Now came months of labor and of scurrying about the country for Potter Waite; half a dozen trips to Washington interrupted his work in the machine-shop; formalities, futile interviews, unreeling of red tape wasted his time in the capital. It seemed he could get nowhere, could lay his hand on no definite information, perceive nowhere a definite plan for the future or sign of constructing a plan. If the Middle West was dozing, official Washington appeared to him to be walking in its sleep.

He had not seen Hildegarde, for her father had once more sent her away, and she had not been reluctant to go. If travel, fresh contacts, strange people promised to distract her mind from the facts she confronted, she would gladly give them an opportunity to keep their promise. Her mind was a throbbing carbuncle and any poultice was better than no poultice. So she went east, then, with the opening of the new year, she accompanied friends to Palm Beach.

Potter studied his father as a sort of barometer of the reactions of the conservative to world-events growing daily more momentous. It was not a barometer to register suddenly arising storm, Potter believed, yet one morning he was awakened by his father’s knuckles battering his door. Fabius did not wait for Potter’s call to enter, but rushed into the room, waving a newspaper.

“Look at that!” he said, excitedly, hoarsely. Potter had never before seen his father excited. Not even the German note of late January announcing a nation in the throes of rabies, revoking pledges, declaring for unrestricted undersea savagery, had overthrown his calm. Nor had Mr. Wilson’s action in packing off von Bernstorff, ambassador and spy, thrown him off his poise. But now he raged.

“By God!” he exclaimed, “this means war, and war quick! Read it!... Read it!”

Potter read with stunned astonishment the story of Zimmerman’s perfidy—of negotiations with Mexico and Japan for a partition of America. Germany purposed to make a second Poland of America and with lavish generosity made present of three great commonwealths to a country which was not a government; a country not ruled by law and authority, but given over to petty greeds and the marauding bands of exalted bandits. What was promised to Japan none might say—doubtless it was equally lavish.

Potter said nothing.

“I’ll wire the President,” Fabius Waite said, furiously. “He can have my plant. I’ll quit making automobiles if I can turn the whole thing to manufacturing shells or guns.... We’ll need them; we’ve got to have them.... Invade the United States! March up the Mississippi Valley!... We’ll show them, by George! where they’ll march!”

“Dad,” said Potter, “you haven’t believed we would be dragged into this war. Even when relations were broken with Germany you still believed with the great body of the people, that war was not inevitable.... In your judgment, does this really mean war?”

“If it doesn’t,” said Fabius, “then I quit the country and take out citizen’s papers in Timbuctoo. If we lay down under this the country isn’t fit to live in.... You bet it means war.”

Potter’s unspoken thought was, “Thank God for Zimmerman.” Many other thoughtful men were thanking God for Zimmerman that day, for as the day grew older it became apparent that the alarm-clock had done its work. The country was awake, dazed but furious. And if one part of the country might be said to be more furious than another, it was the Middle West—for, a thing hitherto unbelievable—it saw itself threatened by invasion.

“Then,” Potter said, “you’re willing to get your shoulder behind the President?”

“With every man and every machine and every dollar,” said Fabius.

“If you want to help, Dad—if you want to do the biggest thing there is to do—make aeroplanes.”

“Eh?”

“You know what I’ve been doing. You know how important the War Department realizes the aeroplane to be.... And we’ve got to have thousands of them.... The authorities are slow and they muddle, but events will force them to do something.... No plant in the world can so quickly and readily be converted to the manufacture of aeroplane engines as yours.... And I believe I have the motor....”

“Son, if the government backs what you say, my plant is yours. Aeroplanes—we’ll show ’em how to make aeroplanes.... You get busy. Find out what they want. Get definite orders, and we’ll take care of ’em if it costs me five million dollars to do it.”

“Do you feel like these fellows, Dad, who say all we can do in this war, anyhow, is to dig up money and manufacture munitions?”

Fabius Waite struck his left palm with his right fist.

“No,” he said. “If we go in we go in. Don’t let anybody fool you about that. We go in up to the hilt. We fought Spain with a pop-gun. This time Uncle Sam will go to war with a man’s-size six-shooter in each hand and a knife in his boot. Getting into this thing doesn’t mean sending an army to do the fighting for us. It means sending the whole nation to war.... Every one of us. We’ll have to mobilize the biggest army we ever dreamed of, but we’ll have to mobilize everything else, too—and until we get used to this new thing there’s going to be the devil to pay—the very devil to pay. There’ll be a mess. Everybody will be running around in circles.... Just like expanding a ten-thousand-dollar business overnight to take care of a million-dollar order.”

“I’ve got plans ready, Dad, for changing over part of the plant to make my motor—if the government adopts it.”

“Get ’em out. Take it up with the engineers. Go as far as you can, so that the moment the powers in Washington press the button we’ll be ready.”

“I’ve figured the cost of the change at about half a million.”

“Whatever you need I’ll raise.”

“Guess I better run down to Washington.”

“Good idea, and stick to ’em till you get something definite.... You’re after an order. You’re a salesman. Come back with something.”

That night Potter took train for the capital. He discovered on his way that the American people had already declared war. They were outraged. The formality of a declaration remained, but the people had made up their minds. They saw what they had to do, but did not realize the magnitude of it.

In the club car was no other subject of conversation but Zimmerman and his plottings. Throughout the conversation ran a peculiar note of pity for the German—for his intelligence, for the blindness of his psychology.

“It was the one thing they could do,” an elderly gentleman said, “to solidify the country. They picked the way as if they were working for us.... And, by George! it was a darn fine piece of work on somebody’s part to intercept that note!”

Potter managed to get a room in the New Willard, and, after going to his room for the refreshment of a bath, he descended to the dining-room for luncheon. He seated himself at a table and was looking over the card when he heard a voice a table or so away. It was a voice that made him lose interest in cards, in food, in everything but the proximity of the owner of the voice.

“We’ll have to guard everything,” it was saying. “There won’t be a thing we can leave without watching.... I know.... These German spies and German sympathizers.... Oh, I hate myself for the German blood in my veins.”

“Now, Hildegarde, that’s no way to talk. I’m sure your father is as good a citizen as if his ancestors had come over in the Mayflower—”

“Instead of the North German Lloyd,” Hildegarde replied. “This talk of Mr. Wilson’s about our having no quarrel with the German people is wrong. It isn’t just the Kaiser. It’s the breed. We want to forget that sort of nonsense. We’ll find we’re fighting the German people—and what kind we’re fighting. With their crucifixions and massacres and abominations.”

“Hildegarde!”

“Oh, father knows what I think. And it’s true. I’ve lived among them all my life. We used to think they were merely crude, with bad manners.... It wasn’t that.... They’re savage. They never even had a decent veneer of civilization.”

“Well,” said the lady with Hildegarde, “if all German-Americans felt as you do—”

“I’m no German-American. There isn’t any such thing. There are Americans and traitors. You can’t sit on the fence.”

Potter shoved back his chair and stood erect. In his heart was a cramping pain; joy at seeing Hildegarde found place beside reawakened torment.... He could not bear to turn to look at her, yet he could not bear not to look at her. He clutched his chair until his knuckles showed white.... She was not to be resisted. He shoved the chair away and strode to her table.

“Hildegarde!” he said. It was a cry wrung from him as a cry is wrung from a tree in the forest when some mighty tempest twists and rends it, splitting it, tearing into white wound the fibers that surround its heart.

She looked up, drew back, uttered a little cry. For a moment she was silencing herself, saying to herself: “I must be calm. I must keep a hold on myself.... I can’t have a scene here.” Then she arose, smiled brightly a spurious smile, and extended her hand. “Why, Mr. Waite, this is such a surprise!” She turned to her companion. “This is Mr. Waite, from Detroit, Mrs. Roscombe. Mrs. Roscombe and I have worked up here by degrees from Palm Beach. Our last stop was Pinehurst. Such golfing! You’ve been to Pinehurst, of course.” She was talking rapidly, saying anything that came into her head until she could gain full possession of herself.

Mrs. Roscombe stared, then gave Potter her hand. “Of the Waite Motor Company?” she asked.

He nodded.

“What brings you here?” Hildegarde said, fearing a pause. “Oh, to be sure! I know. It’s your motor, isn’t it? How is it getting along? Sit down and tell us all about it.... You haven’t lunched, have you?”

“No,” he said, tonelessly, wondering how she could seem so happy, be so trivial, with that black thing crouching behind her. He was young....

“Sit down, then, and tell me all about Detroit—and everybody. Who’s married whom?...”

“I haven’t seen you for months,” he said, baldly, and Mrs. Roscombe smiled faintly. She had perceived something of the tenseness of the moment and had wondered at it. Now she fancied she knew. She imagined some lover’s misunderstanding, and, dowager-like, saw herself in the beneficent rÔle of peace-maker and match-maker. Why not? The son of the Waite Motor Company was a catch worth angling for.

“Do sit down, Mr. Waite,” she said, and motioned to a chair.

He complied stiffly, like a man functioning in his sleep.

“You—you look just the same,” he said.

“You didn’t expect me to age a great deal in four months, did you?”

He was not thinking of age. He was thinking of that other thing, wondering how she could retain that air of boyishness, that outward semblance of joyous virginity? He was astonished that she bore no mark, no scarlet letter.... To him she was lovely, glowing—the slender, daring, boyish-pure fairy prince of his dreams.

“There’s going to be war, isn’t there?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Shall you enlist?... I suppose you can have a commission for the asking.”

“I sha’n’t enlist. I wish I could.... But I’ve work to do here.”

Enlisting was a new thought, but an attractive one. He wished his duty did not lay where it was; that he might go to France and be a part of that Gehenna where, he thought, no man might remember. If a tenth of the stories of battle were true, then a man might find forgetfulness on the field of carnage.

“Your motor, of course. Tell me about it. You know I—I am interested.”

“There’s nothing to tell.... I’m waiting.”

The waiter intervened and their orders were given. Hildegarde kept up a persistent glitter of talk, leaping from topic to topic, flushed, almost panting in her eagerness to avoid the silent moment. Mrs. Roscombe eyed her quizzically and thought that very little of her skill as a match-maker was necessary here.

“We are going driving this afternoon,” she said. “Perhaps Mr. Waite would enjoy a ride about Washington.”

“I—” Potter stopped and looked at Hildegarde. He had no engagement for the afternoon. Not before evening could he see Major Craig, and it might be days before he could manage interviews with the dignitaries who held the fate of his motor in their hands. He wanted to go, wanted to be near her, to hear her voice—to continue to be compelled by her eyes and her manner, by all herself, to disbelieve the frightful thing she had confessed. He could not look at her and believe.

“Do come,” she said, affrightedly.

They finished their luncheon. “The car will be at the door at two,” said Mrs. Roscombe. “It’s nearly that now. We’ll just run up for our wraps.”

They disappeared and Potter waited. Presently Hildegarde appeared.

“Mrs. Roscombe said to get in the car. She’ll be down in a jiffy.”

They waited several jiffies and she did not come. Then a page stepped to the door of the car and extended a note.

“For Miss von Essen,” he said.

Hildegarde opened it, frowned, bit her lip, for she saw through the stratagem. “Mrs. Roscombe says she’s detained. Some one just ’phoned her, and she must stay to meet them. We’re to go on just the same.”

Potter was glad, yet he was frightened. He wanted to be alone with Hildegarde, yet he was terrified at being alone with her. Her sensations were akin to his own. She wanted to be with him, to feel him near her again. Her love for him had not abated, yet now it seemed to flame up to a life it had never before known. It was as if he had been restored to her.

“I’m—glad,” he said, slowly.

“So am I,” she said, breathlessly.

The car started, but where it went or how it went neither of them cared. For minutes they sat silent, each drinking in the knowledge of the other’s presence. It was a heady beverage.

“Hildegarde ...” he began, presently.

She turned her eyes upon him. His face was an accusation; there was yearning there, grief, something else that she could not define, but it hurt her worst of all.

“Yes,” she said.

“You told me you loved me,” he said.

“Don’t ...” she cried.

“You told me you loved me,” he repeated, harshly. “Was it true?”

She would not answer, would not look at him now, but drew away from him fearfully. He took her hand, not gently, and drew her toward him. “Look at me,” he commanded. “I want to see your eyes.... When I see your eyes I—” He was going to say he could not believe, but stopped himself. It would be turning the knife around in her wound.... “Were you telling the truth?”

“It was true,” she said, faintly.

“Do you love me now?”

She tried to take away her hand, but he held it fiercely, bent fiercely toward her. “I don’t love you,” he said, breathlessly. “It’s something more than that.... I can’t tell you what it is, how it feels.... I’ve got to have you. I don’t care what has happened. I don’t care about anything.... You must marry me. Nothing matters but that.”

She was white, felt as if she were stifling. “Let go,” she said, piteously.

“Do you love me?” he demanded.

“I— No!... No!... Stop the car and let me out! Oh, leave me alone! You’re torturing me!”

He was flaming. His restraint was gone and he was but the starving lover fighting a battle to the death for his love.

“Nothing matters,” he repeated. “I don’t care.... Do you love me?”

He drew her closer, careless what eyes might peer through the windows of the limousine. His arm was about her shoulders, her lithe body was strained against his body, and his face was close to hers. She closed her eyes. She did not feel faint, but deliciously helpless. She did not care.... This was the thing she had been waiting for, crying for ... this thing that was forbidden to her. She did not struggle. He kissed her lips again and again, muttering incoherently. She returned his kisses....

Presently she tried to release herself. “We’re in the—street,” she panted. “People can see.”

“Let them see.” It was his old recklessness. “What do we care?... Tell me now. You love me? I want to hear you say it. Say it.”

“I love you,” she said, softly.

“And you’ll marry me? Say that.”

She pushed him away and the life and youth died out of her eyes. Instead of Potter by her side she saw her father; saw him convicted of treason, a thing to be spat upon and reviled.... Her father!... This moment had been sweet—but other moments were impossible, a life of them was hideously impossible. Hers was a blood and heritage she could take to no man. No man’s life should mingle with her life to produce a child who should call his grandfather traitor.

“No!...” she cried, wildly. “You mustn’t ask. I can marry no man. I can never marry.”

“Hildegarde,” he said, his voice tense, vibrant, “listen. I don’t care. You—told me before.... It doesn’t matter. It’s as if nothing had ever happened.... I want you.”

“I can’t marry you,” she said. She clenched herself in a vise-grip of determination, became calmer. She must, she knew, convince Potter of her determination; must convince him that nothing could change her. “Potter, I’d die before I would marry you. You must believe me. It cannot be.... You’re cruel to ask me.... Please, oh, please!”

“Hildegarde!”

She shook her head. “Nothing can change me. See. Look into my eyes if you think you can make me change.”

He looked into her eyes long, beseechingly, then turned away his face. He had seen. Her will was glowing there, unconquerable. He was answered, answered finally.

Minutes after he turned to her again. “I saw,” he said. “But will you tell me this?... I’ve got to know. Who was it? Was Cantor—”

She started. “Cantor?” What did he know about Cantor? Had he discovered something about the man that she herself had been unable to discover? Had he definitely placed Cantor as a German spy, a master of spies?... If so, he must know about her father, too. “Cantor?” she repeated. “What do you know about Mr. Cantor?”

“Nothing. But I must know. Was it he?”

“I can tell you nothing about him,” she said. “But I can warn you. Don’t trust him. If you have anything you value, keep it out of his hands. Don’t let him near your motor.... Keep him away from you.... Don’t trust that man.”

He bowed his head. “You’ve answered me,” he said, in a stifled voice.... So it was Cantor. The man to whom he owed this agony was Cantor.... He ground his teeth. Then he grew gentle with her. “Remember, Hildegarde, that I love you. It isn’t a little love that would be afraid of anything. Nothing would matter to it. Will you remember that, and if ever you change—if anything changes you—will you know that I’m waiting for you?” He lifted her hand and kissed it.

“Let me out, please,” he said. “I—I can’t stay near you.... It’s too much for me.”

“Good-by, Potter,” she said, softly. “I— Oh, how I wish I might come to you!”

The car stopped and Potter alighted. He stood on the curb, looking after Hildegarde, until the car turned a corner and disappeared.

“Cantor,” he said to himself, and whispered the name over and over. “Cantor.... Cantor.... Cantor....” Could Mr. Cantor have sensed the furnace that raged in Potter’s brain it might have caused him certain uneasiness.

Potter walked and walked until he regained some semblance of calmness. Then he turned his footsteps toward the hotel. In the corridor he met numerous men in uniform and vaguely envied them.

“They’re going,” he said. “It’s luck.... Maybe the biggest luck would be to go—and not come back.”