Szamuelly was talking excitedly, but he was standing still; the rifle moved slightly, the White Knight's finger quivered for the fatal pull, but--the Devil protects his own! At the sight of the arch-fiend Wenzel's wrath blazed up anew, shaking him in its grip. A tiny shadow floated before his eyes, the sharp outline of the Communist against the light became dim and obscure. Desperately the White Knight realized his prey was moving back into the coach again, doubtless to sleep while his men moved the obstruction. Unless he fired now it might be too late. His index finger tightened. The next moment the air resounded with the terrifying crash of six explosions; the glass of the coach was shattered, the bullets ricochetted in every direction, there was a moan of pain as one of the Terrorists spun round and dropped to the ground, but--Szamuelly remained upright, unhurt, and untouched. Even as Wenzel noted the fact he saw the Communist darting for cover. With a sob in his throat he realized the ghastly truth. He had failed! The next moment there was a fusillade from the train, as the Terrorists snatched their ever-ready revolvers from their holsters and opened fire in the direction from which the shots had come; but they did no good, for Wenzel and Terhune were already speeding from the spot in the automobile by which they had arrived. "Not yet, Arnold, not yet has Szamuelly's time come." The White Knight sobbed the words as he drove the car along the pitch-dark road. "But it will! I swear it will! Szamuelly must die! Szamuelly shall die!" _CHAPTER XX_ In the fading days of the Red Terror events succeeded each other with precipitance. The fury of the people against their bloody leaders grew more intense, until at length the members of the Soviet began to tremble in their shoes. By threats and wholesale murder they endeavoured to squash the national awakening, but in vain. The starving people could not buy food, for all the thousands of white Soviet paper crowns they might flourish: the peasants would not sell their goods for worthless money. No longer were the Red troops keeping back the Rumanians or the Czechs; the Peace Conference was awakening to a true realization of affairs in Budapest. Now one by one the rats began to leave the sinking ship, and among the first batch was Gunzi, the astute detective, who knew which side his bread was buttered. Well guarded, the shivering Szamuelly called at his apartment one day, to find Gunzi in the throes of packing up, for he who had come to Budapest with nothing had already collected enough from what pickings had been left by the time he arrived there to fill three large trunks, themselves confiscated in the name of the Soviet Government. Szamuelly frowned. "Hullo, Comrade Gunzi, where are you off to?" Gunzi laughed cynically: "To better parts, my friend, to better parts." "What do you mean? Has Budapest meant so little to you that already you are tired of its attractions?"