As the door of the hangar closed behind them Herman von Essen seized Hildegarde’s arm roughly and propelled her toward his waiting limousine. He was a burly, powerful man and lifted her almost from the ground. She presented a spectacle similar to that of a naughty little girl being led by the ear; she trotted along on tiptoe with a consciousness that she offered a most undignified spectacle. People fail to reckon with the sense of dignity of the young; it is very strong, and there is no surer way to kindle their fury than to make them appear undignified.

Hildegarde’s cheeks were white, but her eyes, half closed, were cold light flashed in reflection from steel; she bit her lip to restrain a cry of pain. Her father breathed heavily, noisily. She was aware that the chauffeur, out of the corner of his eye, missed nothing of the spectacle.

“Let go my arm!” she said, fiercely.

He only shook her a little and shoved her forward.

“You’re hurting my arm! Let go!”

She wanted to strike him, to scream, to bite and scratch, but she knew she was helpless in his great hands. She knew it was futile to struggle with him or to appeal to him, she knew his rage was the equal of her own in intensity, but she knew it was a brutal rage, a rage which, if further provoked, might relieve itself by some unthinkable action.... He was capable of thrashing her. She knew it, but it was not fear of him that held her passive; it was the effort to maintain some vestige of dignity.

He pushed her to the step of the car and, reaching over her shoulder, jerked open the door.

“My car—is here,” she said.

He did not reply, but shoved her headlong into the limousine. She fell on hands and knees, and he did not help her to arise. She scrambled to her feet and sat in the corner of the seat, pressing as far away from her father as possible, avoiding any contact with him. He shut the door with a slam and was silent except for his noisy breathing.

Both of them looked straight ahead, and no word was spoken during the drive to their home. When the car stopped and the chauffeur opened the door, von Essen lumbered out and stood waiting.

“Get out,” he said, roughly, not offering to assist her.

She stepped out, drawing away from him as she passed, and ran up the steps.

“Wait,” he commanded, and she stopped. He approached her and reached again for her arm, but she avoided him.

“Don’t touch me!... Don’t dare to touch me!” she panted.

“Go to your room,” he ordered. “Don’t leave it without my permission, or I’ll lock you in.... Don’t leave this house again. Don’t step out of the door. If you do—”

She turned and walked away from him. She wanted to run, but would not allow herself to run. She walked slowly, shoulders squared, head up proudly. She did not hurry as she traversed the hall and ascended the stairs, nor as she opened the door of her room. She entered, closed the door gently—and locked it. Then she stood quite still, white and slender, with a look on her face not good to see on the face of a young girl. Her fists were clenched, her arms held tense and straight at her sides. There was no tear or sign of tear in her eyes. She looked not like a living flame now, but like a slender image of steel heated to whiteness.

“I hate him,” she said, slowly, not passionately, but coldly, with calculation. Then she repeated it, “I hate him.... I hate him.”

She took off hat and wraps and let them fall to the floor, then walked across the room to her dressing-table and looked at herself in its mirror. She saw how pinched and white and strained she looked, and bit her lip.... On the dressing-table in a silver frame was a photograph, the photograph of a woman still young. It was a strong face, a gentle face, a face that in some vague way showed that the spirit within had not been satisfied or happy. Hildegarde lifted it in her hands.

“You married him,” she said, in a whisper. “Married him.... You lived with him of your own accord—for years.... How could you? How could you?”

Hildegarde did not know that she herself was the answer to that question. Born within a year of her mother’s marriage, she had tied her mother to that home and to the man who was the father of the child. It had not taken years to disillusion Marcia von Essen with respect to her husband; the first trying hours of marital life had sufficed to show her the sort of man to whom she had given herself, for he had shown her none of that gentleness, that consideration, that tenderness that form so sure a foundation for the coming years. More marriages are wrecked within twenty-four hours of the ceremony than are wrecked in the succeeding twenty-four years. Marcia von Essen’s was one of these.... She might have separated herself from him almost at the beginning of their marriage, but time was not given her to catch her breath and form the resolution when was forced upon her the knowledge that her thought must include a third being. So she remained, and so, for Hildegarde’s sake, she endured the years. “How could you?” Hildegarde asked. The photograph might have replied, “For you, my daughter.”

Hildegarde put down her mother’s picture and sat down on the rounding seat in the bay window. Her posture was girlish, childish; back against the wall, feet on the cushion, she drew her knees under her chin and stared out at the snow-covered lawn, the wealth of shrubs swathed in white, down the slope to the barren expanse of frozen lake. Her thoughts were dangerous thoughts, and to a reckless, turbulent soul thoughts likely to take material shape in rash action.

“I won’t stand it,” she said, in a whisper. “She had to live with him, but I don’t.”

That resolution was made. All that remained was to hit upon the means to carry it out. She would leave her home and her father, but how? And how could she make it certain that he could not follow her and drag her back? For drag her back he would, she knew.

She must have help; she must have a place to go. Arrangements must be made outside that house for her reception, and she could not go out to make them—and she was penniless!

“He’d help me,” she said, suddenly. “He’s got to.” The he was Potter Waite.

It was not with love that she turned to Potter, for she did not love him. She was not a girl given to sudden, unstable infatuations for young men. But she liked him, she trusted him. Events had coupled them in a manner which compelled her to think of him as she thought of no other young man.... She would ask him to help, to find some way, to devise some expedient. Potter was only a means to an end in this affair—he was not the end. She did not plan to elope with this young man; indeed, that idea never entered her hot little head.

She went to her desk and wrote:

“Dear Potter,—I can’t stand it any longer. I sha’n’t live another day with my father. He’s a savage and I’m afraid of him.” She was not in the least afraid of him, but feminine instinct told her this would be an appealing touch. Her hand traveled to the arm her father had clutched and she became conscious that it pained her. She stood up and removed her waist to examine the arm. It was bruised, swollen, rapidly blackening, and the marks of his ruthless fingers were plain. She sat down to write again. “My arm,” she wrote, “is nearly wrenched off, and you can see the mark of every one of his fingers on it. I’m locked in my room. Won’t you help me get away? My room is on the lake side of the house, the corner with the tower. If you’ll help me, come to-morrow night about ten, and be careful. I’ll be watching out of my window for you, and I’ll be all ready. I won’t stand it another day.”

She signed this, sealed it, and affixed a stamp. Then she replaced her waist and concealed the note in her bosom.

“He’ll have sense enough to know what to do.” she told herself.

She tried to read, but could not, and hurled the book across the room angrily. She could do nothing but brood and toy with her anger, keeping it alive and pouring fuel upon its flames. Again she occupied the window-seat and stared out at the wintry landscape.

Dinner hour came, but she did not leave her room. She could not bear the thought of sitting at the same table with her father, of seeing him, of breathing the same air he breathed. Nor did he summon her. She did not expect him to send a tray to her room; that would be a courtesy so utterly foreign to him that she did not even give it a thought. Besides, she was not hungry. She could not have eaten. So she sat and waited—waited for darkness and for that stillness which tells of a sleeping house. When it came she would steal out of her room and out of the house to the near-by mail-box to post her letter to Potter Waite.

Hours went by. The house was very still. Though she opened the door a crack and listened, she could not hear a sound. It was after ten o’clock, and her father was probably at the Harmonie Society drinking beer and smoking those pudgy black cigars without which he was seldom seen. She threw a wrap over her head and tiptoed out of the room and down the stairs. Very cautiously she passed along the hall, but stopped before she reached the door of the library, for the room was lighted. She drew against the wall and stood very still, listening. Some one was there, for she heard voices.

Step by step she drew nearer, and the voices became more distinct, her father’s voice and the voice of a stranger. She believed it to be a stranger, for she did not recognize it. Both voices were muffled by the walls and hangings, yet she could overhear what was said, if not wholly, at least in major part.

“Boy-Ed and von Papen were clumsy fools,” said the strange voice, “and this man Paul Koenig, that got himself arrested the other day, wasn’t much better. But those things were to be expected. It wasn’t the ridiculous Secret Service of this idiotic country that did it, even then. It was English agents.”

Hildegarde realized suddenly that German was being spoken. It had not surprised her or caught her attention in the beginning, for she was accustomed to hear as much German spoken in that house as English.

“What do you want of me now?” she heard her father ask.

The stranger did not reply directly to the question. “Our men have done pretty good work so far, but we must do much better. Our greatest success has been in holding together the Germans here and in creating in their minds a proper attitude toward the fatherland. You and men like you have been invaluable there. But we must take more vigorous steps. A little has been done. We’ve stirred up a lot of unrest, and we have the pacifists working nicely.” He chuckled. “That I. W. W. organization was made to our order.” He paused a moment, and then said, significantly, “And there is quite a satisfying number of tons of munitions that have exploded here in America—instead of over the trenches occupied by our army.”

“Yes,” said von Essen, “but what do you want of me?”

“More help, of course. You recognize your duty to the fatherland?”

“Naturally,” said von Essen.

“Propaganda and singing societies aren’t going to win this war for us,” said the stranger, flatly. “For one thing, millions of tons of iron ore are coming down these lakes, through the Sault Sainte Marie locks, through the St. Clair ship-canal. That ore makes rifles and cannon and shells for the Allies. It would be a great service to the Emperor to interfere with that traffic, and the surest way is to—er—discontinue the use of the canals. That’s one thing. Then Detroit is manufacturing more and more munitions, and motor-trucks, and other things to help the enemy. There’s a fine bit of work to be done right here. You can be most useful here. You have influence, and a man in your position will go without suspicion. Do you see?”

“I see,” said von Essen, gruffly, “but I’m not going to mix into such matters. I want to see the fatherland win. I’m a German. But I haven’t any intention of getting stood up against a wall and being shot.”

“Nonsense! You’ll be telling me you have scruples against such a thing next. And you haven’t.”

“I haven’t,” said von Essen. “I’d like to see every munition-plant in America blown to hell.”

“Excellent so far.... When this war is over a German is going to be an envied man in this world. Once a man boasted that he was a Roman citizen; after we are through he’ll boast that he’s a German citizen. Our Emperor knows how to reward service—either with money or with honors.”

“I don’t need the Emperor’s money,” said von Essen.

“But the honors, eh? Suppose you should be recalled to the fatherland and ennobled, eh? Made a count, let us say? You have the wealth to support the position.”

“Uh!” grunted von Essen.

“But to wear honors one must earn them. You have been picked because you are the right man. We do not make mistakes. We need you.”

“No,” said von Essen, stubbornly.

“Listen, Herr von Essen,” said the stranger, his voice changing its tone from silkiness to something bordering on arrogance. “Last Thursday you rode to the city in your limousine with Mr. Bradley. I can repeat to you every word of your conversation. It was an unimportant conversation, but I know what was said. I can tell you what you had for dinner two weeks ago, and what you will have to-morrow. I can tell you every movement you have made for months.”

“Well,” said von Essen, uneasily.

“I have not wasted time on you for nothing. I say we need you—and you are going to do what you are told.”

“No. Why should I run risks? I’m willing to help in a reasonable way, but this dynamiting business—”

“Out of several hundred men serving the Emperor in this country, half a dozen have been caught. There is no risk, and there will be great gain. It is not for you to refuse or accept. You have your orders, Herr von Essen.”

“You can’t give me orders. I’m an American citizen—”

“Bosh!... Last week there was an explosion in an armory in a Canadian town not far from here. It did quite a satisfactory bit of damage. I’m sure the Emperor will appreciate it.”

“That armory explosion—did you arrange that?”

“I?... Oh no, Herr von Essen! You did.”

“I! You’re crazy.”

“The records show—our secret records. You have the credit there.... Now, Herr von Essen, will you obey orders?”

“No. What do your secret records matter to me?”

“If I put information in the hands of the clumsy American agents that Herr von Essen is excessively pro-German and that it might be well to inquire where he was the night of that so-called outrage, they might be interested, eh?... And if it was hinted that a search of your premises would unearth a considerable quantity of explosives, and some extremely novel and effective bombs and infernal machines?... I should hate to do that, Herr.”

“But I was not where you say on that night—that Friday night.”

“No, Herr von Essen? Shall I tell you where you were? You were with me. Alone with me, as I took excellent pains to see you would be. Nobody knows where you were but myself—and I would be unable to come to your assistance, of course. I’m afraid there would be evidence directly against you, however. It would look black for you if your chauffeur were to swear that he carried you to a point on the river and saw you meet two other men, and that you had baggage which you carried, oh, so carefully. Eh? And if he saw you cross the river, partly on the ice and partly with boats? It would look bad.”

Hildegarde heard her father burst into a torrent of imprecation, frightened imprecation. She was even sorry for him. Yet she felt a malicious satisfaction. He was trapped, neatly trapped, and he was being made to suffer. She approved of that.

“Well?” demanded the stranger when von Essen became quiet again.

“You couldn’t.... It wouldn’t be safe for you. I should describe you and tell—”

“And how long would you continue to live after that? Give a moment’s thought to that point.”

“Is that explosive in this house?”

“Plenty of it.”

Yon Essen groaned. “What do you want me to do?”

“Whatever you are told. You’ll get over this first nervousness soon—and you’ll quite enjoy yourself. Really, there’s a satisfaction in our work—when it is successful. Are you going to be reasonable?”

Von Essen made some reply unintelligible to Hildegarde, but which evidently was satisfactory to the stranger. “We’ll call it settled, then,” the latter said. “I’m pleased for your sake. You will get your orders in due time. In the mean while, stand ready at all times to obey. Am I understood?”

“Yes,” said von Essen, in a voice from which all arrogance, all courage was gone, “I understand.”

Hildegarde was filled with an intense curiosity to see the man who had tamed and trapped her father. The thing had happened so unexpectedly, and she had followed the conversation with such interest, that she had not had time to consider other than the immediate aspects of it. She did not yet consider her father as a traitor to his country, nor go deeply into the meaning of the words she had overheard. But she did want to see that man. She took a careful step forward, and another. She would peer through the door and then withdraw.

She took one more step; then something descended over her head, a hand covered her mouth, and she was lifted bodily from her feet. There was no sound. Whoever had seized her carried her silently to the stairs, up to the second floor, opened a door, and set her within. The door closed quickly, the key turned on the outside, and she was free and alone. She snatched the cloth from her head. It was her own room!

She placed her hand against the door to steady herself while she collected her senses. Who had seized her? Not her father, not the stranger. It had been no man of her father’s who had done so. It must have been some one in the service of the stranger, but some one employed in the von Essen household; some one familiar with it; some one who knew without hesitation where her own room was. It was startling, terrifying. She tottered across to her bed and threw herself upon it, nerves aflutter. Hildegarde was not given to nerves, but the tenseness of her situation as she had stood listening to her father and the stranger, with its unexpressed threat of danger, then the sudden, stifling, paralyzing climax of her seizure by unseen hands, had been sufficient to shock steadier fortitude than her own.

She did not give way to hysterics; did not whimper with fear as some girls might have done. The strange thing is that she was not afraid. It was not fear she felt so much as bewilderment, a certain dread of the unknown, a sense of something sinister impending.

She lay quietly struggling for self-control, and gradually it came to her. She sat up and looked about her. Then she went to her door and tried it. It was not locked. This was startling, for she had heard distinctly the key turned in the lock. Whoever had placed her in her room had crept back to unlock the door.

She tried to consider the events calmly, first in their bearing upon herself. She had been caught eavesdropping, effectively interrupted, but not more ungently than the circumstances had demanded. She had not been hurt; apparently there was neither desire nor intention to hurt her.... As yet. But she had heard matters not safe to overhear. Possibly her assailant knew how much she had overheard; possibly he had come upon her suddenly and had acted as suddenly. In that event he would not know how long she had been there nor what she knew. That would make for safety. Somehow that phase did not worry her.

Then she reviewed the conversation at which she had been an unseen auditor. Its meaning was plain to her. Her father was in communication with sinister agencies, was now the tool of such agencies. She had known him to be frantically pro-German, but that he had been an active participant in the plots and propaganda which filled the papers and which people were coming to understand daily as more and more of a menace to the well-being of their country, she had not imagined. And now Herman von Essen was to go farther; he was, so to speak, initiated into the inner ring of German intrigue, that inner ring commissioned by a conscienceless power to carry out unspeakable designs against a friendly, unsuspicious people! In short, she was the daughter of a traitor; of the same blood that flowed in the veins of a man plotting treason against the flag under which he had lived and prospered and to which his allegiance had been sworn.... She had hated her father before, she despised him now. She was filled with shame, deep, bitter, biting shame....

She asked herself what ought she to do, what could she do? She hated Germany because she believed it was Germany that had produced her father and his like. Because she had heard disloyal talk from her father’s lips, she had become impetuously, girlishly loyal to the United States.... But in the condition that faced her, what could she do? Where lay her duty? It was a question too complex for her immaturity. She answered it by avoiding it. Her determination was the determination she had reached earlier in the day—to go away. Now her going away took on a new significance. It took on the quality of running away to avoid responsibility, to avoid answering a question to which she could see no answer.

Once more she put on her coat and hat and crept out into the dark hall. The clock had struck midnight. This time she reached the outer door without interruption, shot back its bolt, and stepped out into the night. She ran to the street, fearful lest she should be stopped even now, and felt a great surge of relief as she dropped her note to Potter Waite into the mail-box. Then she turned, and with as great caution made her way back to her room, locked the door—a thing she had never been accustomed to do—and retired.