Sick with apprehension, he heard the hours gradually strike one after another, and never was dawn more welcome. He hastily dressed. Not waiting for breakfast, he hurried to the Erzebet-Korut, and was relieved to find that, if outside appearances could be taken as any criterion, nothing had happened to the Rakoczy residence, since, except for its dirty condition, it seemed untouched. With a trembling heart he approached the entrance, and was presently admitted. Ten minutes later a white-faced man reeled out, stunned by the news he heard, the story he had been told by the dying Countess, the tale of how the Count, for his patriotic resistance to Communism, had been proscribed an outlaw by Bela Kun, and had fled, accompanied by Zita, for his life. Zita and her kindly white-haired father outlaws in their own country, liable to be shot at any moment! Geoffrey groaned. It seemed unbelievable! Only by an effort of will did he become his normal self again as he walked back to the hotel. Fortunately the Countess had been able to give him the address to which her tiny family had fled, a small peasant cottage in Szugy on the Ipoly. Thither went Geoffrey, his vague haunting fear growing stronger as the train advanced sluggishly through the quiet countryside. The hours passed slowly, but at length the train steamed into Balassagyarmat. Later Geoffrey arrived at Szugy. Everything seemed quiet and peaceful--ominously so. There was a sense of brooding hurt, a solemn hush. Yard by yard Geoffrey advanced nearer to his destination, and all the time his heart beat a wild tattoo, though now it was because of his nearness to Zita. At last he was really to see her, to feel her within his arms. At last! A small cottage was before him. In front of it bloomed early spring flowers, and the grass sprouted greenly. A narrow flagged path led up to the door, and along this Geoffrey stepped. Another few moments, a second only... The door was slightly open, and there was no answer to his knocks. There was a slight smell, a tang which he could not define. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The tang was that of blood, freshly spilled blood, that of the old Count, whose gentle heart had brought him unwavering popularity wherever he went. He had been playing chess at the time. Even now the chessboard and the pieces still remained on the table: red _versus_ white, red winning, the white king in check to them. On the floor lay the Count--dead. Opposite sat Zita, still and motionless, her staring, horrified eyes fixed with a peculiar intensity in front of her. Calmly Geoffrey inspected the scene in front of him, quietly viewing the tragedy. Only his eyes flickered strangely. He moved more into the room, and bent over the corpse. As he had thought. Bayonet wounds, here, there, and everywhere. The helpless old man had been literally stabbed to death by brutal, bestial murderers, pawns of Bela Kun, the Dictator of the Proletariat.