"The War!" The man laughed bitterly. "Not the War, sir, but revolution, Communism, Bolshevism." His face became suspicious, and his lips closed tightly. "Why do you ask me? You know as well as I do." Geoffrey shook his head. "I do not. I have only just arrived from England." The waiter looked up eagerly. "You are English, sir?" Geoffrey nodded. "I was frightened. There are spies, detectives, and _agents provocateurs_ everywhere." "Spies, detectives--I don't understand!" "No, sir, you wouldn't. You have won the War, and we have lost. It makes all the difference. Hungary is now a republic--worse, in fact, for we have a Soviet Government." "Good God!" Geoffrey was astounded, but recollections of Zita made him urge the older man on with his story. "Tell me more," he suggested. "It all began with Count Michael Karolyi. He formed a republic, with himself at the helm. Not for long, sir. The Communists took the lead under Bela Kun, two days ago, and now we have the Commune, another word for murder and pillage. "I have heard it said that Szamuelly wants a three days' loot, three days during which the comrades, the Communists, can steal and sack to their hearts' content. It may happen at any minute. Sir, I cannot tell you how bad it is!" Two tears forced themselves out of the man's eyes and slowly rolled down his puckered cheeks. "You see," he continued presently, "myself, I am too old for these ideas. You grand folks, you treat the likes of us well. I used to make good money before the War came and spoilt it all." "But what of the rich people, I mean the people who used to stay here? What of them?" The waiter shook his head slowly. "All penniless, sir, penniless. Their money confiscated, their property stolen." He dropped his voice. "Many of them are ... dead, murdered." Geoffrey seemed only to hear his voice from a distance as the man continued. There was a buzzing in his ears, and his head was reeling. What of Zita? What of her? Supposing that she were ... dead! "Oh, God!" he moaned, and with an imperious motion he stopped the waiter, and strode up and down. Presently he turned again to the other. "Tell me," he asked anxiously, "has anything happened to the people in the Erzebet-Korut?" It was in the Erzebet-Korut that Zita lived with her father and mother, the Count and Countess Rakoczy. The man scratched his head. "I have heard tell of--and yet--no, sir, I am not sure." Geoffrey could have shaken him by the shoulders. "Go, now!" he cried, and the old man passed out. It was too late that night to do anything. Geoffrey undressed and threw himself into bed, yet scarcely slept. He tossed and turned from side to side, but all the time he could picture only Zita, who appeared to be vaguely holding out her arms to him, just as she had done when he had left her, over four years ago.