For the rest of the day his mind dwelt upon matters which were of anything but a pleasant nature. At every step he winced perceptibly and kept an uneasy eye upon the door and the window. Though he had been warned that there were still six more days for him to live, he was convinced in his own mind that the White Knight was bluffing, that the blow might be struck at any moment. The day passed, and, despite his experience of the night before, Gonnard again indulged in a heavy meal. The consequence was that his dreams were even worse; his fears, in conjunction with his groaning stomach, wreaked havoc with his inner consciousness. As the night passed, the vision of the White Knight appeared more frequently, and in different guises, each one of which was more terrible than the last. When he was awakened by the welcome sunlight, which came streaming in through a crack in the shutters, he found himself in a sweat which poured off his forehead and down his body. A newspaper, brought in to him with his breakfast by a friendly Communist, lay on the table alongside his coffee. With trembling fingers he unfolded it, and gasped with relief to find that this time its creases hid no terrifying message. He almost enjoyed his breakfast. Then arrived the post. There was a letter for him; the writing was feminine; there was a faint, lingering suspicion of perfume. A letter to him from a woman! His eyes glistened with anticipation. He inserted his bulgy forefinger and hastily slit open the envelope. It was no _billet-doux_; only once again the fatal warning: Five days more, Comrade Gonnard. THE WHITE KNIGHT The words faded away in the misty film which covered his eyes, and his shaking fingers dropped the letter so that it fluttered to the floor. The days passed. Each morning he received another revised message--by telegram, by telephone, once again by the post, and then, on the last day, by Gunzi. The detective looked tired and haggard. For six days he had scarcely slept; clue after clue he had followed in vain. The White Knight was more elusive than the _fata Morgana_. When he saw Gonnard he stopped short in surprise and swore, and Gonnard, seeing him, clutched his arm frantically: "You have found him, Gunzi?" "No." The word was like a death-knell; Gonnard sank back into a chair, shaking in every limb, and Gunzi eyed him scornfully. He had not seen the commissary for five days, but in that time the once gross and fleshy Communist had shrunk till the skin hung from him in pouches. His flickering, restless eyes unceasingly switched from one direction to another, his drumming fingers everlastingly beat a tattoo upon the object nearest to them. His clothes positively hung from him and were buttoned only here and there; his boots were not even laced.