With a hasty look to see that he had left nothing behind, for the last time he closed the door of the apartment which he had confiscated a few months previously. There was a grin on the faces of the two Terror Boys who sat in the car. They saw nothing of treachery in their flight, only a satisfaction that they were one jump ahead of their fellow-Terrorists, that they were escaping the threatened upheaval, of which the others, left behind, would have to bear the brunt. That is why they smiled--or at any rate why one smiled. The soft-tongued guard smiled because the White Knight had paid even more handsomely than usual for certain information, and several crisp Bank of England notes reposed comfortably in the lining of his dirty regimental coat. For the first time for weeks Szamuelly actually felt light of heart--not because he was giving up his position of official murderer, not really because he feared the White uprising, but because he was leaving the White Knight behind, escaping beyond reach of the White Knight's vengeance. He nodded cheerfully to the Terrorist who sat at the steering-wheel: "Go ahead, comrade! There is just time in which to catch that train." The guard depressed the clutch, and with a grinding whine of annoyance the engine slipped into low. Szamuelly settled himself comfortably. A few hours now and he would be able actually to breathe without feeling a queer catch somewhere inside just near his heart. He looked round, a last parting glance at the streets of Budapest, then suddenly he sobbed with a consuming terror, one which clutched his heart in a violent, chilling constriction, a fear which fluttered through his body, freezing his very marrow, draining the blood from his face and leaving it deathly white. Barely five yards behind followed another car; beside the driver sat the White Knight, tense and expressionless like the grim figure of Fate. There was no doubt as to his identity. His face pale with a consuming fury, his scars throbbed redder in contrast. His steely eyes bored hypnotically into Szamuelly's, and in them the Communist read a mocking surety of victory--his death-warrant. A month ago he would have plucked his revolver from its holster and opened fire on the audacious pursuer, but now--he was paralysed with fright, his nerve entirely gone. He could only gasp, and crouch further into the body of the car. "Oh, God!" he moaned. "Oh, God! Oh, God!" Then with a shriek he raised his voice, "Quicker, quicker!" and the Terrorist who was driving looked round with a startled air. "Quicker!" screamed Szamuelly, and the pace increased till the already shaky sides of the automobile began to rock unsteadily. Szamuelly looked back; the relative positions of the two cars had scarcely changed ... once again he looked into the eyes of the White Knight.... He leaned forward. "Comrade, for God's sake ... the aerodrome! ... Behind us the White Knight ... lose his car, we will fly to Russia...."