Hildegarde had acquired the habit of stepping softly as she went about her father’s house; of stopping to listen before she turned corners or entered rooms. Every activity of the house she scrutinized with suspicion. She felt that affairs went forward there under the surface which she could only guess at but could not detect. There was a sort of melodrama about her situation that keyed her up. She would never admit it, but, nevertheless, there were times when she really enjoyed herself. There was no air of mystery about the place, but she knew mystery was there. She knew there were servants waiting upon her who were set there to keep watchful eyes upon her father; perhaps they carried on at the same time other and more sinister occupations. Her father seemed to go about his usual pursuits without interruption, but she believed there were interruptions. Every time a fire worked its destruction, every time the papers reported the havoc of an explosion, she wondered if her father’s hand had been in it. But she saw nothing to evidence his guilt. Simply and baldly, she saw nothing. She only felt.

Ever since that night of climaxes she had hoped to discover the identity of the man who had forced her father, not against his honorable scruples, but against his fears, to assume a part in Germany’s secret war against the United States, but his identity was never hinted at by anything that came to her ears or eyes. Once, on some pretext, she had rummaged the basements of the house to see if she could find the explosives whose presence had been hinted at. She found nothing.

She listened for and searched for things she did not want to find. “If I should find something,” she asked herself, “what would I do about it?” There was a problem indeed. One may despise a parent, but, nevertheless, parenthood exists. She loved the memory of her mother, and Herman von Essen had dominated her mother’s life. Possibly her mother had loved him. Surely she had loved him for an interval. Considerations of this sort reared themselves; but perhaps the major consideration was her horror of disgrace—her horror of being shown to the world as the daughter of a man guilty of treachery toward his country. Perhaps she was not the only daughter of German parentage who faced such a problem in those days.

As a natural opposite of her father, she had felt loyalty where he exhibited disloyalty; his attitude toward the United States had compelled her to a love for her country which otherwise might have lain as dormant as it seemed to lie in the majority of men and women about her. But her father quickened it, and she nursed it. It was not in her to do things by halves, and inevitably she became fiercely, flamingly patriotic.... Perhaps girlishly patriotic; patriotic with immature enthusiasm.... She brooded and dreamed. She saw herself frustrating her father’s designs—but always without betraying him. She pictured herself discovering plots, and bringing them to futility with clever counter-plots. She pictured herself in possession of indisputable evidence of her father’s guilt, and would sit painting to herself scenes in which she confronted him with it, compelled him to grovel for mercy, and wrung from him promises to abandon his sinister enterprises. But though she spied with what cleverness for spying was in her, she hit upon nothing tangible. Almost she came to believe there was nothing tangible to discover.

The thing was never absent from her mind. How could it be? One cannot whistle away fear, shame, the sense of impending calamity which has its birth in such certain insecurity as was hers. When a nature, reckless, turbulent, headstrong—and feminine—is moved by such emotions as hatred, terror, black doubt, love of country, all conflicting, a dance, a game of cards, a novel, cannot bring forgetfulness nor ease of mind. It was wearing on her, chafing at those restraints which were naturally irksome to her. Hildegarde was being modified, as Potter had been modified, but the forces that acted upon her were far different from the forces which had worked upon him. To Potter, through enforced idleness, unavoidable thought, had come certainty and sureness of purpose, darkened and made saturnine through these last months by love that had come down about him in ruins. To Hildegarde came only more uncertainty, more anguish of mind. There was no light ahead; nothing was clear before her. The strain she underwent, the constant pressure of suspense, the tenseness of a most singular precariousness, all pulled her this way and that. How the thing would end with her none could say. It would change her; another woman would result, but what sort of woman? The answer depended upon the innate strength of her soul, the sturdiness of such virtues as resided in her.

For weeks after her brief encounter with Potter outside the dining-room of the Athletic Club he insisted upon obtruding himself into her thoughts and multiplying her perplexities. She herself, if she had been given to introspection, could not have told what were her sentiments toward him. She was very angry with him; that persisted. But the meeting with him had given her a shock she did not suspect it would give her. It had upset her. After she declined so sharply to sit at table with him it had seemed to her she had to get away from that spot; had to be alone, could not bear the presence of a human being. She did not want to hide away to think about him; that was the thing she least desired to do. She would have told you she never wanted to see him or be reminded of him again. But she reminded herself of him. There were times when she really believed he had assumed such importance in her considerations because she hated him. That, she fancied, would account for it, for she was forced to acknowledge that he was important. At other times she was not so certain of hatred; vivid recollections of pleasant, glowing moments spent with him would come to her. Again and again she saw the look that was in his eyes at their unexpected meeting. The memory of that look disturbed and accused her, but she would not admit the accusation. Against her will she lived over again her flight from the house; Potter’s offer of love and marriage, and her reception of it.... She would have married him that night—without love; it was not in her at that time to understand why he had acted as he had; why he should have declined to marry her without her love coming to him as a part of the transaction. She liked to fancy herself scorned and affronted, but in her heart she knew she had not been scorned nor affronted. She had accepted Cantor’s attentions because, with a sort of childish petulance, she imagined it would hurt Potter.

Her reason was a double one, perhaps a triple one. Potter was the first consideration; then, second in importance, she must get away from the house, be away from it frequently, be amused, excited. Cantor offered amusement and excitement. She was not so inexperienced that she failed to perceive early in their intimacy that Cantor was not the safest of escorts, that he might, perhaps, prove to be more exciting than amusing, and more dangerous than either. That feature of it rather egged her on. In her state of mind she courted the risks she saw, and dared them. It provided the element of contest her restlessness demanded. She took on Cantor as she would have taken on a game of chess, knowing or suspecting the chances of winning or losing.... And she found him fascinating, a skilled cavalier, a delightful companion—but a watchful, ready companion, not likely to pass over the opportunities of the game. It required all her wit, her ready impertinence, to hold the man at arm’s-length.

On the Fourth of July she drove with Cantor to the Bloomfield Hills Country Club, adjacent to the beautiful little lakes of Oakland County, distant some twenty-odd miles from Detroit. There they lunched and dined and played golf. In the evening there were to be dancing and fireworks, but a sudden mood seized Hildegarde, before the evening’s entertainment was well begun, to go home. She could not account for it herself. Simply she wanted to go home, and wanting to go, she insisted upon being taken. Cantor discovered that there was no arguing with her.

They drove along the country road to Woodward Avenue, and through Birmingham, rapidly spreading Royal Oak, Highland Park, that had grown from a distant country village to a considerable city perched upon Detroit’s very shoulder—on down the broad avenue which had, but a few years before, known neither pavement nor street-car. Through miles upon miles of the most convincing evidences of the city’s miraculous growth they drove—and for the most part in silence. Endless rows of fine residences where, as a little girl, she had seen meadows and wheat-fields, did not now interest her.... She wanted to be alone, alone in the dark. She wanted to crouch in her room and to endeavor to compel her brain to cease from thinking.

As they approached the Boulevard she became conscious of a tremendous glow in the sky toward the west, a glow that seemed to rise, to pulsate, to bound and leap fitfully. Cantor saw it, too, and slackened speed. His lips were drawn; every now and then he moistened them with his tongue, and his eyes glowed with repressed excitement.

“It’s a fire,” said Hildegarde, with interest awakened. There was something about a big fire that fitted into her mood. “Let’s drive across the Boulevard and see.”

“We’ll only get into a mob,” he protested.

“Never mind. We’ll take that chance.”

“But, Miss von Essen, we may get shut off there and held up for hours.”

“You needn’t worry, if I don’t,” she said, sharply.

Cantor appeared more unwilling to obey her than a mere fear of delay could easily account for. One might have said that the region of the fire was one he very obviously wished to avoid, but he obeyed, nevertheless.

As they drew nearer and were able to guess at the locality of the fire Hildegarde said under her breath: “The Waite Motor Company—it is about there. Can that be it?”

“I don’t imagine so,” Cantor said, tensely; “their buildings are fire-proof, I’ve heard.”

“But it is,” Hildegarde insisted. “I’m sure it is. Hurry! It will be a tremendous fire. I want to see it.”

They turned and turned again. Before them lay the great mass of the Waite Motor Company’s plant, silhouetted against an eye-blasting inferno of roaring flame. The fire seemed to be not in the motor-plant, but to the rear of it.... They turned, made their way through crowds of people, avoided reinforcements of fire apparatus, and arrived at a point where the conflagration lay before them.

“It seems to be a lot of sheds and things,” Hildegarde said. Then, speaking to a police officer, she asked what was burning.

“Temporary buildings of the motor company,” he said. “They were put up this spring as warehouses. They tell me they were filled with motor-trucks for the Allies, hundreds of ’em—and with parts and supplies.”

“Fireworks started it, I suppose,” said Cantor, harshly.

“I don’t know.... Maybe so, but there’s a heap of things happening lately that fireworks hain’t got anythin’ to do with. Them Germans....”

“Nonsense!” said Cantor, vehemently.

“It isn’t nonsense,” Hildegarde said, sharply. “They could lay it on the fireworks. That’s why they did it to-day. I—” She stopped short and bit her lip.

An ambulance came forcing its way through the crowd, to be stopped close beside Hildegarde and Cantor.

“Oh,” she said, “some one’s hurt.... See who it is. Please do.” She turned to the policeman. “Won’t you ask who is hurt, please?”

The officer was obliging. He made his way to the ambulance, assisted in making a path for it to proceed, and then returned to the car.

“One of the watchmen,” he said. “Ambulance doctor says he was knocked on the head.... Hurt bad. Says it looks like somebody hit him a nasty lick. Skull’s cracked.”

Hildegarde shuddered. “Murder, too,” she whispered. Then: “I’ve seen all I want.... Let’s go home.”

They drove southward to Jefferson Avenue and eastward to the von Essen residence.... A car preceded them through the entrance and into the grounds. Hildegarde watched it, wondered who it could be. It stopped just before them and a man stepped out; he wavered, staggered, stumbled to the ground, and Hildegarde heard him cry out with pain.

She leaped from Cantor’s car and ran to the man’s side. “Who is it?” she asked, breathlessly. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

The man struggled to his feet, holding one hand with the other, and answered through his teeth, as one speaks who suffers agony.

“It’s Philip, the chauffeur, Miss von Essen. Playing with fireworks and got burnt pretty bad.” He breathed sharply.

“Come into the house quickly,” she said. “Mr. Cantor, take his arm. Help him in.”

As Cantor appeared the man started. “Steady,” Cantor said. “Steady.”

Hildegarde followed them into the house. She was frightened, she was doubtful. There was an odor about the chauffeur’s clothing which was not that of powder, nor was it exactly that of gasolene. She was sure it was kerosene.... What did that mean?

As the man entered the hall he stumbled, cried out breathlessly, and slumped forward in a faint. Cantor and Hildegarde bent over him as Herman von Essen came hurriedly out of the library.

“What’s this? What’s the matter?” he demanded, tensely.

“Nothing to alarm you,” said Cantor. “Your chauffeur got burnt a little with firecrackers, that’s all.”

Hildegarde switched on more lights as her father and Cantor carried the man to a lounge. She could see that his hands were badly burnt, but what was more startling, more significant to her, was that his lips were broken and bleeding and blood dripped from a gash in his scalp, injuries not commonly sustained through carelessness with fireworks.

She peered at her father. Manifestly he was frightened. He seemed to be looking to Cantor in a peculiar manner, not as one looks to a casual guest who is assisting in a minor emergency. Hildegarde wondered at that look. The man jerked convulsively, struggled to sit up.

“Leggo!” he said, hoarsely. “Leggo!” Then he saw and recognized Cantor. “Good job—” he began, and then stopped suddenly, peering craftily at Hildegarde. “Good job it wasn’t anythin’ but a little skyrocket,” he finished.

Hildegarde was standing tense, white. “There’s blood on your coat,” she said, in a choked voice. “Where were you shooting fireworks?” she demanded, and looked from the chauffeur to her father. Her father was still looking at Cantor.

“Go to bed,” said von Essen, roughly. “You’re in the way here.”

“I would go if I were you, Miss von Essen. This isn’t a pleasant sight for you.”

“I don’t suppose that poor watchman in the ambulance was a pleasant sight, either,” she said, her eyes on the chauffeur. The man started erect.

“What’s that?... What you say?... What you mean?”

Cantor’s hand was on his arm, and Hildegarde’s eyes were sharp enough to see that his fingers crushed in savagely.

“Be still! Sit down!” he said, and the man obeyed sullenly.

“Go to bed,” von Essen said, savagely.

Hildegarde was thinking, piecing together the evidence of her eyes and ears.... Cantor.... What had he to do with this? He seemed rightly to be a part of it.... His manner when he spoke to Philip!

“Will you go to bed?” her father said, stepping toward her.

“I’m going,” she said, unsteadily, almost hysterically. Indeed, she laughed unnaturally. “But before I go—I thought you’d like to know about—another great German victory.... They’ve burned part of the Waite Motor Company—and murdered a man.... Murdered a man!...” She turned and ran up the stairs to her room.

When she was out of hearing von Essen turned savagely to his chauffeur, “What made you come here like this, you fool?”

“Where else would he go?” Cantor asked, sharply. “No harm’s done.”

“What’s this about—a murder?” von Essen asked, shakily.

“Their damn watchman jumped me—one of them,” said Philip. “Before I could let him have it he landed on me—twice.... But I got him and got him good.... For God’s sake aren’t you ever going to do anything to stop this pain in my hands?”

Von Essen was shaking flabbily; his arrogance had disappeared; his cheeks were pasty.

“You’ve got the nerve of a rabbit,” Cantor said, sneeringly.

Up-stairs, Hildegarde was listening, listening not to what was being said down-stairs, but to another conversation she had overheard months ago, the conversation between her father and a man she had never been able to identify. She was trying to hear his voice now, trying to bring the sound of it back into her ears so that she could listen to it and compare it with Cantor’s familiar voice.