The summer and early autumn months of the year 1916 were, perhaps, the least illumined of any period of Potter Waite’s life. It was a period of drudgery without encouragement, of restless, brooding moods, of kicking against the pricks. There were hours when he felt himself and his work to be futile, when there was imminence of his return to the old life of the bar, the cabaret, the club. With the countenance and belief of one person he could have surmounted it all easily; but neither countenance nor belief was to be had of Hildegarde von Essen. If possible, she was farther from him than ever.

If there were one element of brightness, it was his realization of a change that was taking place in his father. Potter watched it with hope, saw the gradual movement of it, and read in it a token that other men of power throughout the nation might be changing as Fabius Waite was changing. Fabius Waite was beginning to think about the United States.

It required a blow touching his own person to jar Fabius from his foundations of Middle-Western security and conservatism, but he was too big a man, too able, too sound at the heart to continue to let the personal consideration sway him. He was a man to be depended on to view affairs in their larger aspects, and to weigh them, not with respect to their bearing upon himself and his concerns, but upon the nation in which he had risen to the summit of prosperity.

The fire in his plant, of demonstrated incendiary origin, gave him the initial impetus. Potter could almost find it in his heart to rejoice at that temporary disaster.

Though the criminals were not apprehended nor identified, Fabius Waite, correctly enough, laid the fire at the door of German plotters, and he expressed himself with less moderation than was his custom.

“It’s an infernal, sneaking business,” he said to Potter, “and a government which not only sanctions, but deliberately buys and pays for, such outrages is not a civilized government. Germany has thrown its decency into the sea.”

“But,” said Potter, to egg his father on, “it’s war. Your trucks were going to fight against Germany. Hadn’t she a right to destroy them?”

“Yes, openly, with cannon, or in a belligerent country. We are not belligerent. We’re serving all the world alike. If they have the idea America will stand for this sort of thing—”

“It makes a lot of difference, father,” said Potter, a trifle impertinently, “whose dog gets kicked.”

“Eh?”

“This thing has been going on for a year or more—but it never touched the Waite Motor Company before.”

“Um!” said Fabius, eying his son and taking up his paper. From time to time during the evening he would lower his paper enough to peer over it at Potter for a moment, and at such times it seemed as if he were about to offer some remark.

From that hour Potter was able to trace a gradual alteration in his father’s attitude toward Germany and toward the war—but most of all toward the United States.

During these months Potter worked not only on the designs for his aeroplane engine, but upon collecting and preserving information of general importance to the manufacturing of complete aeroplanes in enormous quantities. With all the facilities open to a private citizen he made his inquiries. Twenty millions of feet of the finest spruce must be obtained in order that four millions of feet of perfect spruce might be selected and sawed from it for the frames of the aeroplanes. This alone was a gigantic task. He studied the matter of obtaining linen for the wings, millions of yards of it—and the best linen comes from Ireland. It was a commodity of which England could spare little. Perhaps there would appear a substitute. Potter searched for it. Then there was the matter of metal for the engine, and the staggering problem of manufacturing a score of thousands of such engines as Potter knew would be required for fighting-aeroplanes—engines light in weight, perfect in efficiency, capable of developing two hundred, perhaps two hundred and fifty, horse-power. As best he could he attacked these problems, and stood amazed and terrified by the monstrousness of them. It gave him that quivering, frightened sensation one gets from thinking on infinity.

At this time the country was learning an unrelished lesson from the mobilization of our militia for the Mexican border, from the performances of our brace of aeroplanes, and from the apparent doubtful efficiency of our machine-guns. Roosevelt was coming into his own and deserving much of his countrymen by his campaign for preparedness. War was in the air, but war with a country far different from iron Germany. It was a step, unperceived by most, but doubtless clearly perceived by the man in the White House, toward a day of greater preparations. Public prints were demanding that we take half a million men and sweep through Mexico, janitor-like, to effect a cleansing. The Carrizal incident lit a dangerous flame. The arrival of Germany’s undersea merchant-vessel, the Deutschland, caused a wave of admiration for Germany’s persistency and inventiveness to sweep across the country. It was a victory of a sort calculated to arouse honest admiration. The second year of the war had closed with hope, for Verdun was beyond peradventure a gigantic victory for France, and the Somme offense had offered proofs of the possibility of shoving the entrenched German hosts toward their own frontier.... Italy had heightened the hopes at Gorizia, and Rumania had enlisted with the Allies.... November saw the ending of the Presidential campaign with the re-election of Mr. Wilson.

Even before this, Fabius Waite had traveled far. He was able in October, with the appearance of the German submarine U-53 off our coasts, and its entrance into the harbor of Newport.

Fabius Waite struck his table a vehement blow. “It’s a barefaced threat,” he declared. “It’s intimidation.” He went on at length, and Potter chuckled inwardly. To him his father represented public opinion, and by his father he sounded it; his father was to him the pulse of the nation’s thought, and that pulse was beginning to beat hotly.

Potter was seeing much of Cantor, and, though there were moments when he was jealous of the man, for Potter’s nature was a jealous nature, he was glad of Cantor’s company. Hildegarde was never mentioned by either of them. By Potter she was never mentioned at any time, and his friends were quick to learn that mention of her in his presence was apt to cause immediate disagreeable consequences. The sound of her name had a curious effect upon him. As one hardy young man said to Hildegarde herself, “I happened to mention you to Potter Waite to-day, and he acted as if somebody had blown him out—like a lamp, you know.”

“Bother Potter Waite!” she said; then, after a frowning pause, she added, spitefully, “You might keep a lot better company.”

“Oh, Potter’s mild nowadays! Hasn’t been on a tear in a year. Don’t know what’s got into him.... Dotty about patriotism and war and aeroplanes.”

“Why doesn’t he go across and fight, then? I despise conversational courage.”

“He stands well with you, doesn’t he?” the overbold young man said, with a laugh.

The look she gave him somewhat dampened his rashness. She did not speak, but her eyes were enough to nonplus the young gentleman utterly. He made haste to change the subject.

In spite of the seeming obstacle imposed by this young girl, the intimacy between Cantor and Potter not only continued, but increased, but beyond a certain point it did not go—and that point was any disclosure of what Potter was doing or how he was doing it. There, though Cantor veered up to the subject obliquely, Potter became filled with reserves. Cantor was unable to say of his own knowledge whether Potter was working on an aeroplane or a toy piano.

One other point is to be noted. The men who worked with Potter in the hangar were not strangers, not picked-up mechanics, but men whom he had known for years and trusted. Not one of them but was American-born, and though numerous individuals, presenting impeccable recommendations, applied from time to time for work with him, none was placed. His was a small, compact enterprise, and he was able to keep it under his eye. Though he scarcely considered himself of enough importance to attract the attention of the German spy vermin, he took his precautions as though he were of first interest to them. He believed in insurance.

In the latter part of the year Potter was visited more than once by officers wearing the insignia of the Signal Corps, Major Craig among them. To these men, at any rate, he was of importance, not so much, perhaps, for what he was doing at the time as for the potentialities of the future. The heir to the Waite Motor Company’s resources was a man of value.... But as 1916 became venerable and neared its end, they were compelled to admit his present consequence.

“I believe,” said a young captain to Major Craig, “that young Waite in Detroit knows more about aeroplanes, and more about this country’s equipment to produce them, than any other living man.”

“Unquestionably,” said the major. “He has made it his sole business to become that man.”

“Have you seen his engine?”

“No—only drawings; but he has added valuable ideas. He has studied, and I can safely say that his motor will be watched for with considerable impatience. It has qualities.”

“Most enthusiastic man I ever met,” said the captain. “It’s a fetish with him.”

“It’s a religion,” said the major, “and that is something mighty different.” Then: “He worries me sometimes. Something unpleasant has happened.”

Late in November the new engine was assembled, not completed, probably, as it would be manufactured, but perfected to a point where it deserved a trial. Potter prepared for the test and, when all was in readiness, wired Major Craig....

It so happened that on the morning following the day on which the telegram was despatched, Hildegarde von Essen went to the rooms over her father’s garage to carry certain delicacies to Philip’s wife, who was ill. She remained until she heard the car arrive in the garage below, and then, because she did not want to meet the man, be required to talk with him, whom she believed to be a murderer and a plotter, she arose hastily and stepped out upon the stairs. Philip was not alone; a stranger was with him. Involuntarily Hildegarde stopped and listened.

“This’ll be easy,” Philip was saying. “Softest job we’ve tackled—no work and no danger. Just set a charge and beat it.”

“No watchmen? You have rotten luck with watchmen?”

“There’s a man sleeps there, but he’ll be inside. It’s just a wooden shack. Built it for a hangar and then added to it. The boss would like some drawings and papers out of the place, and he’s been after them, but he can’t make the riffle.... He hadn’t expected to get busy so soon, but we got a tip that Waite had wired the Signal Corps to come on to watch a test of the engine. Well—there won’t be any test to speak of. That engine’ll fly without any wings.”

“TNT?” asked the other.

“Sure. That does the business.”

“To-night, eh?... It’s a nice place to work, ’way down on the shore there. Nobody likely to be passing.”

“He must ’a’ picked it on purpose for us,” Philip said, with a laugh.... “Eleven o’clock.”

“You’ll bring the stuff?”

“Naturally. And you be on hand prompt.”

“Who’s running this—von Essen or the boss?”

“What comes from one comes from the other, lately.”

“I’d love to be that watchman,” said the man as he moved toward the door. “He’ll wake up straddling a cloud.”

Hildegarde shuddered. Quietly she stepped back inside the door, stood there trembling a few moments, then opened it noisily and commenced to descend. She nodded to Philip, who looked at her queerly, and walked rapidly to the house.

She did not go to her room, but threw herself in a chair in the library. She could not be said to think for some time; her mind was in chaos. But matters arranged themselves before her after a time with cruel clearness. Her father was plotting deliberately to murder a man, for that is what it amounted to—to murder a watchman faithful at his post. That very night. And the watchman was Potter Waite’s! This attack was to be made upon him, and the labor which had meant so much to him for the past year would be brought to nothing, destroyed by one blast of devilish explosive.

She knew what Potter was doing; remembered those talks with him, his enthusiasm, his awakening to patriotism—and she, too, was a patriot. That work of his must have been of value; he must have achieved much to demand attention from her father and his companions. She was conscious of a glow of pride, and then was furious with herself for feeling pride. What interest had she in Potter Waite—and if she had an interest in him, or in any honest man, what could come of it? There was another decision she had reached: That she could be wife to no honest American. She, the daughter of a traitor, could make no honorable man the father of the grandchildren of a traitor. She had thought of those children—and of their shame, and of generations of shame that would follow them. The stigma would follow from mother to children to children’s children. Nearly a hundred and fifty years had passed since Benedict Arnold sought to betray his country, and his name was remembered, his treachery recalled, where noble men and noble acts had been forgotten. No children of hers should feel the shame that would be their birthright because the blood of Herman von Essen was in their veins. Such a conclusion is a terrible thing for a girl like Hildegarde, vivid with life, entering womanhood, ripe for love and marriage! But it was there, weighing her, overshadowing her, choking her with its noose of blackness.

Her duty was plain—her duty to her country and to decent citizenship; but opposing it was the demand of blood. To give her father over to the law was unthinkable. Had it been thinkable she doubted if she had evidence which would stand the test—her unsupported word.... But she could not see that crime committed, which it lay in her power to avert, and continue to live.... It would make her a party to the crime, an abettor of murder.... She could give warning; she must give warning—but how or to whom? How, without betraying her father?

There was but one answer that she could see—to go herself to Potter Waite, to warn him, to beg him to ask no questions as to the source of her information, to trust to his honor and his chivalry. She was confident she could trust him. In that moment she laid aside the pretense that she despised him—but she did not admit that she loved him. She saw him as a man, an American gentleman, trustworthy, brave, dependable. She rested herself on that quality of dependability; felt she could trust herself to it utterly. She could give warning; put him on his guard, frustrate the plotters—and escape from the complexity without betraying the secret she must not betray.

She dressed for the street, called for her car, which she told Philip she would drive herself, and started toward Potter’s hangar. She did not drive slowly; could not have driven slowly, for there was a certain frenzy upon her, driving her. Her car rushed along the broad street at reckless, headlong speed. Scarcely slackening her speed, she careened into the road that led toward the shore and the hangar, slammed on the brakes at the very door, and sprang out. She did not hesitate at the door, but snatched it open. Potter Waite was in the seat of a newer, smaller aeroplane than the old machine of their adventure.

“Potter,” she cried. “Potter....”

He looked, sprang from the machine, and was before her in an instant, his face glorified, his eyes alight with joy.

“Garde,” he said, exultantly, “you’ve come!... You’ve come back to me!”

She shrank from him, put out her hand as though to hold him away. “No,” she whispered, in sudden terror. “No. Not that.”

“But you’ve come. You’ve come. I’ve dreamed it. I’ve seen you coming through that door.” He stopped suddenly, stepped back, and the glory died upon his face. He needed no words to tell him love had not brought her.

“I had to come,” she cried. “There’s going to be murder—here.... They know your engine is ready—that you wired yesterday.... They’re going to blow it up—”

“What’s that?” he demanded. “How do you know I wired yesterday? Who told you? Nobody knows that but myself.”

“You mustn’t ask.... You must promise. I can tell nothing—nothing except that they’re coming to-night to blow up this place—to steal drawings if they can....”

“Who?”

“German spies.... You must believe me, but you mustn’t ask me how I know. Promise you won’t ask, or try to find out.”

“Not ask!... What do you mean? Tell me again.”

“To-night this building—with your watchman—is to be blown up. Some explosive called TNT.... It’s true. How would I know about your telegram?... You must do something. You must stop it.”

“I’ll stop it,” he said, suddenly erect, menacing. He was not startled, she saw, not afraid. He would be ready. It was so she knew he would meet an emergency. “But you,” he demanded, “how are you in this?”

“You mustn’t ask.... Isn’t it enough that I’ve come to warn you—isn’t that enough?”

“No,” he said, “it is not enough ... if you know these plotters. They are fighting against your country. They are dangerous. If you know them, if you can lead me to them, you must do it. Can’t you see? It doesn’t matter what stands in the way, you must do it.... For your country.”

“No,” she said, in terror. “No.... I’d rather die. I can’t.... I won’t. I came here to warn you, because I trusted you. I’ve done all I can.... You must not ask more.”

“Why?” he asked, sternly.

“I won’t answer anything. I won’t tell you anything more.... Oh, can’t you see?...” She broke out furiously: “I could kill them; I could see them tortured. I’d laugh to see them tortured.... I love my country as well as you do, Potter Waite, and I hate them—but I can’t tell.... I risked everything to warn you—”

“Hildegarde,” he said, stretching his arms out toward her, “was that why you came—was that all? Wasn’t there anything else? Didn’t you think about me?... I’ve waited for some word.... You know you’ve never doubted that I love you.... You’ve had time to think about that night, and to reason. You know I was right.... You can’t be holding that up against me.” Suddenly he was the old reckless, headstrong Potter, ruled by impulse, driven by desire. He crushed her into his arms and held her savagely while he kissed her cold cheeks, her lips, her brow. “You’ve come,” he said, hoarsely, “and you’ve come for keeps.... You’re mine. You know you’re mine.”

She struggled like an entrapped wild thing; but her struggles were futile. All at once she became limp, flexible in his arms; her tense soul became limp, flexible; she had endured to her utmost, and the breaking-point was reached.

“Hold me closer,” she sobbed. “Oh, closer—closer....”

“You came,” he said, and then repeated it over and over again, as if he were suddenly face to face with a divine marvel. “You came.” Then: “Has the time been hard for you? As it has for me?... If it had been you would have come sooner.” He lifted her in his arms and held her as if she were a child, and a warm, sweet feeling of comfort and contentment covered her. She was happy with such happiness as she had never known. “Tell me,” he said in her ear, “tell me that you love me. I want to hear you say it.”

“I love you,” she said, obediently, and as she said it she realized that it was true, had been true, would always be true, as long as life should last.

He laughed boyishly, joyously. “Shall we elope again? Or what shall we do?... You mustn’t leave me long. How soon can you come to me forever?”

Again the darkness descended upon her, the black noose fastened about her throat. How soon could she come to him forever? How soon? She laughed strangely, and answered him with silence, but in the leaden weight of that silence she was saying: “Never.... Never.”

“Put me down,” she said, in a voice that compelled him to obey. When she stood facing him, her knees trembling, a look of such piteousness on her face as made him draw a great breath of solicitude, she looked into his eyes—looked with steadiness. “I can never come to you, Potter,” she said. “Never.”

He laughed. “Don’t joke, sweetheart. I can’t bear that sort of joking now.”

“It’s no—joke,” she said, brokenly. “I—I never want to see you again. You must never try to see me.... Never speak of this. I—oh—I can never marry any man.”

“What?” he asked, sharply.

“I can never marry any man.... You don’t know.... There are terrible things—frightful things.... I am defiled, defiled.... And I love you....”

She turned suddenly and ran from the room, sobbing and panting as she ran. He did not follow her, but looked after her with wide eyes into which horror was making its way.

“Defiled!” he whispered once; then he stood erect, staring straight before him while one might have counted to a hundred slowly. After that he walked to the door of his private room, stepped inside, and shut the door after him.