Chapter I: Part 1

_HARRAP'S SHILLING LIBRARY_

_THE TRAIL OF THE
WHITE KNIGHT_

_By_

_BRUCE GRAEME_

_Author of
"Blackshirt," "La Belle Laurine," etc._

GEORGE G. HARRAP & CO. LTD.
LONDON BOMBAY SYDNEY

_First published October_ 1920
by GEORGE G. HARRAP & Co., LTD
39-41 Parker Street, Kingsway, London, W.C.2.
_Reprinted:_ 1926; 1928; 1930; 1931; 1932.

_Printed at Parkgate Printing Works, Dublin, by_ CAHILL & Co., LTD.,
_London and Dublin_

_HARRAP'S SHILLING LIBRARY_

1. Pollyooly. Edgar Jepson.
2. The Chinese Parrot. Earl Derr Biggers.
3. Bluefeather. Laurence W. Meynell.
4. The Gillespie Suicide Mystery. Leonard R. Gribble.
5. Death's Eye. Laurence W. Meynell.
6. The Cathra Mystery. Adam Gordon Macleod.
7. The Marloe Mansions Murder. Adam Gordon Macleod.
8. Behind that Curtain. Earl Derr Biggers.
9. The Mayfair Mystery. Henry Holt.
10. The Death Gong. Selwyn Jepson.
11. Blackshirt. Bruce Graeme.
12. The Return of Blackshirt. Bruce Graeme.
13. The Trail of the White Knight. Bruce Graeme.
14. The House of Fear. R. W. Service.
15. Dead Men's Money. J. S. Fletcher.
16. The Chestermarke Instinct. J. S. Fletcher.
17. The Death of Laurence Vining. Alan Thomas.
18. Inspector Frost's Jigsaw. H. Maynard Smith.

THE TRAIL OF THE WHITE KNIGHT

_PROLOGUE_

I

"Say again you love me," she pleaded.

"Silly one! Have I not already told you more times than I can count?" he chided.

She pouted slightly. "Yes, dear one; but a woman can never hear too often the words which mean so much to her."

"A woman!" The man laughed softly. "You are not a woman, Zita. Why, you have yet to see your nineteenth birthday. You are still nothing but a child--yet--I love you, Zita."

"Are you then a grandfather, big Mr Englishman?" she mocked.

"No, but it is more than a month ago now since I celebrated my twenty-fifth birthday."

The next few minutes were spent in silence as they walked along the shady paths of Margaret Island. Romance infused the soft, warm air of the July night with its subtle infection; the surroundings in which these two walked were reminiscent of Paradise.

On their right the darkness of the night was emphasized by the many beautiful trees, the shadows of which, cast by the silvery light of the moon above, were delicately traced upon the soft sward beneath, and the simple majesty of the woods was disturbed only by the bright lights of an electric tramcar, as it flashed past, raucously, clangingly making its way from one end of the island to the other.

On their left the scene was still more beautiful, for past them swiftly flowed the broad Danube, silently racing toward its outlet in the Black Sea, carrying on its bosom the broad-bottomed boats of commerce.

Just now these barges seemed like quaint, black shadows, moving with an eerie silence. There were, however, other craft, steamboats, which shimmered and twinkled, their reflected lights dancing merrily up and down upon the water. These were the vessels which conveyed the people across from either end of Margaret Island.

On the bank opposite was the old town of Ofen, better known as Buda. From where the couple stood, quiet in the thoughts which gripped them, they could see the lights of the royal palace scintillating in the darkness.

From the upper end of the island they could hear faintly the plashing of superfluous water as, from the bath-house, it falls in a pretty cascade into the pond beneath.

Geoffrey Templeton wondered if there could possibly be any other place in the world so wonderful as this, while Zita looked up at his strong profile, thrown into relief by the ethereal light above, and smiled slightly to herself, for she too was idealizing, contemplating whether there could be another man in this world so splendid as he.

She looked at the moon, and even as she gazed upward a small black cloud passed beneath, quite obscuring its silvery sheen. Coincidently she remembered that on the morrow Geoffrey was to return to England, his holiday at an end.

"Oh, Geoffrey, dear heart," she murmured softly, "must you indeed depart to-morrow for your cold, cheerless England?"

He turned toward her, and, acting on the impulse of the moment, seized her dainty hands within his and pressed them passionately.

"I wish I could say otherwise," he muttered hoarsely, "for I would ask nothing better than to stop here with you always; but I have no option. We must part, darling, for six months. It shall not be longer, I swear it. After all," he continued, "six months is but a short time, and then, when I return, we can be married. Cheer up, little one, only twenty-four weeks, and then.... Smile, Zita, for this night is our last one together, and it hurts me to see you sad."

Gently releasing her fingers, and catching her chin with his right hand, he lifted her face gently so that they gazed into one another's eyes. Pluckily she attempted to smile, but instead a tiny tear, escaping, rolled down her cheek, and seeing this Geoffrey drew nearer to her, kissing it away before it found time to drop.

Quickly the hours sped by while they talked of the past.... Once again he made her laugh as he reminded her of the time when he could talk no Hungarian, when she, taking pity on his plight, instructed him, until now he was proficient in the Magyar language.

They spoke of the future, the far-off time when he should return to Budapest and claim her for his own, and together they planned the time-to-be, discussed how long they would spend in England with his people, and how long in Budapest with hers.

From not far away there was a discreet cough from Zita's chaperon, and Geoffrey looked, dismayed, at his watch.

"Come, darling, this must be good night ... and _au revoir_."

Quickly the ferry conveyed them from the island back to Buda again, where he hired a _fiacre_.

Back at her home, the wise and kindly chaperon discreetly disappeared; once again Geoffrey clasped his future wife in his arms, and, kissing the brimming tears away, made his _adieux_.

"In six months I shall return," were his last words, and the next moment he was gone.

Early the next morning Geoffrey left for Paris; before him England, behind him Budapest, the city of smiles, gaiety, and happiness.

"In six months I shall return."

The words echoed in his ears, and the hum of the wheels of the _wagon-lit_ repeated after him: "Six months, six months!"

Once he looked out of the window, but he saw only an ominous haze away in the east, heavy banks of thunder-laden clouds, obscuring his last view of Budapest.

Even as the looming storm rolled up from the east that morning so did other clouds spring up, this time political, born of a tiny puff of blue smoke which was slowly emitted from the barrel of a revolver, held in the hands of a fanatic; and less than a month later followed the whirlwind, and the upheaval of Europe. Geoffrey's dream was past, buried in the heart of the bloody battlefield.

II

The War was over! Peace had come again to Germany, France, England, Italy, and the United States. Over these countries there was once more contentment, the happiness of a quickly reviving industry. The echoing boom of guns was no longer heard, air-raids were already but a memory, telegraph boys ceased to be of heartrending significance.

Already war-scarred warriors were being demobilized; ex-soldiers were returning to more peaceful employment; food, diverted from its destination--headquarters--was becoming plentiful, of a better quality.

War was over! Now only time was needed, and these countries would be their old selves again. In Paris the statesmen were collecting to discuss peace terms and reparations.

This was the position in March 1919 of the victors, and even of some of the vanquished. Germany, beaten and cowed, was now putting its house in order. Turkey, philosophically shrugging its shoulders, was merely resuming life where it had been left off.

So busy were the victors celebrating victory, so engaged were the vanquished making the best of their defeat, that the world overlooked one country where peace had failed to find a harbour, where post-War conditions were worse than during that awful period of war itself, the country in which human jackals and vultures were already gathered to disrupt and dissect an already breaking empire--Hungary.

Upon Hungary Lenin, from the fastnesses of Moscow, had already cast his eyes, and so he sent out his lieutenants, schooled in fiendish cruelty, inculcated with inhuman conceptions of government.

To Hungary came Bela Kun, the chief apostle of Lenin and Trotsky, where, in an incredibly short time, he enrolled under his banner of Communism criminals of all types, and elected leaders: Bohm, Pogany, Agoston, Harcoq, and Szamuelly.

"Down with the _bourgeoisie_, long live the proletariat!" became the cry, and to the echo of these hysterical screams poor Hungary commenced the worst year throughout the pages of its history, during which it was to live under a reign of terror worse even than the French Revolution.

To Budapest, a seething hotbed of Communism, came Geoffrey Templeton in search of the girl of whom he had dreamed during the long years of war, the woman he had never forgotten.

Arriving at the East station, he was amazed by the dark, dismal gloominess of the once glorious terminus. Where before had wandered well-dressed travellers, rubbing shoulders with gaily uniformed officers of the Hungarian army, now slouched slovenly men and starving women, while deeper in the gloom lurked ominous shadows.

On all sides suspicious glances were levelled at him from wolf-like faces. Here and there he espied men in leather uniforms, their caps blazoning Red cockades, their belts an armoury in themselves. They were the dreaded Lenin Boys, a troop of murderers and criminals, under the command of Josef Cserni, ex-sailor and late prisoner of war in Russia.

These Lenin Boys were guaranteed immunity from all punishment for murder or any other crime so long as their activities were confined to the hated _bourgeoisie_ and did not involve the death of notable Bolsheviks.

Their very appearance was terrifying, for they were chosen for their height and fiery appearance. As Geoffrey walked toward the entrance one of these Boys pushed against him.

"_Bourgeois_," he hiccuped, and spat on the ground.

With blazing eyes Geoffrey turned round, and the soldier slunk away. There was a hoarse laugh from one of the onlookers, but otherwise no one took any notice of this incident.

It was in vain that Geoffrey searched for a vehicle to convey him to an hotel. No public conveyances of any kind were to be seen, only here and there a charging motor-car, occupied, so far as he could see, by groups of soldiers, or Communists, distinguishable by their criminal countenances, their scarlet decorations.

He realized that to get anywhere he would have to walk, and so, picking up his bag, he began to traverse the darkened streets. Here and there street-lights reflected upon advertisement hoardings, blazing with Red posters, huge placards printed in red and black, portraying immense and ghastly figures.

Geoffrey heard a sound of pattering footsteps behind him. Out of the dim shadows came the running figure of a man, breathing hoarsely. He passed in a flash, and then the Englishman heard other following steps, and hoarse shouting.

"Long live the Dictatorship of the Proletariat!" some one cried, then suddenly there roared the sound of a shot, and a street-light just ahead flicked out as its encasing glass tinkled to the ground.

"Death to the _bourgeois_! Death!"

Geoffrey halted suddenly, startled. What had happened? Was this Hungary, the Budapest he knew so well? From a distance he heard more shouts, further shots, and then silence once again.

"Good Gad!" he muttered to himself. "I thought this was peace."

He had never dreamed, never imagined, when he had set out for Budapest to go to his beloved, that he was to meet with this sort of thing. An icy chill seemed to settle round his heart. What of Zita?

For the first time since his demobilization his spirits fell to zero. For two weeks now he had been living in a Paradise of his own, eagerly anticipating the moment when he should clasp the girl he loved--woman, she would be now--once more in his arms.

He had had no reason to believe that this--this ghastly business was taking place in Budapest. "Death to the _bourgeoisie_!" What did it mean? Revolution! No, not even that, but worse.

With a white, set face he picked up his bag once more and commenced to walk. Now and again the silence was disturbed by hurrying motor-cars, shouts, or sometimes shots. The streets were practically empty, and at this Geoffrey did not wonder any longer.

Later, he arrived at the Continental Hotel, a memory of its palatial splendour still existing in his mind, but now it resembled nothing more than a filthy building, its exterior no cleaner than its interior, which was littered with dirt, and smelled evilly.

There were still guests--unkempt, unwashed men and women who lounged about, spitting and smoking. He stared with amazement at the scene before him, disbelieving the evidence of his own eyes.

He was accosted presently by a clerk, who slouched up to him.

"What do you want?" the man growled.

Geoffrey eyed him silently. "A room," he said presently, and the clerk, under the Englishman's fixed glance, stirred uneasily.

"Supposing we have not got one?" he said.

"Supposing you look," replied Geoffrey quietly.

The clerk gave ground. Entering his counter he banged a bell, and a _pinczer_ approached.

"Take this man up to room 61," he ordered.

Without a word the waiter picked up Geoffrey's bag and led the way, working the lift himself.

Room 61 was no cleaner than the vestibule. As the electric light threw its white glare over the room Geoffrey saw dozens of blackbeetles swarming into hidden crannies.

The waiter hesitated. Geoffrey put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some coins. "Come inside and shut the door," he ordered, then presently, when the other had complied, and received a tip which made his eyes glisten, asked: "Now, what does all this mean? The War----"

"The War!" The man laughed bitterly. "Not the War, sir, but revolution, Communism, Bolshevism." His face became suspicious, and his lips closed tightly. "Why do you ask me? You know as well as I do."

Geoffrey shook his head. "I do not. I have only just arrived from England."

The waiter looked up eagerly. "You are English, sir?"

Geoffrey nodded.

"I was frightened. There are spies, detectives, and _agents provocateurs_ everywhere."

"Spies, detectives--I don't understand!"

"No, sir, you wouldn't. You have won the War, and we have lost. It makes all the difference. Hungary is now a republic--worse, in fact, for we have a Soviet Government."

"Good God!" Geoffrey was astounded, but recollections of Zita made him urge the older man on with his story. "Tell me more," he suggested.

"It all began with Count Michael Karolyi. He formed a republic, with himself at the helm. Not for long, sir. The Communists took the lead under Bela Kun, two days ago, and now we have the Commune, another word for murder and pillage.

"I have heard it said that Szamuelly wants a three days' loot, three days during which the comrades, the Communists, can steal and sack to their hearts' content. It may happen at any minute. Sir, I cannot tell you how bad it is!" Two tears forced themselves out of the man's eyes and slowly rolled down his puckered cheeks.

"You see," he continued presently, "myself, I am too old for these ideas. You grand folks, you treat the likes of us well. I used to make good money before the War came and spoilt it all."

"But what of the rich people, I mean the people who used to stay here? What of them?"

The waiter shook his head slowly. "All penniless, sir, penniless. Their money confiscated, their property stolen." He dropped his voice. "Many of them are ... dead, murdered."

Geoffrey seemed only to hear his voice from a distance as the man continued. There was a buzzing in his ears, and his head was reeling. What of Zita? What of her? Supposing that she were ... dead!

"Oh, God!" he moaned, and with an imperious motion he stopped the waiter, and strode up and down. Presently he turned again to the other. "Tell me," he asked anxiously, "has anything happened to the people in the Erzebet-Korut?"

It was in the Erzebet-Korut that Zita lived with her father and mother, the Count and Countess Rakoczy.

The man scratched his head. "I have heard tell of--and yet--no, sir, I am not sure."

Geoffrey could have shaken him by the shoulders. "Go, now!" he cried, and the old man passed out.

It was too late that night to do anything. Geoffrey undressed and threw himself into bed, yet scarcely slept. He tossed and turned from side to side, but all the time he could picture only Zita, who appeared to be vaguely holding out her arms to him, just as she had done when he had left her, over four years ago.

Sick with apprehension, he heard the hours gradually strike one after another, and never was dawn more welcome. He hastily dressed.

Not waiting for breakfast, he hurried to the Erzebet-Korut, and was relieved to find that, if outside appearances could be taken as any criterion, nothing had happened to the Rakoczy residence, since, except for its dirty condition, it seemed untouched.

With a trembling heart he approached the entrance, and was presently admitted.

Ten minutes later a white-faced man reeled out, stunned by the news he heard, the story he had been told by the dying Countess, the tale of how the Count, for his patriotic resistance to Communism, had been proscribed an outlaw by Bela Kun, and had fled, accompanied by Zita, for his life.

Zita and her kindly white-haired father outlaws in their own country, liable to be shot at any moment! Geoffrey groaned. It seemed unbelievable! Only by an effort of will did he become his normal self again as he walked back to the hotel.

Fortunately the Countess had been able to give him the address to which her tiny family had fled, a small peasant cottage in Szugy on the Ipoly.

Thither went Geoffrey, his vague haunting fear growing stronger as the train advanced sluggishly through the quiet countryside. The hours passed slowly, but at length the train steamed into Balassagyarmat. Later Geoffrey arrived at Szugy.

Everything seemed quiet and peaceful--ominously so. There was a sense of brooding hurt, a solemn hush. Yard by yard Geoffrey advanced nearer to his destination, and all the time his heart beat a wild tattoo, though now it was because of his nearness to Zita. At last he was really to see her, to feel her within his arms.

At last! A small cottage was before him. In front of it bloomed early spring flowers, and the grass sprouted greenly. A narrow flagged path led up to the door, and along this Geoffrey stepped. Another few moments, a second only...

The door was slightly open, and there was no answer to his knocks. There was a slight smell, a tang which he could not define.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The tang was that of blood, freshly spilled blood, that of the old Count, whose gentle heart had brought him unwavering popularity wherever he went.

He had been playing chess at the time. Even now the chessboard and the pieces still remained on the table: red _versus_ white, red winning, the white king in check to them.

On the floor lay the Count--dead. Opposite sat Zita, still and motionless, her staring, horrified eyes fixed with a peculiar intensity in front of her.

Calmly Geoffrey inspected the scene in front of him, quietly viewing the tragedy. Only his eyes flickered strangely. He moved more into the room, and bent over the corpse. As he had thought. Bayonet wounds, here, there, and everywhere. The helpless old man had been literally stabbed to death by brutal, bestial murderers, pawns of Bela Kun, the Dictator of the Proletariat.

Zita was untouched. She had died as she watched her father's death, her heart giving way under the strain, her hand clutching a chess-piece, a piece which, had she finished her move, would have released the white king from check by taking a red pawn.

The piece was--a white knight.

_CHAPTER I_

The surging crowds, swaying, shuffling, grumbling, waited impatiently in the grim Parliament Square, as yet lit but faintly by the dawning from the east.

A motley crew, a corrupt community; the scene was but a typical picture of Budapest and all Hungary in the grip of revolution, a revolt of the proletariat for government by the proletariat, the shadow of Lenin falling upon an unhappy country, already torn by years of recent strife and earlier suppression.

A country, monarchist to the core, now ground down by Soldiers' Councils and Workers' Councils, headed by the Russian-taught Bela Kun, and the bloodthirsty tyrant Tibor Szamuelly, his Terror Boys, and the merciless Korvin-Klein. Unhappy Hungary!

Down through the ages have trickled histories of the French Revolution, the people _versus_ the '_aristos_.' Too well is known the toll of Madame Guillotine, and the cruel justice of Robespierre. There have been written histories of the Revolution, of the howling mobs, the vampire women; readers have felt a saddened pain at the thought of fleeing _émigrés_, driven from their own country, the land of their birth.

Yet how many are aware that in less than a year more horrible deeds, more bloodthirsty deaths occurred during the dictatorship of Bela Kun than during all the years of the French Revolution?

Even in the crowd which waited this morning there were whispers of horrible tortures: of men, whose only crime was that of belonging to the hated _bourgeoisie_, who were strung up by the hands and gagged with the lighted ends of cigars and cigarettes; of others who were bayoneted by the Terror Boys, and flung into a newly dug grave and buried, even while the breath still remained in their bodies.

Other tales there were also, all too true unfortunately, of prisoners of Szamuelly, of the proletariat, who were, incredible as it may sound, flayed alive by their own countrymen.

Murder, theft, blackmail! These were not crimes--merely the prerogative of the proletariat. To be a _bourgeois_! There was no worse sin in the calendar of Dante; and so the towns and villages of Hungary ran red with the blood of the Hungarians, and all because the shadow of Lenin fell upon the unhappy land.

"Well done, Bela Kun! Well done, Szamuelly!" applauded Lenin, and, thus encouraged, these two flung the war-battered country into the maelstrom of bloody revolution, unheeded by the outside world, for all Europe was itself only just free of the throes of a ghastly war.

Not a soul to aid the unhappy victims, not a man to stretch out a helping hand--save one.

* * * * * *

"They keep us waiting. See the rope swinging. It is waiting too; it has good work to do these days. A good piece of hemp, comrade. It must love the blasted _bourgeoisie_, it embraces them so closely. Maybe, though, it's bullets to-day. A little piece of lead makes a nice hole, eh! a nice hole!"

The speaker grinned evilly, and his companion chuckled likewise. They were two of the many who waited, two Red-cockaded workmen who were there to see men hanged to satisfy the sated appetite of Korvin-Klein.

"They are a long time. Perhaps they are holding a trial."

The one who answered was a contrast to his companion, for the first speaker was as tall as Comrade George Garami was short, and as scarred as the other was unpleasant. They might have been a source of humour, these two, to the hundreds who surrounded them, but people did not laugh much these days.

"Pah!" The tall man spat. "Korvin-Klein knows how to treat the pigs. Trials! What do they want trials for? That is what I ask you, comrade. What do they want with trials? Hang them, I say, and quickly."

"Me too," agreed Garami, "but Bela Kun says the Allies may interfere."

The other man scowled. "Not they. The more we kill the better they will be pleased. It saves them the trouble."

Garami grinned. "You speak well, comrade. Only if it were the Allies it might be you who would hang instead of the _bourgeois_ dogs. There were those fifty Italian prisoners you said you bayoneted----"

"Stop your mouth," muttered the scarred one. "You talk too much, you, George Garami. Your tongue wags freely, friend, and maybe it will lead you into trouble."

Garami grunted. "What have I to fear, eh! friend Wenzel? I am a good Communist, me."

"So well you may be; but even good Communists have talked too much lately. It is said that they gossip too freely and that the White Knight has long ears."

"The White Knight! What and who may he be, comrade?"

Wenzel turned his hideously scarred face toward the smaller man. "What, dolt, do you mean to say you have never heard of the White Knight?"

"Should I question you otherwise?" asked Garami testily.

Wenzel burst into a harsh roar of raucous laughter, and the unusual sound attracted the attention of others around him, and they turned his way. Wenzel, observing this, waved his arms wide, claiming their attention.

"Sisters, comrades," he announced, "my little friend here has never heard of the White Knight!"

There was no echoing smile of derision from his listeners; instead Wenzel saw nothing but blank faces.

He raised his eyebrows. "What!" he exclaimed, "have none of you yet heard of the White Knight?"

Several shook their heads, and a woman called out: "Tell us, comrade, of him. Does he belong to the counter-revolution?"

Wenzel grinned, and the effect was so repulsive that the woman shrank back in disgust.

"Tell you! Gladly, comrades. 'Tis not often my lot to be the town-crier. I feel as important as a local commissary.

"Know you, then, that this White Knight is a mysterious being of whom, so far, no one has yet any knowledge. Maybe he is a man, possibly a woman, or perhaps a bastard brat sent up from Hell to assist the Devil's spawn, the _bourgeoisie_.

"He was first heard of about a month ago, when the People's Commissary at Balassagyarmat arrested the outlaw Stephen Arpad. It was known to Bela Kun that this Stephen Arpad was indulging in treasonable correspondence with traitors here in Budapest with a view to establishing a White counter-revolution.

"Well, friends, Bela Kun awaited his time, but at last this dog Arpad was arrested and thrown into the Balassagyarmat jail, and there he was kept awaiting the time when Tibor Szamuelly should arrive to hang him.

"On the night before Szamuelly arrived, what do you think happened, friends? Arpad escaped."

There was a deep-throated growl from the crowd, and Wenzel, realizing that he was working them up, and appreciating the fact that he was at the moment the centre of interest, became more bombastically theatrical.

"Yes, comrades," he continued, his ugly face glowing malignantly, "Arpad escaped, and there was no one to offer any explanation. All that was found in his cell was a small chess-piece, a white knight.

"What did Szamuelly do? Why, he did what all good Communists should do. He hanged the commissary as a warning to others not to let good hanging meat escape in the same way."

Wenzel roared with laughter; but there was no one to join in with him. Steeped in bloody thoughts and deeds, familiar with ghastly sights, insane with revolutionary lust as they were, yet Wenzel appalled them.

At least a head higher than the tallest of his listeners, he was conspicuous, not only by his height, but likewise by his face, his head, and his general appearance.

In the first place, his greasy cap, gaudily illuminated by a brilliant Red cockade, the badge of the Communist and the proletariat, did not entirely conceal his closely cropped head of hair, naturally parted on the right-hand side by a vivid and extraordinarily straight scar--one of the many which disfigured his strange features.

Six scars there were, including the one described above. There was one which shaved his left eyebrow, one which scored his left cheek, one which stretched from his mouth, pulling it perpetually out of shape across to the lobe of his right ear, one small one just above, and finally one across his throat, creating the ghastly impression that the man had once endeavoured to commit suicide by inflicting there, with a razor, a self-made wound.

Two of the scars, though obviously healed up, were so deeply impressed into the skin that at times they betrayed traces of the warm blood which flowed beneath. His emotions aroused, these two wounds flushed redly, as if on the point of reopening.

The effect of these blemishes was to make the man so hideously ugly that it was disgusting to cast eyes upon him.

In himself he was of broad stature, and this, with his height, made him lumbering and ungainly. His hands were big and filthy, the nails scratched and cracked, and worn down to the quick.

His clothes were greasy, frayed at the sleeves and at the bottom of the trousers. His boots were laced with string.

Repulsive was the only word to describe him. Of the ravenous wolves, of the cruel, barbarous vultures, dragged up by the Revolution from the slums to which they belonged, this man, Istvan Wenzel, was, in appearance at least, the most vicious, the most terrifying.

To the student of physiognomy he was a man of vice, and to his lengthy list of undesirable traits might be added vanity. Surrounded by a city's scum, only a little better than himself, he was conscious that he was, for the moment, the centre of interest, that his words were creating attention: the fact that his fellow-Communists drew away at his ghoulish laughter did not seem to wound his sensibilities, even if he were possessed of any.

"Yes, comrades, he was the first prisoner to escape. Yet there were others, more of these _bourgeois_, who mysteriously vanished just in time to escape the hangman's rope or our soldiers' bullets. Each time there was left behind a chess-piece, always the white knight, and so the man who has been responsible for these escapes has become known as the White Knight."

There was a shout from the rear. "Ay, comrade, you say nothing but the truth. I have heard of this pig, the White Knight. It is said that he has sworn to rescue the Count Kalman Bakocz. Comrade Szamuelly is to take a hand in the game. This White Knight will soon be in Red Mourning, eh, friends?"

"Ay, ay," cried several, amidst a ripple of laughter.

There was a sudden stir, and the people swung round. At the far end of the square came into view a group of Red soldiers, laughing and joking. In their midst three prisoners walked unhappily, doomed to die, condemned to death by the inhuman Korvin-Klein, the uneducated, uncouth judge appointed by the Dictator to try all enemies of the proletariat.

Pushing through the crowd, the soldiers made their way toward that part of the square above which the stone lions proudly growled defiance to the world. Here the three victims were made to stand, calmly awaiting their fate.

There was silence, a muttered word of command: the sharp resonant clash of gun-fire echoed across the square, and three patriots slipped to the ground, killed by Hungarian bullets that were fired by Hungarian men at the command of a Hungarian.

Scarcely had the sound of the discharge died away when Wenzel laughed loudly and slapped his friend Garami on the shoulder.

"Three more traitors sent about their business, eh, comrade!" he cried.

Garami, rubbing his shoulder where Wenzel's hand had caught him, laughed too.

_CHAPTER II_

It was eleven o'clock in Balassagyarmat, and the streets were comparatively pitch dark.

The edict of the Dictator had gone forth--no lights after ten o'clock P.M.--so that even if the gas and electricity had not failed the result would have been the same, for were there not detectives, Terror Boys, and People's Commissaries to see that the word of the Workers' Council was obeyed?

Under the present _régime_ the houses and effects of all were the common property of every one else: books, food, furniture; there was nothing, if the occasion arose, to which the comrades of the Commune could not help themselves.

Not many walked the streets. Here and there drunken Red soldiers staggered back to their billets, notwithstanding that prohibition was in force. Here and there a lurking shadow betokened a detective, or sometimes a daring _bourgeois_ risking his life to visit friends.

Only People's Commissaries walked about openly, or members of the local Soviet.

In some houses there was peace; here lived Communists who ran with the hounds. In some there was a significant quiet--_bourgeois_ who were still left in safety, but who might yet run with the hares.

In one home, the residence of Count Kalman Bakocz, there was only sorrow, a dull, hopeless, heart-gnawing despair.

A week ago Terror Boys had found their way into the house and arrested the Count. In vain his wife had pleaded for her husband's liberty, unsuccessfully had his daughter Cecile added her pleas. The Red officer merely flicked his fingers, gave marching orders, and the Count was torn from the bosom of his family and flung into jail, only to be transferred the following morning to Budapest to await the justice of Korvin-Klein.

Later his son, Francis, returned, and only with a great effort did Cecile and her mother keep him back from invoking his friends to assist him in what could only result in a futile attempt at rescue.

For one week the Countess lay prostrate, unable to eat for the fear which gripped her heart in a vice. Only the tender solicitude of Cecile and the brave optimism of Francis kept her alive.

This was the seventh night after Count Bakocz's arrest, and again no news other than that he was still alive. The news-bringer thought fit to withhold the fact that he was nigh on starving.

Despite the commands of the Dictator there was a tiny particle of candle throwing a flickering light upon the shrunken, careworn features of Countess Bakocz as she lay in bed, her daughter sitting on one side, her son on the other. Heavy curtains protected the windows, so that not a gleam of light could escape the room, yet nevertheless each one was quivering with tension which could not altogether be concealed, and every time footsteps echoed in the street outside Cecile held her breath in terror and Francis clenched his fists.

Countess Bakocz weakly turned her head toward her son. "What news, son, what news to-night?"

Francis shrugged his shoulders slightly, and turned his eyes away as he felt them filling with tears. "Still no further news. Father is still--alive." He swallowed hard.

"Nothing else, Francis?" Even despair did not dim her proud eyes so much that she missed the trembling of his lips.

"Nothing else."

His mother shook her head. "Poor boy, poor boy. You cannot lie, Francis." She stretched out her emaciated hand and placed it tenderly upon his, which lay idly on the coverlet. "Tell me, son, I can bear it."

Unconsciously Francis turned a questioning gaze upon Cecile, who nodded slightly.

"They say," he commenced chokingly, "that Father is--is to be tried on--Mon--Monday."

There was no sound from the Countess, not a movement, but Francis felt the hand clasping his jump convulsively, and her lower lip twitched unceasingly.

"Mother dear, Mother darling, do not give up hope." Cecile leaned forward and kissed her on her bloodless forehead. "Many things may happen. God will save him. God will save him."

"God must have many tears to shed on our unhappy country," she replied softly, and from this Cecile knew that her mother could not even have it in her heart to put her trust in Heaven.

Nor could she blame her mother, for she wondered what evil any of them could have done that they should be visited with this calamity. For twenty years the Count and his family had lived in this selfsame house, leading a God-fearing life.

To the house of his forefathers he had brought his wife twenty years back, and there his daughter Cecile had been born a year later, and two years afterward Francis.

During the War he had fought courageously for his country. Now, with the War scarcely at an end, he was seized by his countrymen and thrown into jail. His crime? Raising his voice on behalf of his unhappy people, beseeching the peasants to look into their hearts, where, he said, they would find they wanted nothing of revolution, wanted only peace to till the land and rear their children.

There was silence in the room; the candle burned smaller. When that was gone Cecile had another bit to put in its place, but after that ... In future they might not have even the welcoming flame of the candle to cheer them; nothing but the dismal dark of the night.

Suddenly Francis raised his head. He heard the hoot of an owl.

"'Tis Kirchhoff!" he cried, and running lightly across the room he disappeared downstairs.

Cecile shivered ominously. Kirchhoff brought only news, and "no news was good news." Was it that Francis had been misled? Perhaps the trial of her father had been that morning. A little cry arose to her throat, and her hand flew up to stop it, but too late. Her mother had heard; she looked at Cecile with the expression of a hunted deer.

"He is a long time," she said. Cecile knew her mother's thoughts had been following the trend of her own.

Was Francis never coming up again? She wanted to scream hysterically. Surely he must know that they would be anxious. The seconds ticked by. Not a movement from below, not a sound to be heard.

Another moment and Cecile would have called, but there was a cautious step, and almost as soon as she recognized the footsteps of Francis she was conscious that there was some one with him.

Hypnotically she watched the door until it swung open. So Francis was bringing Kirchhoff up. Why? Why? She trembled, but the man who entered was not Kirchhoff, but a stranger.

"Mother dear, do not be excited, but there is news, wonderful news. This gentleman has come from Buda. He is Mr Arnold Terhune, of London."

Countess Bakocz flashed a startled glance at her daughter. An Englishman! A late foe, countryman of an enemy land with whom peace had not yet been signed! How could he bring good news?

Cecile did not meet her look, for she was gazing upon the young man who entered, raptly assimilating the picture he presented. Her thoughts were that here was a man connected with good news. If he bore information which should hearten them all what matter his nationality?

The Countess inclined her head coldly as the Englishman bowed.

"You must forgive my intrusion, Countess, but there is a matter of great importance which I must discuss with you."

"I am at your service, monsieur." Try as she might she could not keep the chilling hauteur from her voice.

How different from Cecile, whose eyes were sparkling, and whose cheeks were flushing! He possessed a wonderful voice, this Englishman who spoke their language with scarcely a trace of foreign accent.

Arnold Terhune glanced around him.

"We are alone?"

A tear welled into the eyes of the Countess. "Absolutely," she replied, and the tinge of bitterness and hopelessness in her voice betrayed its story of tragedy, its tale of faithless servants, of forbidden friends.

The Englishman inclined his head. "Then I may speak, for it is of vital importance that what I have to say goes no further. Countess, I bear a message to you from one who is known as the White Knight."

"The White Knight!" The exclamation was from Cecile. With those three words banished hope returned in full force. The White Knight! If the rumour of this mysterious person had not yet reached the proletariat, the same could not be said of the persecuted _bourgeoisie_ and the hunted aristocracy. Like the spread of a forest fire, the name of the White Knight had passed from mouth to mouth with inconceivable rapidity.

Stories of his wonderful rescues had penetrated into every house and home which sheltered one of the hated _bourgeoisie_, his saga was told in whispers and in snatches. To the gentle families of the forgotten people his name was a glimpse of blue breaking in between the heavy thunderclouds of revolution, a veritable star of hope, shining undimmed through an overpowering blackness.

Countess Bakocz raised herself slightly on her elbows, and the blood flowed into her face. "The White Knight!" she whispered. "God be praised! Then he knows of my husband's plight?"

"Too well, Countess. Moreover, he plans to rescue him--has sworn to do so."

"Sworn to rescue him!" The Countess faintly repeated the words, unable to credit the fact. Then joyfully she spoke again. "Cecile, Francis, listen! The White Knight is to return your father to us. Oh, children, children, tell me I am not dreaming! Make me believe what I hear is true!"

Cecile's lips trembled suspiciously as she flung her arms around the invalid. "Oh, Mother darling, of course it is true!" Across her mother's shoulder her glance met that of Arnold Terhune.

His eyes held hers, clearly and firmly. In that brief second there was a change in both of them, though neither was conscious of the fact. They only felt an inexplicable stirring somewhere deep down within them.

Arnold Terhune, though dressed in the dirty shapeless clothes of the Hungarian labourer, with a three or four days' growth of hair upon his chin, and a very close-cropped head, could not entirely conceal the lithe, athletic grace with which he carried himself, any more than his unshaven chin hid its firm strength.

Dressed more suitably, he would have been the personification of virile English manhood. He was inclined to be tall, just under six feet, yet his hands and feet were unusually small. His broad shoulders hinted at robust health and physical strength; his slimmer waist at a healthy life and arduous exercise.

Well might he have appealed to Cecile, who, herself, was remarkably beautiful, and of a dusky, gipsy type. Her dark, rippling hair admirably set off her almost black eyes and pure olive complexion, while her tiny lips curved seductively into a Cupid's bow.

Perhaps her only fault was a strained, pinched look, the result of four years' privation, so soon succeeded by the worse rigours of the revolution, and subsequent Commune.

Countess Bakocz turned eagerly to her visitor. "Tell us, monsieur, of this rescue. When and how? Oh, how I long to clasp my husband in my arms again! God be pleased to grant the White Knight success, monsieur. You will tell us his plans?"

Terhune smiled, then slowly shook his head. "The White Knight alone knows his plans, Countess. He alone plots his _coups_."

"But you, monsieur, you know this White Knight?"

Terhune's face broke into a smile again, but this time there was something of hero-worship, of reverence, in it.

"Yes, Countess, he is my friend, and leader."

"Your leader? You work for the White Knight?" Cecile it was who put the question, and she clasped her hands together in her eager excitement.

"Yes, m'selle. I am his lieutenant. I do what I can; it is so little. I wish I could do more, much more, for it makes my heart bleed to see the Hungary I have always loved plunged into the present chaos."

"You love Hungary, monsieur, yet you are an Englishman, an enemy!" There was a gentle reproof in her tones as the Countess spoke.

"We are not our masters in war-time, Countess. I fought for my country, not for myself."

"Forgive me, monsieur." The Countess was contrite. "I should not have said that, but I must plead my awful worry in excuse. I was surprised. To fight against us--and now----!"

"We are already forgetting. Deep in our hearts we English feel for your nation. We feel you have been the cat's-paw of German diplomacy. Now that humanity is being outraged by bestial tyranny, we wish only to aid and assist. Were circumstances different England might do more, but her people do not know of your plight, have no idea even of the revolution here. Russia, yes, but Hungary ... Our papers are full of peace and future prosperity."

"The White Knight, is he English too?"

Terhune nodded. "Yes, Countess, he is, but I beg you not to question me with regard to him. It is his wish, his policy too, that he remain merely a name, a myth. His mystery is his second lieutenant."

The Countess buried her face in her hands and quietly sobbed, while Terhune shuffled his feet uncomfortably, wondering what he had said to have this effect.

Presently she looked up and smiled faintly. "Forgive a woman's tears, monsieur, but it grieves me that our unhappy country must look to enemies for succour against our own people."

"Not entirely, Countess, for there are those in Vienna and in Budapest who seek to form a counter-revolution, a White Army instead of a red. I may not mention names, but----" His eloquent gesture was expressive, and the three Hungarians who listened to him felt a glow of warmth stealing through their bodies.

"But now, Countess, for the reason of my visit here. There is information I require, knowledge I must acquire. Listen...."

It was half an hour later when Terhune slipped away, leaving behind three people who in less than an hour had been pulled from the depths of misery into the heights of hope and confidence. While the Countess dreamed of the future, of the time when she should see her husband again, Francis pictured the adventure and the thrill of the rescue, and wished he could help. Cecile was quiet and thoughtful. Too full for words at the thought of having her father with her once again, she could not, nevertheless, banish the constantly recurring picture of Arnold Terhune, standing in the light of the flickering candle, his glance meeting hers across her mother's shoulder.

_CHAPTER III_

Consternation reigned at the meeting of the Workers' Council. Bela Kun had been sorting out his papers preparatory to suggesting fresh edicts for the suppression of the _bourgeoisie_.

"Comrades," he had begun, when suddenly his eyes caught sight of a paper on his table, on which his startled eyes read his own name, in handwriting which he did not recognize, signed by the name "White Knight."

Stopping short in his speech, he picked it up and hastily read its message:

To BELA KUN,

Do not hope to execute the Count Bakocz. I have sworn to rescue him, and I never fail.

THE WHITE KNIGHT

Bela Kun swore. "Listen, comrades," and he read the brief note out to the members of the Council.

"My God! how did you get that?" shouted Szamuelly.

Bela Kun shook his head. "I don't know. It wasn't with my papers when I left home." He looked round with suspicion.

"What does it mean?" asked one.

Bela Kun sneered. "What does it mean? It means that this White Knight is going to try to rescue Count Bakocz."

"Well, what does he want to warn you for?"

"I know why," interrupted Szamuelly. "Because this man, this _bourgeois_, having been successful once or twice in his ventures, now imagines he is omnipotent."

"Has he always been successful?" This from a man who sat farther away, a small unpleasant-looking member, Garami, who had just recently heard of the White Knight from Wenzel.

Bela Kun hesitated. "Well--er--he has certainly been fortunate up to the moment."

"I see," said Garami. "And may I ask you, comrade, by what means the dog has done this?"

"In many ways, Comrade Garami. From reports I have had he is as strong as an ape, as cunning as a monkey, as elusive as a cricket. He has money, for in one case he bribed the jailer with more than I have heard of for a long time. Did he not?" Bela Kun turned to Szamuelly.

Szamuelly laughed unpleasantly. "Yes, comrade. I found the jailer with the money in his pocket. I hung the man, and appropriated the crowns."

"As strong as an ape, I believe you said. Why do you say this?" Again Garami put a question.

Bela Kun frowned. "You are in a questioning mood to-day, Garami."

"For a reason, comrade, which you will learn if you will answer my question first."

"Well, if you must know, the reason we, Szamuelly and me, believe that this traitor is strong is because he once overcame two of our brave troops, put in charge of a prisoner, by cracking their heads together."

Garami grinned unpleasantly. "Supposing I can put you in touch with a good comrade who isn't afraid of this _bourgeois_, this White Knight, as he calls himself. Would he be of use to you, comrade?"

Bela Kun thought for a moment. "Would he act as jailer to Count Bakocz, think you?"

Garami laughed. "He would act as jailer to the Devil himself if it so be there was good money to be earned."

"Who is this man?"

"Istvan Wenzel."

"Istvan Wenzel!" repeated another member. "Ay, comrade, I know Istvan Wenzel. A good man, him. As strong as an ox and as ugly as sin. His face would be enough to frighten this White Knight away, if it is the man of whom I am thinking."

"You are thinking of the right man," Garami agreed. "Wenzel can pick up a man in each hand."

"Can you get in touch with him, Garami?" asked the Dictator.

"He lives but three flats below me."

"It is good. Bring him to me to-morrow. If he is all your praises sing him to be, he ought well to be a match for this dog who writes me these notes."

The next morning Wenzel accompanied Garami to Bela Kun.

The streets were full of cars in which sat members of the Workers' Council, Administrators of the Country, or even People's Commissaries. They, who preached Socialism, Communism, and Proletarianism, lived in ease and comfort, surrounded with goods, food, and furniture filched from the _bourgeoisie_.

Meanwhile the people starved, and rode in tramcars of which the glass was broken or missing. If they were ignorant, uncouth, and wore the Red cockade, they might be granted a food ticket and be allowed to pay high prices for the privilege of eating to live.

If they were intellectual, if they lived and worked by the fruit of their brains, if they were decent-living, moral, and religious, they were _bourgeoisie_ and could starve. There were no food tickets for such as they.

So, though the city was gay with the red bunting which hung from every roof and every window, stretched from house to house, and with the music played by gipsy bands, beneath it all the people, the real Hungarian people, like the proud Magyar aristocracy, wept, and the tears were of blood.

Such thoughts as these did not worry the boisterous Wenzel or the sly Garami, as they strode along the streets.

"It's good to be alive this morning, with the sun shining, and the town all gay with flags and colour; what say you, Garami?"

"I am with you, comrade."

"What puzzles me is why the counter-revolution worry their heads about changing it all. Here we are, governed by ourselves, can help ourselves to everything we want. What more does anybody want? That's what I say. What more can one want? Give me a bellyful, and money in my pockets, and a woman now and again, and you can keep the rest. That's what I say. Keep the rest."

"Ho, ho!" chortled Garami. "You say that, you, Wenzel? Who took the best bed from the house at the corner of the Andrassy Ut? Who brought away the chairs and the sofa and the table from the home of Pazmany, the Professor? Who drinks his fill of wine, and forces his way into the theatre? That's what you say?"

Wenzel spat, as a passing automobile whizzed past. "Bah! You talk like a babbling brook. Come, the mention of wine and food makes me feel empty. Comrade Bela Kun must make haste. I must eat."

In due course they were shown in to Bela Kun, who eyed the big Wenzel up and down, and then smiled cunningly.

"You know why I wished to see you?" he questioned.

"Yes, comrade. It's some one you want to guard the Count Bakocz from being rescued." He stretched out his long arms and opened wide his huge hand, then slowly clenched his fingers together, and grinned evilly. "just let me get any of these _bourgeois_ between my two hands and I'll wring their necks. Curse them!"

"Then you will take the job on?"

"Yes--at a price, comrade."