"Such a programme fails to satisfy the Communists. It is too quick and too easy a death, so they drag their victims to one of the bridges. That takes time--every yard progressed is a mental, poignant stab for the unfortunate prisoner. Every step is punctuated with a thrust from a rifle butt or the prick of a bayonet. Fine torture that, Arnold, and ... well, I hope to Heaven that they think Apor worthy of it. Otherwise he is doomed and----" Some one stumbled in the distance, and with a warning touch on Arnold's arm Wenzel stopped short, and the two Englishmen waited, hoping against hope that Bela Kun would fall into the trap. With fierce eyes they watched the door from which the condemned prisoners were led. Would it open?--would it open? The streets were quiet and comparatively deserted. At night only the Terror Boys, or slinking fugitives, ventured out, for there were flying bullets, apt to hit the most innocent targets. At night the Red guards were even more belligerent. Those who would live, or remain unmolested, stayed indoors. Thus the steps of the one whom Wenzel had heard in the distance echoed loudly in the quietness, and the next instant the air resounded with the notes of a jubilant song. In quavering tones, hideously out of tune, punctuated with hilarious bursts of laughter, the inebriated singer disturbed the peace, and the effect was the more weird for its jarring contrast to the air of tragedy in which Budapest was steeped night and day. Suddenly Wenzel swore. Judging by the increasing clearness of the wild sounds which the man uttered he was approaching Parliament Square. The White Knight clenched his fist with a desperate intensity. "May the Devil seize him, the drunken swine!" he whispered. "If his visit here should coincide----" The door which they watched was opening, formless shapes could dimly be seen issuing from it, and the next moment Wenzel knew that up to this point his plot was a success, for in the vague, uncertain light of an adjacent street lamp he could distinguish Apor, handcuffed, surrounded by three armed Red guards. The moment the door was shut behind the group the time for action would have arrived. Wenzel and Arnold gripped their revolvers by the barrels, ready to bring them down upon the heads of the soldiers. The drunkard came nearer, and Wenzel could have cried cut in agony. Instead of proceeding with their ghastly business, the guards were hesitating, looking curiously around. The Englishmen shrank closer into the shadows. If they were seen... For some reason the men seemed disinclined to slam the door, and start. "Hullo, comrade, what noise is that?" asked one. The man to his right laughed slightly. "Some one who has failed to heed Bela Kun's instructions as to prohibition. His row is enough to awaken the dead. What say you, friends--shall we knock him across the head with our rifles and teach him a lesson?"