. He had noted the marks of interest in the face of the nurse, and in her questions, and his gratitude to her was very genuine, but he was sure now that he was in no position to take chances. War being declared, Warwick would have been given his passports, and would have left the country. No one in Sarajevo knew the Englishman, Renwick—at least no one who would be likely to connect the man of mystery of the Landes Hospital with the former secretary of the British Embassy in Vienna.