"You--arrested in mistake--but----" Then it was true, and the White Knight was not in prison. But, in that case, where was the White Knight? Elizabeth could have spoken in joy, but Arnold stopped her. He mistrusted the man. It almost seemed as if there were a trap somewhere. He felt suddenly afraid. "I do not know what you say," he said coolly. "This lady has never met the White Knight in all her life." The man yawned. "You said that very well, but--it isn't really the truth, is it, Arnold?" And then Arnold knew that despite the evidence of his eyes the man who sat on the bed really was the White Knight. _CHAPTER XIX_ The faint light from the guttering candle was barely sufficient to illuminate the tiny kitchen, for a draught blew in through a broken window, twisting and flicking the flame from side to side. Yet, despite the shadows, there was no mistaking the figure of the man who sat at the table, his head buried in his outstretched arms, his shoulders shaking with emotion. Through the cracked window watched the White Knight, and the pathos of the scene hurt him, the silent grief, the loneliness of the cottage, the very solitude of the man--a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved, and yet there seemed no one to help carry the burden of the unhappy man within. Szamuelly in his Death Train had come and gone--the White Knight had missed him by an hour--and somehow Wenzel could not doubt that the anguish he now witnessed was a direct result of that flying visit. He moved round to the door, and gently twisting the handle pushed and entered. The man at the table glanced up, and the White Knight saw that his face was twisted with pain. Dully he looked Wenzel up and down. "What do you want?" he asked tonelessly. "A word or two with you," Wenzel replied. Immersed in the depths of his own thoughts, the man did not understand. "What do want?" he asked for the second time. Tragedy tinged the air, and Wenzel felt its influence. "A few words, comrade," he said quietly. "I shall not keep you long." After a time his meaning seemed to sink into the man's consciousness, for suddenly the corners of his lips puckered downward. "Go away, friend. I talk to no one to-night." Wenzel did not move. "Yet I would ask you to listen. Tell me one thing--when I looked through the window I saw your shoulders shaking; your eyes seem red with weeping. A man does not give way without good cause. Tell me your sorrow." The man's eyes glittered, and he half rose from his seat. "What the Hell does it matter to you? Get out!" he muttered savagely. "Leave me to myself." But from the look of desperation in his eyes Wenzel divined his purpose. "No, my friend, not until I have spoken with you. You must not kill yourself. It is not God's will."