Perhaps his eyes were clouded temporarily by his feeling of despondency, or perhaps her eyes were more discerning. At any rate she recognized, not the face, but the garments. "They are his clothes. I will swear it. Oh, Heaven! Do I not recognize every garment, every patch, every tear? Monsieur, that man must be the White Knight." Arnold shook his head. "God knows, mademoiselle, I would willingly believe it, but--he is not the White Knight. Look at his face!" When Elizabeth looked she had to agree. That man was not the White Knight. The hours passed, and gradually the crowd dispersed, for at last it was officially confirmed--the Soviet had not caught the White Knight. With the passing of time Arnold believed more and more that the report was trickery on the Council's part. It was the White Knight who had been captured. Had he not seen his leader a few hours ago at the ferry, surrounded by two dozen Terrorists? Now, with the other people gone, for Elizabeth and him to stop where they were would have been making themselves conspicuous. "Come," he said, and his voice was expressionless. "Let us go. We must not stop here." "But where?" He spread out his arms. "Back to the room where--where Geoffrey was--captured." "That will be my--my penance," she whispered. "I know nowhere else," he apologized. "I must guard you as I would guard myself, for--for Geoffrey will be expecting that of me." Somehow they made their way back, though the streets were crowded, and their despondent spirits made the work of threading through all the harder. Stumbling up the stairs they reached the room and threw open the door. Arnold started. Sitting on the bed was the man whom they had seen in the crowd round the palace. "What are you doing here?" he asked angrily. Now that the man had cast aside not only his scarf, but also his hat, he could see all the more easily that, despite a slight resemblance to the White Knight, the man on the bed could no more be Wenzel than he himself. Not only was this man's face free from blemishes, but so was his head. Arnold knew well the vivid, blood-red scar which scraped Wenzel's scalp, and in the mass of straight hair--almost black when compared to the shade of Geoffrey's curly head--there was not the slightest sign of it. "Why shouldn't I be here?" mumbled the man. "Because it happens to be my room. Come on, comrade--outside!" Arnold was in no mood for argument, and there was a dangerous glitter in his eyes which should have warned the intruder. The other man shrugged his shoulders. "I was here before you," he said. "Mademoiselle can prove that." He nodded his head in the direction of Elizabeth. Arnold clenched his fists. "What do you mean?" "What I say, my friend, that I was here last night, and thanks to her ladyship"--his tone was hard--"arrested in mistake for the White Knight."