_HARRAP'S SHILLING LIBRARY_
_THE TRAIL OF THE
WHITE KNIGHT_
_By_
_BRUCE GRAEME_
_Author of
"Blackshirt," "La Belle Laurine," etc._
GEORGE G. HARRAP & CO. LTD.
LONDON BOMBAY SYDNEY
_First published October_ 1920
by GEORGE G. HARRAP & Co., LTD
39-41 Parker Street, Kingsway, London, W.C.2.
_Reprinted:_ 1926; 1928; 1930; 1931; 1932.
_Printed at Parkgate Printing Works, Dublin, by_ CAHILL & Co., LTD.,
_London and Dublin_
_HARRAP'S SHILLING LIBRARY_
1. Pollyooly. Edgar Jepson.
2. The Chinese Parrot. Earl Derr Biggers.
3. Bluefeather. Laurence W. Meynell.
4. The Gillespie Suicide Mystery. Leonard R. Gribble.
5. Death's Eye. Laurence W. Meynell.
6. The Cathra Mystery. Adam Gordon Macleod.
7. The Marloe Mansions Murder. Adam Gordon Macleod.
8. Behind that Curtain. Earl Derr Biggers.
9. The Mayfair Mystery. Henry Holt.
10. The Death Gong. Selwyn Jepson.
11. Blackshirt. Bruce Graeme.
12. The Return of Blackshirt. Bruce Graeme.
13. The Trail of the White Knight. Bruce Graeme.
14. The House of Fear. R. W. Service.
15. Dead Men's Money. J. S. Fletcher.
16. The Chestermarke Instinct. J. S. Fletcher.
17. The Death of Laurence Vining. Alan Thomas.
18. Inspector Frost's Jigsaw. H. Maynard Smith.
THE TRAIL OF THE WHITE KNIGHT
_PROLOGUE_
I
"Say again you love me," she pleaded.
"Silly one! Have I not already told you more times than I can
count?" he chided.
She pouted slightly. "Yes, dear one; but a woman can never hear too
often the words which mean so much to her."
"A woman!" The man laughed softly. "You are not a woman, Zita.
Why, you have yet to see your nineteenth birthday. You are still
nothing but a child--yet--I love you, Zita."
"Are you then a grandfather, big Mr Englishman?" she mocked.
"No, but it is more than a month ago now since I celebrated my
twenty-fifth birthday."
The next few minutes were spent in silence as they walked along the
shady paths of Margaret Island. Romance infused the soft, warm air
of the July night with its subtle infection; the surroundings in
which these two walked were reminiscent of Paradise.
On their right the darkness of the night was emphasized by the many
beautiful trees, the shadows of which, cast by the silvery light of
the moon above, were delicately traced upon the soft sward beneath,
and the simple majesty of the woods was disturbed only by the bright
lights of an electric tramcar, as it flashed past, raucously,
clangingly making its way from one end of the island to the other.
On their left the scene was still more beautiful, for past them
swiftly flowed the broad Danube, silently racing toward its outlet in
the Black Sea, carrying on its bosom the broad-bottomed boats of
commerce.
Just now these barges seemed like quaint, black shadows, moving with
an eerie silence. There were, however, other craft, steamboats,
which shimmered and twinkled, their reflected lights dancing merrily
up and down upon the water. These were the vessels which conveyed
the people across from either end of Margaret Island.
On the bank opposite was the old town of Ofen, better known as Buda.
From where the couple stood, quiet in the thoughts which gripped
them, they could see the lights of the royal palace scintillating in
the darkness.
From the upper end of the island they could hear faintly the plashing
of superfluous water as, from the bath-house, it falls in a pretty
cascade into the pond beneath.
Geoffrey Templeton wondered if there could possibly be any other
place in the world so wonderful as this, while Zita looked up at his
strong profile, thrown into relief by the ethereal light above, and
smiled slightly to herself, for she too was idealizing, contemplating
whether there could be another man in this world so splendid as he.
She looked at the moon, and even as she gazed upward a small black
cloud passed beneath, quite obscuring its silvery sheen.
Coincidently she remembered that on the morrow Geoffrey was to return
to England, his holiday at an end.
"Oh, Geoffrey, dear heart," she murmured softly, "must you indeed
depart to-morrow for your cold, cheerless England?"
He turned toward her, and, acting on the impulse of the moment,
seized her dainty hands within his and pressed them passionately.
"I wish I could say otherwise," he muttered hoarsely, "for I would
ask nothing better than to stop here with you always; but I have no
option. We must part, darling, for six months. It shall not be
longer, I swear it. After all," he continued, "six months is but a
short time, and then, when I return, we can be married. Cheer up,
little one, only twenty-four weeks, and then.... Smile, Zita, for
this night is our last one together, and it hurts me to see you sad."
Gently releasing her fingers, and catching her chin with his right
hand, he lifted her face gently so that they gazed into one another's
eyes. Pluckily she attempted to smile, but instead a tiny tear,
escaping, rolled down her cheek, and seeing this Geoffrey drew nearer
to her, kissing it away before it found time to drop.
Quickly the hours sped by while they talked of the past.... Once
again he made her laugh as he reminded her of the time when he could
talk no Hungarian, when she, taking pity on his plight, instructed
him, until now he was proficient in the Magyar language.
They spoke of the future, the far-off time when he should return to
Budapest and claim her for his own, and together they planned the
time-to-be, discussed how long they would spend in England with his
people, and how long in Budapest with hers.
From not far away there was a discreet cough from Zita's chaperon,
and Geoffrey looked, dismayed, at his watch.
"Come, darling, this must be good night ... and _au revoir_."
Quickly the ferry conveyed them from the island back to Buda again,
where he hired a _fiacre_.
Back at her home, the wise and kindly chaperon discreetly
disappeared; once again Geoffrey clasped his future wife in his arms,
and, kissing the brimming tears away, made his _adieux_.
"In six months I shall return," were his last words, and the next
moment he was gone.
Early the next morning Geoffrey left for Paris; before him England,
behind him Budapest, the city of smiles, gaiety, and happiness.
"In six months I shall return."
The words echoed in his ears, and the hum of the wheels of the
_wagon-lit_ repeated after him: "Six months, six months!"
Once he looked out of the window, but he saw only an ominous haze
away in the east, heavy banks of thunder-laden clouds, obscuring his
last view of Budapest.
Even as the looming storm rolled up from the east that morning so did
other clouds spring up, this time political, born of a tiny puff of
blue smoke which was slowly emitted from the barrel of a revolver,
held in the hands of a fanatic; and less than a month later followed
the whirlwind, and the upheaval of Europe. Geoffrey's dream was
past, buried in the heart of the bloody battlefield.