In those days it was impossible to carry on a conversation with Potter Waite on any subject but aviation. No matter where the talk started, aeroplanes seized it and flew away with it. He was a man preaching a crusade, and he preached it with an intensity, a fire, a grim fanaticism that caught and carried away his hearers if only for a moment of enthusiasm. He had the gift to make men see, and such singleness of purpose as somewhat nonplussed the careless and irritated them with the itch of accusing uneasiness. He would have had every man, woman, and child in America working to give America wings. He preached a religion, and the creed of it was, “By aeroplanes alone shall ye be saved.”

Men not yet touched by the gradual awakening of the nation avoided him as one infected, for he did not mince words with them, nor choose terms. He was intolerant with the intolerance of youth; impatient, restless, with an impatience and restlessness all his own. He burned. When he talked his hands were never still, and his eyes would grow hotter and hotter with the fires of his purpose until it made one uncomfortable to return their gaze. With men of a certain type he had scant popularity, which he was at no pains to increase. He did not seek opportunities to make himself heard, but if men would talk to him they must listen to what he had to say. Only once did he speak in public, and that was without invitation or premeditation. The occasion was a noonday luncheon of manufacturers in the Board of Commerce dining-room, where they listened to a millionaire manufacturer invited to speak about newly arising problems of labor.

It was a smug talk, with the jingle of dollars playing an obbligato through its length; it was a talk characteristic of the opinion and the lethargy of the day; characteristic of the individualism of the Middle-Westerner. It contained polite references to the war and to the flag and vague reflections as to the high duty of Detroit and Detroit’s wealth to lay some unspecified contribution on the nation’s plate. Probably the speaker imagined himself to be a patriot; his hearers applauded. It was a comfortable speech that caused no unpleasant notions to present themselves, and offered a sort of royal road to patriotic service. Potter listened and scowled and wriggled uneasily in his chair.

When the speaker had emptied his reservoir the chairman invited discussion, and more than one well-fed man of business arose to place his O. K. on the splendid sentiments which had drenched them.... Potter sat on the edge of his chair.

“Our duty lies in production,” a gentleman stood up to remark. “Production will win this war, and that is our part. We must see to it that business goes on as usual. We must raise food for Europe and manufacture supplies for Europe. There is America’s great opportunity, and, as I look about me at the character of this gathering, I see that Detroit can be depended upon to do her part. The country must not be disturbed....” And five minutes of such clarion words. The speaker subsided and Potter leaped to his feet and glared about him.

“Mr. Chairman,” he said, intensely, “I’ve sat through an hour of this twaddle, and, by Heaven! I’m sick!” He paused, careless of a hostile movement, of scowls, of whispers. “As I understand these men, we are not going to war beside England and France; we are invited to a comfortable, cozy opportunity to play we’re at war and to milk our allies for our own enrichment. That seems to be the idea expressed here to-day. I’ve even heard the word patriotism mentioned. Why, you fellows don’t know whether you’re living in America or in China, and you don’t care so long as the money keeps coming in. You have the idea America has gone to war as a salesmanship campaign for your merchandise.... You’re ducking and dodging war; you’re side-stepping. You’re talking nonsense about labor.... Do you know what’s going to become of labor—and capital, too. It’s going to Europe with guns in its hands and it’s going to fight. You want a war without fighting. You’re asleep; you’ve drugged yourselves; but you’re in for a waking up. There are men in this room who will lie dead under French soil before another year is gone, men here whose sons and brothers will lie dead or come home ghastly wrecks ... and you’ll be proud and glad it is so. That’s what’s coming. You’ll learn to know America, and you’ll learn what it is to love your country.... If you want to know what war is, let yourselves think about the murdered children, the raped women, the butchered men of Belgium and France.... That’s war, and America is sending her men to give their lives so the children and women at home may not be murdered and violated.... It isn’t a smug, comfortable thought. America is going out to kill a wild beast, and America will be torn by that beast.... Business as usual! Great Heaven! but you should be ashamed of yourselves!... Go home and think. Go home and shake yourselves awake, and then go to work—for your country. And for God’s sake quit making public spectacles of yourselves by talking the kind of nonsense you’ve talked to-day....”

He sat down suddenly amid a dead silence. The room quivered with fury; more than one man sprang to his feet to pour his outraged dignity upon Potter’s head.... But from the other side of the room a big man pushed his way to Potter’s side—a man who long before America entered the war had fought for preparedness and earned his enemies. He put out his hand and said, in his big, strident, rough voice:

“Give ’em hell, boy. You’ve got the idea. Let’s get out of this place. It stinks.”

Potter had been unfair, but he did not know he had been unfair. Those men meant better than they had spoken, and their intentions were good. They had not comprehended yet, that was all—not the greater part of them. But already there was a growing, silent minority who looked ahead and saw—a minority which was getting ready mentally, and which, with an avalanche from the majority, would one day stand up to its duty as Americans with love of America in their hearts.... The time was not distant, for events were lunging forward.

Potter and his friend walked out of the room and into the street. “They’ll say some nasty things about you, Waite,” said the big man, “and rake up old scrapes. Don’t let it worry you. Stick to the gait you’ve struck. You’re tackling a big job, and I like the way you go at it.”

“Aeroplanes—” Potter said, quickly.

But the big man interrupted: “Now, now, keep off me. I know about your aeroplanes. You don’t have to convert me.... How’s it coming, if it’s allowed to ask?”

“Delays and delays. The steel-mills are delayed by the mines; the machine-works are delayed by the steel-mills; the whole of them are messed up by labor shortage, and when they get a machine ready for delivery the railroads catch it in an embargo or run it on a side-track and forget it. But we’re making progress. Maybe by November we’ll get down to brass tacks. If we can only get the necessary machinery for quantity production installed.... I don’t think we’re as bad off as the people who will assemble the ’planes. They’re up against it for spruce and linen.”

“If there’s ever anything I can do—I’ve offered my entire plant to the government, but can’t get any satisfaction. Meantime I’m manufacturing army trucks day and night.”

“If only that herd—” Potter began, angrily.

“They’ll come along, Waite. You’ll see. They’ve traveled quite a distance since April sixth.”

Potter got into his car and drove away. He was seething. His mind was in a tumult, for the noon’s events had excited him, and for months he had been under a strain which was beginning to wear the insulation off his nerves. He lived in a fever; drove himself and everybody else feverishly. At last the energy which had made his youth fertile for the sensational press was finding an outlet, and the burning urge of his restless soul was compelling him to a headlong pace that permitted no rest, no conservation of powers. He was a man driven.

This noon he felt breathless, confused. It was as though something opaque kept flicking back and forth across his eyes, clouding his vision. He could not concentrate; felt he could not bear to step into a room, shut the door, and sit down to a desk. He knew he would be useless, that he would accomplish nothing, so he headed on out Woodward Avenue, not turning east at the Boulevard. He wanted to get away from human beings, to be alone and to quiet himself. The calm of the country drew him, and he longed, without realizing his longing, for the soothing hand of open places and sweet air. He even thought of playing golf—a round of golf would settle him down, and he could make up for it by added hours of work that night.

He passed through Highland Park at a speed which excited the interest of traffic officers. When he left Royal Oak he stepped on the gas pedal with a fierce, breathless enjoyment of the excitement of high speed. Beyond Birmingham, once a distant village, now a suburb of Detroit, he turned westward over the road that led to the Bloomfield Hills Country Club. There he parked his car and, without caddy or companion, strode out upon the links, playing savagely, rapidly.

Only here and there was a player. Potter encountered no one until he was well away from the clubhouse. Then ahead of him he saw a man and girl, with a second man in chauffeur’s livery carrying the caddy bags. He did not glance at them, but played feverishly on until he overtook them sitting on a bench beside the tee.... It was Hildegarde von Essen, Cantor, and Philip, the von Essens’ chauffeur.

It was like a blow. He had last seen Hildegarde in Washington, and there Hildegarde had repeated her confession—that she loved him and could not marry him because she was fit to be no man’s wife. And he had wrung from her, or believed he had wrung from her, the admission that Cantor was the cause of her catastrophe.... And here he found her with the man, chaperoned by a chauffeur, playing golf as casually as if the man had a right to her companionship and friendship; as if he were not something that should be inexpressibly repulsive to her, terrible to contemplate.

Potter stopped fifty feet away from them and glared. It was unthinkable, searing. In his soul he could not believe that relations could have continued, yet what else did the fact indicate? Opaque blurs danced before his eyes; he felt a geyser of passion boiling up within him, a geyser of rage and horror, mingled with the agony of a love such as only a man of his temperament could know.

It was not given to him ever to count costs, to look to the future, to perceive results. Now he had but one thought—that Cantor was there, that he hated Cantor, that the Lord had delivered Cantor into his hands. He strode forward and confronted Hildegarde.

“What does this mean?” he demanded, hoarsely. “You here with this man!... My God! are you proud of this thing?... Defiled! Aren’t you satisfied with that? How you can endure to see him—”

Cantor was on his feet, amazed. “Here, Waite,” he said, “what’s this?”

Hildegarde stood beside him, white, very slender and boyish, an inferno of suffering in her eyes. “Potter.... Mr. Cantor,” she said, in a whisper.

Potter did not look at Cantor, was not ready for Cantor yet. He had first to show his scorn for Hildegarde, his revulsion from the conduct she had chosen for herself.

“It’s hideous,” he said, slowly. “There’s such a thing as shame.... You can go about with this man—when you ought to want to kill him.... This whelp....”

“Potter—what are you saying? What do you know?”

“If you please, Miss von Essen,” said Cantor, stepping between her and Potter. “Now talk to me,” he said, evenly. “What’s the matter with you? Are you crazy?”

Potter looked into Cantor’s eyes an instant before he spoke; then he said, with quiet intensity: “There isn’t much I can do about it, Cantor.... There’s no way of giving you your deserts, but I’m going to do the best I can.... I’m going to thrash you till you whimper. I’m going to hammer you till you crawl on your knees to Miss von Essen and beg her forgiveness—for a thing that can’t be forgiven.... You swine!” He struck suddenly, viciously, and Cantor went down. Before Potter could spring over him something thudded dully on the back of his head, the world seemed upheaving and splitting apart, and he staggered, swayed, and sprawled upon the ground at Hildegarde’s feet.... Philip had struck him down with a driver from the caddy bag.

Hildegarde uttered a single cry and threw herself above Potter, shielding him from the possibility of another blow.

“You sha’n’t!” she cried. “You sha’n’t hurt him! Leave him be.”

Cantor struggled to his feet, his face livid, his mouth cut and bleeding. Hildegarde glared at him, drawing herself closer to Potter, who lay without movement.

“What’s the matter with the fool?” Cantor said, harshly.

“I don’t understand,” she said, “but you sha’n’t touch him. He sha’n’t be harmed.”

Cantor glanced at Philip. “I guess he won’t bother us for a while,” he said. “The wild man!... Is he jealous—is that it?”

She did not reply, but tried to raise Potter’s head to her lap. “Get water,” she said.

Cantor bent over to examine Potter’s head. “He’s all right,” he said. “He’ll wake up in a minute, and when he does—”

“When he does,” she said, “we’ll get him to his car.... Poor boy! It’s been hard—he’s had a hard time.... Oh, Potter, it’s been hard for me, too!...”

“Look here,” Cantor said, ungently. “What about this? Had you any idea this lunatic was planning this sort of thing? What does it mean, anyhow?”

Hildegarde was bewildered herself. What did it mean? What had Potter’s words meant? Did they signify that he knew who Cantor was, had discovered her father’s guilt? She held that fear, but put it away from her. It was something else, something she did not understand.

“It means that he loves me,” she said, piteously.

“It looks as if it meant that you loved him.... Is that it? Have you been making a fool of me?... Tell me.”

“Love him?” she said, with a sudden intensity. “I love him with every breath I draw.” Her voice broke and failed. “But it’s no use—no use.”

Potter stirred, opened his eyes and shut them again, breathed heavily, and struggled to sit up. He peered about him dizzily, saw Cantor bending over him, looking down calculatingly.

“I knew it was you,” Potter said, queerly. “Was the ’plane smashed?... What are you doing here, Cantor? Where’s Miss von Essen?”

“I’m here, Potter,” she said. “Are you hurt? Can you stand? Don’t try to stand. Wait! Let me wet my handkerchief. There’s water over on the green.” She got up and hurried to the putting-green. Potter shook his head. “I thought—” he said, and stopped. “You were there,” he said to himself. “I always thought you were there. I was sure I saw your face.”

In a moment his brain cleared and he remembered. “You dog!” he said, his eyes blazing as he tried to get to his feet.

Cantor pushed him back. “Be quiet,” he said, “or Philip will hand you another lesson. What do you mean, you fool, going around roaring like a lunatic and starting rows?”

“Mean?... She told me.”

“Told you what?”

“That she was—defiled.... That you—”

Cantor laughed. He understood, and, being an opportunist, availed himself of the opportunity. “What’s it to you?” he said. “Miss von Essen can choose her—friends.... What’s there to rave about?... If a pretty girl throws herself at your head, do you call a policeman?”

It was confirmation; the thing was past doubting. Potter got to his feet just as Hildegarde returned with her wetted handkerchief, which she would have applied to his wounded head, but he repulsed her, would not let her touch him, and stood wavering dizzily.

“Just a moment,” he said to Cantor, “and we’ll finish this.”

Cantor smiled grimly. “Philip,” he said, “I haven’t any desire to brawl with this fellow.”

Philip came forward eagerly, the driver ready in his hands.

“Don’t, Potter,” Hildegarde said. “Go away. You don’t know these men. You don’t know—”

“Miss von Essen!” said Cantor, sharply.

“There are two of them.... Go away, please.... And you’re hurt.”

“You won’t fight, man to man?” Potter said.

“Why should I?” Cantor said.

Potter turned and looked at Hildegarde, looked at her as a man looks at a loved face that is vanishing forever out of his life. Then he turned on his heel and walked unsteadily away. He went straight to his car, stopping for nothing, and drove it out into the road. His sensation was as if his mind were alive in a dead body. But the mind was alive, queerly, keenly alive, and, strangely, it was not busied with Hildegarde von Essen, but with Cantor.

He was recalling the day his ’plane had swooped to destruction on that little island in the waste of Muscamoot Bay; he was recalling that moment of consciousness after the fall and how a man had appeared and bent over him.... When he had awakened just now he had fancied for a moment it was that same catastrophe, that he had fallen from his ’plane, and was looking up into the face of the man who had stood above him.... And he knew, he knew past all doubt and disbelief, that the two men were the same. Cantor had been on that island. Cantor had conveyed himself and Hildegarde to the hospital, had moved the wrecked aeroplane to the distant shores of Baltimore Bay.... Cantor had kept hidden his knowledge, and the fact of his presence on that spot.... With a rush came realization of the strangeness of these facts, a bewilderment, a burning curiosity to know what was the meaning of the riddle—and a suspicion of Cantor which demanded investigation and verification.

“Who is this man? What is he doing here? What is his real business? What does he want to conceal on that island?” These were questions which presented themselves and demanded an answer.