The driver looked behind him, and the car swayed ominously toward an oncoming automobile as his nerveless fingers suddenly lost their firm grip on the wheel. Just in time the smooth-tongued one clutched and held the wheel on a straighter course. The narrow escape from a terrible collision only served to make the driver turn still whiter, but at the same time he was filled with a desperate desire to escape, and instinctively he turned his attention to the car--anything to draw away from the dreaded White Knight--and his foot pressed still harder on the accelerator. He knew the streets well, did Szamuelly's driver, for once upon a time, before he had been imprisoned for robbery with violence, he had been a chauffeur. Filled with a determination to lose their pursuer, without the slightest slackening, without a warning note, he shot off down a side road. The car rocked over to a dangerous angle, but by a miracle settled down again, and the next second was away in the distance, even while Francis Bakocz, who was driving the pursuing car, little suspecting the sudden manœuvre, overshot the road and, with the brakes shrieking and wailing, came to a stop too late, so that he had to reverse and back. By the time he was in the side road Szamuelly's car had disappeared. Francis looked at the White Knight inquiringly, but Wenzel was puzzled. As the car turned the Terrorist in his pay had shot his arm up into the air, and his pointing finger had waved in the direction of the heavens. It was a signal; that much Wenzel could guess; but what was its portent he could not gather. Francis drove wildly on, tearing down the side road at breakneck speed, unheeding the cursing pedestrians who shook their fists and growled; but Szamuelly's Terrorist knew his work, and there was no sign of the car in front. To stop and inquire would be waste of time--in the meantime Szamuelly would escape--but there was apparently nothing else to be done; but, even as Francis slowed up, Wenzel suddenly turned, an idea germinating in his mind. "Francis, quick, is there an aerodrome in this direction?" The boy, for he was scarcely more in years, even if the last few months had aged him in experience, nodded. Wenzel laughed. "That is where he has gone. For God's sake, get there quickly!" In the meantime Szamuelly's car was nearing the aerodrome. Aeroplanes were waiting--he could see them, their outstretched wings gleaming whitely in the sun, their pilots scattered about the field. The car drew up, steaming, and Szamuelly tumbled out. "Comrade," he gasped to one of the pilots, "I am Comrade Szamuelly, a People's Commissary. I ... I seek a consultation in Russia with Lenin, concerning the glorious future of a united European Soviet. You will take me there. I will pay you well--very well--many thousands of crowns." "Why shouldn't I, comrade? I am fond of money. Come to-morrow and I will see what I can do."