As the time passed, and the chase continued, along road after road, he was forced to the conclusion that she was wandering aimlessly. She was certainly making for no specific object, for first she headed to the north or the east, then to the south or the west. It was not until he saw her stop by a communal restaurant, and look inside with a longing expression, that he remembered that in all probability she was without money. He saw her hesitate, move on, and then retrace her footsteps. Once again she faltered before the open door. Then with a determined movement she went within, and he groaned. Not knowing that Elizabeth, starved and miserable, and unable to stand any longer the pangs of hunger which gripped her, had decided to throw herself on the tender mercies of the proprietor, he was convinced that his supposition with regard to her financial stability was wrong, though he knew that she was doomed to disappointment. Only those with the red food tickets of the manual labourers or the blue ones of the intellectual workers were allowed to dine at the communal restaurants, or even buy food at the shops. Two minutes elapsed. He frowned, imagining that, after all, she must have obtained the necessary tickets, and that she was feeding. Disturbed, he left his retreat--the shelter of an empty shop window--and took two steps toward the restaurant. At that moment Elizabeth emerged, dazed and bewildered by the truth. In perhaps kinder tones than he had used for a long time the proprietor had explained that matters were no longer as they used to be--it was not of his own choice: in the old days he had served ladies and gentlemen, and liked them well. No, he dared not serve her. He had a wife and child; if he were thrown into prison for surreptitiously feeding a _bourgeois_--he asked her pardon for using the word--what would become of them? As she came out Elizabeth felt the tears springing to her eyes. Here, in Budapest, in a big middle-Europe city, the capital of a large country--even then being carved up by the peacemakers in Paris--her plight was no better than that of a castaway on a desert island. Surrounded by food of a kind, yet unable to eat any of it! Passing thousands of people, yet not daring to speak to one of them! Scarcely forty miles from the _château_, yet without the slightest possibility of getting back there! A bubble of hysterical laughter forced itself to her throat: then, surprised at her own humour, she looked up, and her mirth died away. As quickly as Wenzel had retreated to his shelter again, her sharp eyes had seen and recognized him. Instinct gave her an inkling of the truth: he was following her. The human vulture had scented his prey, and was merely waiting the opportunity to pounce upon her.