Marishka answered her in some sort, listening to the girl's chatter, meanwhile thinking deeply of the plan that had come into her mind. Scraps of suggestion that she had gleaned from her talks with Goritz gave her at least a hope that she might be successful in reaching Hugh Renwick by messenger. "The English always go to the Europa," he had said. There, if Hugh Renwick had come to Sarajevo, was the place where a note would find him. And so, the hair brushing having been successfully accomplished, she asked the girl if there was someone by whom she could secretly send a note.
A message! To an Excellency--a Herr Hauptmann--or perhaps a General--yes. She was sure that it could be managed. She herself perhaps could take it. Had not the Effendi told her that the Fräulein was to want for nothing? And greatly excited at the thought of intrigue, brought a tabourette which she placed before Marishka, then found paper, ink and envelopes and squatted upon a pillow, watching eagerly over Marishka's shoulder. But the girl's scrutiny troubled Marishka. Was she in the confidence of Captain Goritz? And if not, could she be persuaded to hold her tongue? Instead of writing at once, Marishka relinquished the pen and took Yeva's hand.
"It is very necessary for my peace and happiness that the contents of this note should be only seen by the person to whom it is delivered----"
"Ah, Fräulein, it shall be as you say. By Allah, I swear----"
"Do you care enough? I will give you anything I possess if you will keep my secret."
"Ah!" her eyes were downcast and her tone was pained. "That the Fräulein should not believe in my friendship----"
"Still," broke in Yeva smiling craftily, "I should very much like to have something by which to remember the Fräulein--the pink sleeping garment which is so sweetly smelling and soft to the touch."
"It is yours, Yeva. See," and Marishka took it from the valise, "I give it to you."
The girl gurgled delightedly, and crooned and kissed the garment like a child with a new doll. She was for trying it on at once and, thus for the moment relieved of Yeva's scrutiny, Marishka bent over the tabourette, pen in hand. But before she wrote she called Yeva again.
"There is no entrance to this house except by the garden, Yeva?" she asked.