A tiny pin-prick of murderous hatred danced in the White Knight's eyes. Not yet had he forgotten Bira, and now Gonnard was out of the way. But first Elizabeth. Now that he was in Budapest, where in the name of creation could he look for her? She might be in any one of a thousand buildings, even assuming that she were indeed within the limits of the city. She might be to the north, south, east, or west. At any rate, for what little good it might be, he had a fixed plan in his head. In the morning, which even now was nearly over, he would call in at every coffee-house frequented by the Council and higher members of the Commune. There he might pick up scraps of conversation or a slight clue, anything which might suggest any connexion with the disappearance of Elizabeth. In the coffee-houses, he knew, the talk was apt to veer round to women. If they all failed he would try the beer-taverns and the wine-bars, where the men conversed together even more openly still of their women-folk, and at one of them what would be more natural, or unnatural, according to which way one thinks, than that the kidnapper should boast of his capture? The spouter outside the station continued to rant of Szamuelly. It was evident to Wenzel that he would do no good staying where he was, and so he carelessly moved off, and was presently away from the crowds, once again his mind reverting to Elizabeth. With his thoughts centred upon her he began his weary search. _CHAPTER XVI_ There are coincidences in real life which far outrival their nearest cousins in fiction. Life is a paradox, controlled by mysterious forces of Nature which even the most learned of students does not dare to criticize. Coincidence it may have been, yet there is a more subtle explanation. On that morning two minds were fixed upon each other. Wenzel, as he moved from coffee-house to coffee-house, was aware of one thing, was obsessed by one thought, only--Elizabeth--he must find Elizabeth; and so his brain disseminated his innermost resolves and desires, and upon the wings of Nature's electric waves, for ever radiating through the ether, were shed Wenzel's mental longings. On her part Elizabeth crept through the streets of Budapest with a furtive air. She wandered hither and thither, up one street and down the next, only knowing that she sought a station, or a neighbourhood she knew, but afraid to ask, to question passers-by, lest she should draw attention to herself. Despair was in her attitude. Even if she reached a station she had no money with which to journey back to the _château_ again. In the sullen, uncouth faces which paraded the streets of the Communist stronghold, where was one which she could recognize, where was one, perhaps kindly and sympathetic, to which she might turn for succour?