Chapter VI: Part 6

"I knew not, till I asked the schoolmaster, who roared with laughter when I asked him." The detective's eyes narrowed. "He is a _bourgeois_, that schoolmaster. Him I will soon put into prison."

"But Nemesis?" prompted Gonnard.

"Oh, yes, Nemesis. He told me Nemesis was a daughter of Nyx, a person who metes out punishment to the unjust. Bah! They think to get the better of good proletarians with their long words and foreign names. Wait until I get my hands upon this woman, Nemesis, or the White Knight either."

"What about Fejer and Pauler?"

Gunzi pursed his lips. "Ask me not, Gonnard. All I know is that they were both found dead, and each had in one of his pockets--a white knight!"

His sibilant voice lowered itself toward the finish of the sentence, and Gonnard shivered. "It is you who will hang, not I." Again in his ears rang the confident challenge hurled at him across the heads of the populace. Supposing he failed in his boast, and, worse, supposing the Enemy of the Commune were successful! ...

Involuntarily his hand flew to his throat and he loosened his shirt collar. It was rather too tight to be pleasant. Gunzi's mouth slowly widened into a grin.

There was a knock at the door. "Come in!" cried Gonnard, and there entered a small boy of about eleven years of age, dressed in clothes far too large for him, which, judging from the cut and the material, had been filched from one of the _bourgeois_ residences.

"A letter for you, comrade," announced the newcomer, his remark punctuated by an oath. The gamins of Hungary spent a royal time during the Commune. Released by order of the Soviet from all authority whatsoever, of their parents or of their school-teachers, they revelled in their freedom and made the most of their opportunity.

Gonnard glared at the boy. "What do you mean, son? A letter for me? Where from?"

The messenger grinned. "Don't get excited, comrade. It's not from a lady. I was walking down the Palyaudvar-utcza when a man came up to me and asked me if I would like to earn ten crowns. 'Make it twenty crowns,' I said to him, 'and I'm your man.' 'All right,' he growled. 'See, here's a letter. Take it up to Comrade Gonnard, who is living in the _château_ of Baron Szechenyi. He will be pleased to get it.' Then he gave me this letter, and I immediately brought it along. Give me a crown, comrade, and you can have it."

Gonnard scowled. "Son of a pig, hand it over." He half rose from his seat, and the boy quickly tossed it on to the table in front of him.

Clutching the envelope Gonnard slit it open with his dirty thumb, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. This he opened, and then, as he read, choked with fury.

"My God," he called out hoarsely to the detective, "read this!" With a livid face he held it out to Gunzi, who perused it, his forehead lifting slightly in his surprise:

Within a week you will hang, Comrade Gonnard, and so the death of two honest Hungarian officers will be avenged.

THE WHITE KNIGHT

While Gunzi reread the message, studying the handwriting, searching for the watermark of the paper, or any other clue which might ultimately lead to the disclosure of the mysterious White Knight, Gonnard cast back his memory in retrospection.

It was one night some months before. Budapest lay covered in a white mantle of snow, which happily concealed the garbage and rubbish littering the streets. He and two other Communists were straggling home. Fortunately the streets were empty; people were afraid to wander much those nights, for parties of ex-Russian prisoners and numbers of ex-soldiers, disbanded but not disarmed, roamed the countryside, shooting and pillaging, even daring to enter the towns.

The three Communists wandered on, hazy with drink, their revolvers spitting fire, which, in lieu of finding human billets, broke lamp after lamp, window after window.

They had nearly reached their quarter when round the corner strode two officers of the demobilized Hungarian Army, their uniforms still glistening with the emblem of the royal crown.

The sight maddened the Communists, for the majority of ex-soldiers, who for four years had, day in and day out, pluckily withstood the forces of invading hordes, who, indeed, had fought for this very emblem, now would tremblingly hack it off at the command of a few of their own countrymen.

Lining up, they stopped the two officers, and hoarsely ordered them to strip, their revolvers pointing with unpleasant directness at the stomachs of the two men.

With a haughty motion of the chin the elder of the two, disdaining the drunken men, stepped forward, and would have passed, but Gonnard's pistol flashed, and a crumpled body slumped to the ground, where it was quickly accompanied by the corpse of the second officer. Thus died two who escaped the bayonets of Hungary's enemies to die of the bullets of Hungary's men--the red of their blood gradually dyed the pure white of the snow--the insignia of the Crown blemished by the symbol of Communism.

Like a wraith he saw again the haughty officer falling--falling toward him; the accusing eyes approaching nearer, the outstretched hands grasping for his throat....

He called out chokingly, and the ghost dissolved into the smoke of a cigarette which the placid urchin of the streets blew out of his mouth in thick clouds.

Gonnard's dazed glance wandered from side to side--from the face of the grinning messenger to the puzzled countenance of the detective. How came this spectre from the past? How knew the White Knight that he was the murderer?

"Well?" asked Gunzi inquiringly.

"Nothing--nothing," muttered Gonnard. "I want to know about that note."

The detective turned it over and over in his fingers. "No clue of any kind." He turned to the boy. "What was the man like who gave you this? Can you describe him?"

"Yes, of course," answered the urchin, and Gonnard and Gunzi leaned forward, a gleam of hope lighting up their faces. "He was tall, though not too tall, say about--about as high as my father, who is bigger than either of you, comrades. His eyes were a greeny blue, or perhaps brown, I forget now. His hair was a darkish brown, nearly black in parts, and he was dressed as you, not quite so well as I."

Gonnard groaned. The explanation might fit anyone in the world. "Get out!" he shouted. The boy turned tail and ran, wondering what had happened.

Gunzi grinned. "Not of very much assistance, comrade. Apparently the Devil is not as conspicuous as I had believed."

Gonnard turned upon the detective with an ugly snarl. "Cease your prattling, Gunzi. This is no laughing matter." His eyes narrowed into mere slits, and he leaned forward in the other's direction, gazing fiercely at him. "Listen, my friend. It is written that the past is past. I am a People's Commissary now, and have the ear of Bela Kun. It will be a bad day for you, Gunzi, if by next week you have not laid this cursed _bourgeois_ by the heels. This day week some one is going to hang, and if it is not the White Knight--comrade, you have a nice soft neck. It would be a pity to see its tender skin black and blue, rasped and bruised by a rope. Do you think it within the bounds of possibility that you might bring this dog to me--soon?"

His bombast did not worry the rat-faced Gunzi. He shrugged his shoulders. "To-day week should be an interesting one. Yet it will not be I who will hang--and it might not be the White Knight, friend."

With that he strolled from the room and left the ex-convict and murderer alone with his thoughts.

_CHAPTER XI_

Comrade Gonnard spent an unpleasant night. At supper he both dined and wined in unwise manner, so that no sooner had he laid his head upon the pillow than he became conscious of the fact. Whatever his feelings awake, they were mild compared to the succession of nightmares which visited him asleep. It was an ill-tempered and uneasy comrade who arose at a late hour next morning.

He drank his coffee with a gulp, and opened his newspaper. There was a note pinned to the front page:

Still six days, Comrade Gonnard.
THE WHITE KNIGHT

His face whitened to a chalky pallor; he gazed at the warning with dilated eyes.

For the rest of the day his mind dwelt upon matters which were of anything but a pleasant nature. At every step he winced perceptibly and kept an uneasy eye upon the door and the window. Though he had been warned that there were still six more days for him to live, he was convinced in his own mind that the White Knight was bluffing, that the blow might be struck at any moment.

The day passed, and, despite his experience of the night before, Gonnard again indulged in a heavy meal. The consequence was that his dreams were even worse; his fears, in conjunction with his groaning stomach, wreaked havoc with his inner consciousness. As the night passed, the vision of the White Knight appeared more frequently, and in different guises, each one of which was more terrible than the last. When he was awakened by the welcome sunlight, which came streaming in through a crack in the shutters, he found himself in a sweat which poured off his forehead and down his body.

A newspaper, brought in to him with his breakfast by a friendly Communist, lay on the table alongside his coffee. With trembling fingers he unfolded it, and gasped with relief to find that this time its creases hid no terrifying message. He almost enjoyed his breakfast.

Then arrived the post. There was a letter for him; the writing was feminine; there was a faint, lingering suspicion of perfume. A letter to him from a woman! His eyes glistened with anticipation. He inserted his bulgy forefinger and hastily slit open the envelope.

It was no _billet-doux_; only once again the fatal warning:

Five days more, Comrade Gonnard.
THE WHITE KNIGHT

The words faded away in the misty film which covered his eyes, and his shaking fingers dropped the letter so that it fluttered to the floor.

The days passed. Each morning he received another revised message--by telegram, by telephone, once again by the post, and then, on the last day, by Gunzi.

The detective looked tired and haggard. For six days he had scarcely slept; clue after clue he had followed in vain. The White Knight was more elusive than the _fata Morgana_.

When he saw Gonnard he stopped short in surprise and swore, and Gonnard, seeing him, clutched his arm frantically:

"You have found him, Gunzi?"

"No."

The word was like a death-knell; Gonnard sank back into a chair, shaking in every limb, and Gunzi eyed him scornfully. He had not seen the commissary for five days, but in that time the once gross and fleshy Communist had shrunk till the skin hung from him in pouches.

His flickering, restless eyes unceasingly switched from one direction to another, his drumming fingers everlastingly beat a tattoo upon the object nearest to them. His clothes positively hung from him and were buttoned only here and there; his boots were not even laced.

Gunzi stared at the wreck of a man and could scarcely believe him to be the same as the bombastic commissary who had arrived the week before to teach the people of Aszod the benefits of the Commune.

"Oh, God! Oh, God!" Gonnard whispered. "Gunzi, you must find him or he will kill me. His messages haunt me wherever I go. I have not dared to go out for the last three days lest I should be stabbed, or shot in the back, or crushed by a passing automobile." His voice rose to a shriek. "For God's sake, Gunzi, tell me you know where the White Knight is hiding, that you will arrest him to-day, at once, and save my life! You do know where he is, don't you?"

Gunzi turned away: "No, comrade, I do not."

Gonnard gazed at him incredulously, his head unconsciously wagging from side to side. "You don't? But ... but you are ... are a detective."

Gunzi shrugged his shoulders. "Nevertheless, friend, I have searched Aszod from end to end, I who know it so well, but I have not traced the White Knight. There is not a building I have not visited, not a single source of supply which I have not tapped, yet in vain. How can I describe him? No one knows what he is like."

"The telegram he sent me! I forwarded it on to you."

"I got some sort of description--enough, in fact, for me to track the sender."

"What!" Gonnard sat up. At the sudden suggestion of a possible success on Gunzi's part a remnant of his courage returned, and hope gleamed from his eyes. "You have tracked him? You arrested him?"

The detective smiled grimly. "Of course I did. He is in prison now."

Gonnard looked bewildered. "Then ... why... Surely I ... I am safe...."

"You jump to conclusions too hastily. The sender of the telegram was not the White Knight, friend. He was paid by the White Knight to send the telegram to you."

"Then ... then he must have seen the White Knight?"

"'Tall, though not very tall, about so high, perhaps a trifle bigger. His eyes were brown, or blue, they might have been either. His hair was inclined to blond, and he was dressed like any other man.' That was his description!" Gunzi jeered. "I left him in prison. The change may improve his memory. In the meantime I have a message for you."

Never suspecting what was coming, Gonnard was but mildly curious. His head was too full of other thoughts. "Well?"

"I was on my way to you, comrade. There was a meeting near the station. I stopped for a short time to listen. When it was all over a crowd of us moved away. Some one touched me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear: 'Tell Comrade Gonnard, to-morrow.' I looked round, but ... he might have been one of a dozen."

The commissary's mouth worked spasmodically. He endeavoured to speak, but his tongue was paralysed. His twitching nerves betrayed the panic which embraced him, and his head drooped.

"Cheer up, friend; do not let your fears get the better of you. Surround yourself with a few of the Red guards; you must have a pocketful of crowns else you cannot be much of a commissary. Grease a few palms. The White Knight is only a man after all."

Gonnard looked up. "Gunzi, I am afraid," he whispered hoarsely.

The detective shrugged his shoulders. "Then you had better do as I suggest as soon as you can. Meanwhile ... I think I will go and see our friend who sent the telegram."

Gonnard, shivering with apprehension, watched the detective depart. Gunzi had failed, the White Knight was at liberty. He clutched his throat with his hands. He seemed to feel the rasp of the rope.

"Oh, Father in Heaven! Oh, Holy Mary!" Again and again he breathed aloud these words. Life was so precious, so dear to him, and to-morrow he might die, hang as he had seen a man hanged scarcely a month back when Szamuelly had sat in judgment at one of the wayside stations.

Clearly and concisely, as though he were at a cinema watching the unfolding of a photographic drama, he remembered the horror depicted on the man's face as he was marched toward the gallows. Vividly he recollected the sudden jerk, the body stiffening.... "Save me, our Father, save me!" he wailed, his uneducated mentality incapable of varying his conjurations. "Oh; God, save me!"

The curtain at the window stirred slightly. With a sudden jerk which set his heart tumbling and beating Gonnard turned his fear-shot eyes in that direction. He saw it was but a sudden puff of wind, but it might have been the White Knight, and at the mere idea he whimpered to himself.

Well had Wenzel summed up the character of the Communist. As reparation for the death of Coloman, Gonnard was suffering the tortures of the damned. Conscience and cowardice were taking their toll of the man.

Somewhere in the streets a clock chimed, and Gonnard started. Eleven o'clock. Another thirteen hours and the morrow would arrive and then ... He crouched back into the chair, his hands warding off an invisible horror. To-morrow the White Knight would come for him and he would hang ... hang....

Mentally unhinged by the White Knight's repeated warnings, it never occurred to Gonnard that, as Gunzi had suggested, he might easily have surrounded himself by wily guards who would have been more than sufficient to protect the commissary against the cunning of the White Knight. Yet, with an uncanny insight, Wenzel had foreseen the consequences of his melodramatic policy.

It was not from bravado, or a leaning toward the theatrical, that Wenzel sent the warning messages to Gonnard. He wished to create the impression of omnipotence, to hypnotize his victim into positive belief in the powers of the White Knight. Then he had intended to play a similar trick to the one he had perpetrated in Budapest when he had rescued the Count Bakocz.

He had played his cards well, but, as he was to discover, he had not under- but over-estimated the courage of his opponent. Gunzi's message destroyed the last remnants of Gonnard's courage.

That the White Knight could touch the shoulder of the detective who was searching for him, actually speak into his ear, and yet get safely away, hinted to Gonnard of the supernatural.

Vague imaginings disturbed him. Anything was preferable to his present misery--even death. Supposing--merely supposing--he hanged himself. The White Knight would be cheated, he himself peaceful and content at last.

The idea haunted him, and he laughed suddenly at the picture of the White Knight's face. Perhaps it was the sound of his own insensate mirth which brought him to his senses; when he realized the thoughts which had been passing through his mind he shuddered, and once again his everlasting prayer to God left his lips.

His terror increased when, after what seemed but a few minutes, seconds almost, a near-by clock struck the hour of midday. Another hour gone by--another hour nearer his death!

Something snapped in his brain. He must run, leave Aszod behind him, get to Budapest. Bela Kun would protect him, Bela Kun would see that the White Knight did not carry out his threat.

Just as he had arisen from his bed, dirty and unshaven, he scurried from the _château_. Without hat or coat he gained the streets, and blindly fled from a horror which, in his own conscience, pursued him even through the streets, and all the time he seemed to see, some distance behind, a vague, terrifying creature which mocked and gibed at him, yet which always kept apace.

There was no train to Budapest for hours. So said the porter as he spat on the ground.

The pursuing phantom laughed and gibed when Gonnard glanced behind, and the commissary's trembling knees felt weaker. Somehow or other he must get to Budapest! Bela Kun would save him!

There was a motor-car outside the station. Its engine groaned and snorted, wasting away confiscated petrol. Once it had belonged to the Thokoly family, but that was before the Revolution. Since then the local commissary had commandeered it. At the moment its present owner was purchasing tobacco.

The loud clamour of its carbonized cylinders attracted the attention of another commissary. To Gonnard it seemed to say: "To Bud-a-pest ... to Bud-a-pest."

What matter to whom it belonged? It was a way of escape from Aszod, a method of transportation to Budapest. For the first time for a week a watery smile parted his lips, and the next moment he had stepped into the driver's seat, let out the clutch, and was noisily traversing the empty streets.

The houses thinned out, the intervals between them became larger, and soon he was in the country. Of the direction in which he was travelling he had not the remotest idea, all he knew was that Aszod and the White Knight were being left behind.

At last he dared to look behind him. For a moment he believed the road to be clear, but when he glanced to his side there was the haunting, visionary avenger, keeping apace, laughing derisively....

"Keep away! Holy Mary, keep him away!" he shrieked, and pressed his foot still harder on the accelerator, and the automobile shot forward. In vain! With incessant, terrified glances he realized that the shapeless form, the chimera of his guilty fear, was joined by two other wraiths, which fell ... and fell ... even as had fallen two Hungarian officers.

The car flew on along the rutted roads. The rusted speedometer ticked away mile after mile, but Gonnard drove blindly forward. What matter which direction he took? Behind him the vengeance of the White Knight. If once he stopped he might hang....

For hours the car with its solitary passenger careered on unchecked, taking first this road, then that; its bonnet pointing now to the east, now to the west.

The hour might have been five, six, or seven o'clock. Gonnard knew not. The passage of miles meant more to him than the passing time. Moreover, he felt somewhat easier. The last time he had looked he had failed to see the two officers. They had disappeared, left behind, while the White Knight had seemed to be flagging.

He wanted to look again, but dared not, lest he should discover that they were back. The urge continued, and slowly his glance slipped round to his side, then to his back, and his heart seemed to bubble over with unexpected relief. The White Knight was gone too, he had outstripped his avenger. He was safe ... safe ... safe!

He patted and fondled the car with a loving air, and with his fears dissolving common sense stepped in, making him realize that he must find his way to Budapest before dark, the darkness of which he was still afraid.

He passed through one or two villages. He did not recognize them, but when he slowed down and inquired his way of the inhabitants they jerked their thumbs forward with a surly air. Rumours were in the air; hangings had been more frequent; and latterly they were not quite so sure in their own minds that the dictum of Budapest was all that it was represented to be.

Conscious of an easier mind than he had possessed for the last week, Gonnard gradually turned his thoughts into more pleasant channels than that of the death he believed he had barely escaped. Once he arrived in Budapest he meant to make up for the past week.

Firstly he would put himself under the protection of Bela Kun. Then afterward, perhaps a good meal, and the company of a charming woman, whose lips would not be too backward.... In the days of the Revolution there were many such. There were mothers to be kept alive, or younger brothers and sisters. They had to be fed.... The saddest sights of Budapest during the days of the Red Terror were the women whose gentle, innocent souls were besmirched and befouled so that others might subsist.

The road was inclining upward; in the distance was a group of hills which Gonnard seemed to recognize. Soon he was sure. They were the hills of Budapest. He would soon reach the city now.

Soon--soon--soon; the purring of the wheels on the road sang the refrain. Despite its age the car took the gradient well, and mounted higher into the hills.

Here the forestry encroached on the cultivated land: or, perhaps more correctly, cultivation ceased to invade the forest. There was a sweet smell of dewy vegetation in the air, the scent of pine and herbs.

The last remnant of fear faded from Gonnard's mind, routed by the thought of what lay before him in Budapest. He sucked in his lips appreciatively, already enjoying in anticipation that which would be reality within a few hours.

Should he pick a fair or a dark woman; one inclined to plumpness or----? There was a staccato report, a slackening in the speed of the car, and an unpleasant grinding sound.

Gonnard swore, and now that his courage had returned it was the Devil he invoked. A puncture! He applied the brake, shut off the engine, and the car glided to a standstill. The commissary jumped out; then, not without a frightened glance to the rear to make quite sure the White Knight was still not to be seen, he inspected the tyre.

It was perfectly flat, the cause of the trouble obvious, for not far from the valve a large nail was embedded in the outer cover. There was only one thing to be done. Gonnard cursed, and with smouldering fury in his heart hastened to look under the seat for the necessary repair appliances.

Fortunately everything needful was in its proper place, so stripping off his coat he set to work. In twenty minutes the repair was completed, and as he let down the jack he spat on the road, a mark of relief.

It was at that moment he became conscious of a sound to his right. He spun round, his body slumping into a crouching position, his eyes gleaming with terror. He waved his hands weakly to ward off the coming horror, but as the sound continued his appearance changed. From fear, his expression changed to puzzlement, then gradually broadened into cunning amusement and bestial anticipation. The sound which had arrested him was that of a woman singing.

A woman! His thick, sensuous tongue licked his dry lips caressingly. Had not his thoughts dwelt for the last half-hour or so on women? Now, suddenly, there was one within less than a hundred yards from him, and by the sound of her voice she was young. To the commissary it seemed Fate had sent her. If she were alone...

Stealthily he crept into the forest, and made his way in the direction from which floated the clear, low notes of the singer. Carefully he threaded his way through the trees, and with every footstep he took his thoughts became baser and more beastly.

He halted behind a near-by tree, where he remained, as he became assured that the woman was approaching. He did not have to wait long. From out of the tangle of greenery a vague form materialized, until at last, as she emerged from behind a large shrub, she became fully revealed to the lustful eyes of the Communist.

He sucked in his breath with a slight gasp, and his eyes gleamed still more brightly with the flare of his aroused passion. The gods were kind! Never before had he seen a more beautiful woman, a more delicate shape, nor so divine a form. Even his wildest dreams were surpassed by the reality.

She had been picking flowers; her arms were filled with beautiful forest blossoms, piled up in cascades until they reached her chin, framing the fascinating face above.

Gonnard grinned mirthlessly. She was the fairest flower--a few yards more and she would be in his arms...

He remained motionless: the woman passed by. Rapidly he stepped behind her, and catching her wrists wrenched them apart. The wild flowers of the forest dropped mutely to the mossy carpet beneath.

Mentally stunned by the shock Elizabeth did not even attempt to struggle. The next moment Gonnard gagged her mouth with one filthy handkerchief, and tied her arms behind her with another. Then he lifted her in his arms, and leering into her face grinned derisively at her blazing eyes. He turned back to the car again.

Now what of the White Knight! His fears were gone, there were better thoughts to occupy his mind. Indeed the gods were kind! He cranked up the engine, and swung into the driver's seat. It would not be long before they arrived in Budapest, and then... He chuckled to himself as the car started forward.

_CHAPTER XII_

In the meanwhile, back in Aszod, Wenzel awaited the hour of eight, when the plans which he had laid so carefully should commence to fructify. He knew that Gunzi was searching the city for him; at times he had shadowed the detective to assure himself that the other was not too warm on the scent.

Cunningly he had arranged that Gunzi should track him soon after eight, and for that purpose had left behind a host of clues. When the plans materialized Gunzi would learn of the whereabouts of the White Knight. He would arrive just too late. Alarmed by the closeness of the detective the White Knight would have fled.

Gunzi, he knew, would hurry back to Gonnard. What would be the reaction? The White Knight had not set Francis Bakocz to study the habits of the commissary before Gonnard moved on to Aszod and remained unaware that he would turn to wine and women.

In the days of the Revolution English money meant much. With the crown falling and falling a few Treasury notes would buy a man's soul, and would still more encourage a woman, who already hated the Communists for all they had done to her young sister, to listen with a willing ear to Wenzel's suggestions.

A rendezvous--a pretty woman--potent wine--and in the middle of the supper--retribution.

It was a pretty scheme and there were no loopholes. Even if Gonnard should fail to fall into the baited trap he was prepared with an alternative--but the White Knight was confident of his man. At seven o'clock Arnold would arrive. Wenzel glanced at his watch; just four-fifteen, and therefore time to set his plans in motion.

He lounged out of the room he had confiscated together with several Reds in the name of the Commune. Downstairs one of his fellow-proletarians was just entering.

"What, going out? You are a queer fellow, comrade--different from the rest of us. We sleep all day, and at night..." He grinned. "Well, I could take you to several little haunts, my friend. Why don't you join us? I know a pretty blonde; her lips are redder than a ripened cherry, and warmer than the hot springs of Margaret Island. She would bring life into those dull eyes of yours, and set your blood racing."

"Women!" Wenzel shrugged his shoulders. "What do I want of women? I have had a surfeit of them until I am tired of their monotonous caresses."

The other looked at him enviously. "You are a lucky fellow. A case of beauty and the beast, eh?"

Wenzel turned upon him, and the Communist saw that in his eyes which made him feel afraid. "All right, comrade," he added hastily; "I was only joking, of course."

Wenzel growled, "Keep your jests to yourself, friend, for sometimes they are like curses and chickens--and come home to roost," then turning away he lounged out.

For some time he walked heedlessly. "Beauty and the beast!" So hideous was he that even his own sex were conscious of the fact! For the first me he wondered what Arnold thought of him. Did he too see his leader in the same light?

Remorselessly he forced the trend of his thoughts into other directions. He knew from past experience the after-effect of too much communing with himself on that subject, for the bitterness of his thoughts ate into his soul, and the world became a black place--too black, for was there not supposed to be a better one elsewhere?

He saw a train steaming into the station from Budapest, and, more to keep his thoughts occupied than for any other reason, he joined the throng of idle sightseers who lounged near the entrance watching the exit of the passengers.

The people streamed through; some hesitatingly, pausing outside to look around and find their different ways; others, with a contempt bred of familiarity, dispersed quickly and decisively along the adjacent streets.

Suddenly Wenzel stiffened, and frowned slightly. Arnold was supposed to arrive by a later train, yet he was even now jostling his way through a party who clustered round a newsboy.

Not seeing Wenzel, Arnold would have passed on, but the White Knight stepped forward.

"Hullo, comrade!" he cried loudly. "So you are back again? How go things in Budapest?"

"Well, my friend; well." Arnold's expression never altered. "Our troops beat back the enemy in every direction, and the People's Government becomes stronger and more fully recognized every day. It is said that the Allies have expressed a desire to treat with our great leader, Bela Kun."

"Excellent, excellent! Come, Stephen, I will see you home. You shall tell me more."

They moved on, talking evenly until the people thinned out.

"One of Gunzi's men was near by," explained Wenzel. "But now, why come you by an earlier train?"

Arnold's face clouded over. "Bad news, Wenzel; bad news. Apor was caught corresponding with the Whites and has been arrested."

Wenzel's face turned pale with passion. "The fool, the fool! Why did he? Did I not give him strict injunctions to serve me alone? Now, not only must he suffer for his folly, but you, I, and others of his own people, as well. My eyes and ears cut off from me, my plans prejudiced: if he dies it is no more than he deserves."

"He will die, Wenzel." There was a quiet suggestion in Arnold's voice which Wenzel did not fail to perceive.

"You are right, Arnold. Korvin-Klein is merciless, there is no hope for him."

"None at all?" There was wistful pleading in Arnold's voice.

"You liked him, did you not, Arnold? So did I. Now you hint at rescue. But what of my mission here? I have sworn Gonnard shall die, to-night will see the fulfilment of my vow. Afterwards we will go to Budapest."

"To-morrow will be too late, Geoffrey; surely Gonnard can wait? Is not the life of Apor more to be desired than the death of a Communist?"

"Be quiet!" His voice rasped with anger. "My plans are all prepared. Nothing must be allowed to upset them."

For a little while they walked along in silence, but eventually Arnold spoke: "I do not understand you to-day, Geoffrey. Has Gonnard done you any personal injury that his death should be of more importance than the life of one who has served you faithfully? We may not save Apor--I cannot see how such a feat could possibly be carried out successfully--yet it will hurt me always if I--no, I say, we, Geoffrey--do not, at least, make an attempt."

The White Knight knew how true were the words of his lieutenant. In speaking aloud to Arnold he had been arguing with himself. If he went to Budapest Gonnard would escape his clutches, perhaps never to fall into them again, and then what of his word to Elizabeth? He had sworn that Gonnard should die--Gonnard, the murderer of Elizabeth's cousin. On the other hand, there was Apor. Had not Apor risked his life, time after time, to get him news of the movements of the Communists, information which was of the utmost importance to the White Knight in his rescue of the unfortunate victims of Bolshevik persecution? Had not Apor, descendant of generations of warring aristocrats, demeaned himself, humbled his pride, to serve in the enemy ranks that he might more usefully aid the White Knight? Was all that service to count for naught?

Wenzel sighed. "You are right, Arnold. Gonnard must wait. We will catch the next train to Budapest."

They turned toward the station, and as they approached Wenzel looked behind him, smiling grimly: "What an unpleasant day Gonnard will spend to-morrow waiting for the blow to fall!"

* * * * * *

Gonnard knew Budapest as he knew the lines of his face. There was not a criminal resort with which he had not been acquainted in the old days of law and order, while the number of more or less habitable quarters where he might lie securely hidden from the prying eyes of the detectives, and to which he had the _entrée_, was well into double figures.

To one of these he drove the helpless Elizabeth. As he brought the car to a halt he gave a quick glance up and down the narrow road, but fortunately no one was about, so with a deft movement, which was hard to associate with one of his clumsy build, he picked her up in his arms, and with scarcely any effort carried his burden within, up the four flights of stairs to the whitewashed attic, and there carefully locked the door behind him.

Once safely there, apparently unnoticed, he plucked the gag from her mouth.

"Well, well," he mocked, "here you are, little chicken, and here you will remain until I have finished with you." Like all cowards he was a bully at heart, and he spoke with blustering braggadocio.

She gazed at him unflinchingly. "What do you want of me?" she asked calmly.

The question set him roaring with laughter. "Ho, ho! Innocent one! So you do not know for what I have brought you here to my little love-nest? Ho, ho! Think it well over, my sweet, and see if you cannot find out before I return." Suddenly his attitude became menacing. "Sit down!" he ordered.

Elizabeth laughed slightly. "You are a fool," she said easily. "Do you think you can hold me here against my will? I have only to raise my voice and I do not doubt that I should have half a dozen people flocking to my aid--in addition to the police."

He seemed to find humour in her answer, for his face again broadened to a grin. "You think so? Let me assure you to the contrary. In the first place, people who live in this district mind their own business. Half a dozen ... flocking ... your aid..." He could not finish for the laughter which consumed him. "Women have screamed for help before now, but no one has interfered. We have more manners than that. As for the police---- We live in different days, my sweet: the police do not arrest commissaries."

"So you are a commissary?" Elizabeth looked at him with a quiet scorn, which pierced even his hide, and his eyes narrowed.

"Say all you want, my lady. It will be my turn later on. Yes, I am a commissary. You and your kind no longer rule the country; the proletariat have arisen. Government for the people by the people is our watchword, with no more magnates living like princes on sweated gold."

Elizabeth did not speak in reply to this diatribe. Despite her defiant attitude her heart beat with a throbbing intensity. She knew her danger and endeavoured to think of a way out, but she was conscious of a hysterical panic which for all her courage she could not repress, and the knowledge clouded her reason.

In the meantime Gonnard continued speaking. "Too proud to talk, eh? Well, well! You will learn reason very soon." His eyes lit, and he stepped up to her, so that she shrank away with a repulsing gesture. "Why should I wait?" he asked thickly. "Why should I wait? You and me----" Then he calmed down.

"No. I will get rid of the car first, and see Bela Kun. Just as well he should know that----" He broke off short and glanced at Elizabeth.

Then, without the slightest warning, he clasped her in his arms, turned her round, and inspected the strength of her bonds. He laughed grimly. "You will be safe enough. You won't undo that handkerchief in a hurry. And just in case you should make too much noise----" With a quick movement he forced her mouth open and inserted the gag again.

Elizabeth helplessly watched his ungainly form as he lumbered across the room. Under ordinary circumstances she would have shrunk from him with loathing. Now, in his power, it seemed to her that he was even more horrible, still more the chimera of an unbalanced imagination.

Gurgling deep down in his throat he unlocked the door, then turned and blew a kiss across the room. She shuddered slightly, and his mirth rang out coarsely. Then he was gone, and she heard his footsteps heavily descending the stairs.

She listened acutely. The echo of his steps grew fainter, until it faded away; but presently she heard the whir of the motor below, then the chug-chug of the engine as it progressed along the narrow street, until that too died away, and an unnerving silence ensued.

Tired of standing she sat on a wooden chair, which wobbled unsteadily, and nearly threw her to the floor, but she managed to save herself by thrusting out a foot against the wall.

Her mouth hurt abominably--the plugged handkerchief nearly choked her, while a fold of it tickled the back of her throat until she felt a spasm of vertigo. Her wrists smarted with the rub of her bonds, and her bones ached from the cramped position she had been forced to occupy during the drive into Budapest.

Her physical pain, however, was as nothing to the mental anguish which pricked and tortured her. Over and over again she chided herself for her folly in venturing so far from the _château_. Conscience played havoc with her nerves; she realized that the discovery of her presence might create danger for the rest of the refugees, and that if that were not so her disappearance might subsequently have a similar effect, for she knew too that, as soon as the fact was discovered that she was missing, search-parties would be organized, and as they failed to find her they would surely venture farther and farther afield. Was it not likely that in doing so they might come into contact with curious peasants, or be seen by suspicious Communists?

Her father--of what would he be thinking? What would be his sensations as the hours passed and no good news of her arrived? She rocked slightly in the agony of her thoughts, and the chair very nearly tilted over.

There was one other, too, of whom she scarcely dared to think. The White Knight, the man who had risked his life again and again to rescue her father and herself, what would he think of her?

Her remorse was more than she could bear, and tears started to her eyes for the first time in fifteen years. With an effort she rose to her feet, and paced the floor as far as its limits would allow, hoping that with the physical effort her thoughts would plague her to a lesser degree.

Presently she crossed to the window and gazed down upon the road beneath, then at the houses opposite, and she realized that, if the depressing environment and the ill-cared-for state of the buildings counted for anything, the commissary had not exaggerated his claims to seclusion.

The street was dismal and unkempt; it radiated an evil atmosphere, a suggestion of mystery. Here and there people moved about, but, such is the force of habit, even though the Government was now in the hands of the criminal community, and everything was done to favour instead of incarcerate the criminal, the denizens of this quarter still continued to slink warily, casting uneasy glances from side to side.

The women were drab, their faces were hard and starved, while the men were brutal, their shaven heads intensifying the criminal cast of their faces. Horrified by all she saw, nevertheless Elizabeth could not withdraw from the window. It was all so new to her who had always lived on the broad, clean plains, who had seen only village life, except for glimpses of the world, now and again, from hotel windows.

A deep thinker and a student of physiognomy, she believed she would have been deeply interested had she been in more happy circumstances. As it was, studying the neighbourhood as far as the narrow compass of the window would permit, the sight did not help her to minimize her plight; rather it assumed, every second, an uglier garb, and she laughed mirthlessly. Supposing she were rescued, say, by any of the residents of the neighbouring buildings? It seemed a moot point as to whether she would be any better off, for her one thought then was whether any one face which she saw from the window was more evil than the next.

A minute later and, with a feeling of uncontrollable horror, she had to reverse her theory. There swung into her vision a tall man--like most tall men, stooping slightly. He was dressed in filthy clothes, a cap was crammed over his head and eyes, a scarf wound round his neck. He walked as did Gonnard, with a shuffling, uncouth gait.

At first she saw nothing of his face, but he stopped by the wall to light a cigarette, and apparently his cap must have caught on something sharp. Puffing the cigarette he stepped forward on his walk, and the hat came off his head.

For a brief second he gazed upward in surprise: it was then that Elizabeth realized that of all the vile, brutal faces which she had seen in the last half-hour there was not one to be compared with that upon which she now gazed.

Its monstrous ugliness hurt her, the blood-red scars which deformed his head and face sickened her, and her lips trembled. Supposing that it were he, not Gonnard, who held her prisoner....

She saw him snatch his cap from the wall. His lips moved, and she had no doubt that he cursed blasphemously. He would have crammed his hat back on his head when suddenly it seemed that her fixed gaze was magnetically riveting his attention. He looked upward, his eyes travelled toward her window.

With a shudder she jerked her head backward that he should not see her ... and the White Knight, wondering what impulse had made him glance upward, continued his way toward the rendezvous he had made with Arnold when they had parted at the station.

_CHAPTER XIII_

That night the sun had scarcely buried itself beneath the rim of the horizon when Gunzi entered a low-class bar in a quarter scarcely a stone's-throw from where Elizabeth was imprisoned.

Many things had happened that day in Aszod. In the morning the White Knight had been daring enough to touch him on the shoulder, whisper a message in his ear, and yet dissolve into the crowd without betraying himself in the slightest to the detective, and Gunzi, who could conceive only that the White Knight had singled him out for the purpose of fooling him, seethed with fury against the audacious _bourgeois_.

He had masked it when giving Gonnard the whispered message. He realized that the terror caused by the constant succession of warnings was part and parcel of the White Knight's plan, in which case it obviously suited him to assist it to its fulfilment, for he was certain that sooner or later the White Knight would betray his hand.

After leaving Gonnard he worked diligently all the morning, but with no tangible result, and his anger increased, and burned within his breast like a smouldering fire. Then, in the afternoon, he came across his first clue. The man in prison recovered his memory, not so much as regards his description of the White Knight, but as to an address where the mysterious avenger had once stayed.

There was only one small matter: if it should be definitely proved that his information was correct he was to be released unconditionally. Gunzi, who aimed for bigger fry, was more than agreeable to this proposal.

When Gunzi investigated, it was to find that the White Knight had gone from there, but--"Look you, comrade, I had my suspicions of him. He did not seem a true Communist, and he talked in his sleep. One night when I was passing his door I heard the name of Comrade Gonnard mentioned, whoever he may be, and this man was turning, twisting, and swearing vengeance."

"Yes, yes; but where went he after leaving you?" Gunzi could scarcely control his patience.

"Ah! friend, maybe I can tell you, maybe I cannot. Yet, some time after he left me, I saw him coming out of a house in another part of the city. Where was it? Well, comrade, am I not about to tell you? Why should I hurry?..." And the detective had to listen for ten minutes to unimportant and loquacious meandering, but in the end he learned a fresh address.

Scarcely daring to hope he rushed post-haste across the town. The door was opened by a smiling-faced, buxom woman. Did she have a man so--and Gunzi described to the best of his ability as much as he knew of the White Knight--staying at her charming residence?

"Why, yes, comrade, of course I knew him, but he left me four days ago. Hearing that the _château_ of Zoltan Giesswein was to be taken over by the Communists, he told me he intended to confiscate one of the rooms for himself. He seemed a studious young man. He was kind and kissed me when he left."

Later, Gunzi arrived at the _château_ of Zoltan Giesswein, once magnate and owner of a huge steel-works, now a refugee in Vienna, devoting his time to the formation of a White Army.

Here the men were more loth to answer questions, for they, unlike the others, had not been coached in their answers. What did it matter to Gunzi, they asked, if such a man now lived at the _château_? In no uncertain words they told him to look for himself. Yet in the end he secured the information for which he had been seeking.

"Him!" The man to whom the detective put the question laughed scornfully. "He is out all day, yes, and he is out now. But he will be back, comrade, do not worry. A cold-blooded fish--women do not interest him; he told me so this very afternoon. Tried to make me believe he had had too many. As if any man can have too many women!"

"So he will be back to-night?"

"I am not his mother. He did not tell me so."

"But you think he will?"

"Bah! I have no doubt that he will. Myself, I believe he is afraid of the dark. He will be back. An early worm!"

There were no longer any doubts left in Gunzi's mind that he had tracked his man, and chuckling to himself in triumph he hurried back to Gonnard to let the commissary hear the good news.

When he looked for Gonnard the man had disappeared. The detective could make neither head nor tail of the mystery, and with a sinking heart came to the conclusion that the White Knight had succeeded in his revenge, cleverly anticipating his ultimatum by a day, and he realized the full cunning of the daily warnings.

For all that, where was the missing Gonnard? With a tenacity worthy of a better cause Gunzi set to work again, and fitted together, piece by piece, a possible solution.

The commissary had fled in fear; and from the facts he had collected Gunzi could not believe that he had scuttled to anywhere save Budapest. Determining to wait only long enough to arrest the Enemy of the Commune, he resolved to follow.

He waited--in vain. Night arrived, and in the end he realized that the White Knight too must have hurried to Budapest, more than probably on the heels of Gonnard.

Under the new _régime_ Gunzi had no superiors. It was in his own hands to depart instantly for the capital. As for the necessary funds ... down one quiet road he saw an old man shuffling along. At the pistol's point, and in the name of the Commune, Gunzi forced him to turn out his pockets, and fortunately secured enough cash to get him to Budapest and back, with the possibility of a drink or two in between.

Arriving late in Budapest he made his way to a place he knew well, a beershop which defied the official regulations as to the sale of intoxicating liquor, and the White Knight, recognizing him, knew that the Fates were playing into his hands, for he could have wished for no better tool than Gunzi to use in the plot already fermenting in his head for the rescue of his lieutenant from the clutches of the Communists.

He followed Gunzi in and sat a couple of tables away. With a loud but unsteady voice he ordered drink. His rough tones were heard even above the din of voices and clatter of glasses; several pairs of eyes, observing him, twinkled significantly.

For a while Wenzel remained quiet, drinking steadily, but after a time he shuffled uneasily.

"More drink!" he shouted, and a fresh bottle of wine was placed on the table before him. He filled his glass, rose to his feet, and banged loudly. The noise of argument ceased, and he became a centre of interest.