"Long live the Dictatorship of the Proletariat!" some one cried, then suddenly there roared the sound of a shot, and a street-light just ahead flicked out as its encasing glass tinkled to the ground. "Death to the _bourgeois_! Death!" Geoffrey halted suddenly, startled. What had happened? Was this Hungary, the Budapest he knew so well? From a distance he heard more shouts, further shots, and then silence once again. "Good Gad!" he muttered to himself. "I thought this was peace." He had never dreamed, never imagined, when he had set out for Budapest to go to his beloved, that he was to meet with this sort of thing. An icy chill seemed to settle round his heart. What of Zita? For the first time since his demobilization his spirits fell to zero. For two weeks now he had been living in a Paradise of his own, eagerly anticipating the moment when he should clasp the girl he loved--woman, she would be now--once more in his arms. He had had no reason to believe that this--this ghastly business was taking place in Budapest. "Death to the _bourgeoisie_!" What did it mean? Revolution! No, not even that, but worse. With a white, set face he picked up his bag once more and commenced to walk. Now and again the silence was disturbed by hurrying motor-cars, shouts, or sometimes shots. The streets were practically empty, and at this Geoffrey did not wonder any longer. Later, he arrived at the Continental Hotel, a memory of its palatial splendour still existing in his mind, but now it resembled nothing more than a filthy building, its exterior no cleaner than its interior, which was littered with dirt, and smelled evilly. There were still guests--unkempt, unwashed men and women who lounged about, spitting and smoking. He stared with amazement at the scene before him, disbelieving the evidence of his own eyes. He was accosted presently by a clerk, who slouched up to him. "What do you want?" the man growled. Geoffrey eyed him silently. "A room," he said presently, and the clerk, under the Englishman's fixed glance, stirred uneasily. "Supposing we have not got one?" he said. "Supposing you look," replied Geoffrey quietly. The clerk gave ground. Entering his counter he banged a bell, and a _pinczer_ approached. "Take this man up to room 61," he ordered. Without a word the waiter picked up Geoffrey's bag and led the way, working the lift himself. Room 61 was no cleaner than the vestibule. As the electric light threw its white glare over the room Geoffrey saw dozens of blackbeetles swarming into hidden crannies. The waiter hesitated. Geoffrey put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some coins. "Come inside and shut the door," he ordered, then presently, when the other had complied, and received a tip which made his eyes glisten, asked: "Now, what does all this mean? The War----"