Potter went home, but not to bed. He had arrived at a moment where attention must be focused upon Cantor. Fact after fact had strayed into his storehouse, to be put on a shelf and to be allowed to collect the dust of disuse. Now he dusted them off and placed them on the counter. He had not fancied they would stretch out into such an arresting array. To his mind they were conclusive, yet among them all was not a scrap of the commodity known to courts of the law as evidence. All was suspicion, conjecture—and yet every item was a fact. Potter knew it to be a fact.

First were the facts of that mysterious island in Muscamoot Bay—Cantor’s presence there, the strange conveyance of his aeroplane from the island to the distant mainland. Second were Cantor’s relations with Hildegarde von Essen. These became impressive when set with other facts. Third, the theft of Matthews’s ’plane. Then, in their order, Cantor’s unguarded talk of that evening, the possibility of his oneness with Lieutenant Adolf von Arnheim. And lastly, and very significantly, the fact that Hildegarde von Essen had been the one to warn Potter of the attack upon his hangar—that and her manner at the time, her secretiveness, her reluctance to disclose the source of her information. When Potter put together this last point with the fact of the relations he believed to exist between Hildegarde and Cantor, he knew it was Cantor Hildegarde had shielded by her refusal to answer. She had protected her lover—the man who had compelled her to utter that word “defiled.”

How had Hildegarde come by her knowledge? was a question he asked himself, and, answering it, stabbed himself with the hot iron of anguish. Cantor was not the man to babble. He was not the man to boast loosely to any living creature, most of all a woman. But Cantor had confided in her; that was patent.... But one conclusion was open to Potter, and that was based on the fact, often repeated in literature and in life, that there is one moment when a man will tell a woman anything....

Hildegarde, slender, boyish, brightly flaming Hildegarde, had known that moment. In every man lies sleeping a potential killer of his fellow-man. Your sedate merchant, your clumsy farm laborer, your esthete, your saintly man of God, your mincing dilettante, all have quiescent within them a fury, a madness, a savagery which is capable of placing in their hands the dripping knife of the murderer.... It quickened and flamed in Potter Waite, and he hungered, not for honest combat with an enemy, but to feel that enemy helpless under his hand, that enemy’s throat twisted and crushed beneath his fingers.... For he suffered from the deadliest wrong of which a universe potent of frightful sins is capable—the pure thing he loved with purity had been defiled.

It is a thing for philosophers to ponder upon that humanity is not essentially collective, but individual; it rarely acts in the mass or thinks for the mass. In the mind of man the little outweighs the big, if the little be individual and the big a matter of race or of nation. So Potter lost sight of Cantor in his larger aspects; submerged the menace of the German master-spy in the minor offense of a wrong done by an individual to an individual. Hildegarde von Essen hid from sight the United States of America.

While his rage was in eruption Potter was no patriot laboring in the service of his country, but an individualist of individualists, thirsting for private vengeance. He plotted revenge.... When a man begins to plot he begins to reason; reason and fiery rage cannot dwell side by side in the same brain.... As he thought more rationally it was clear to him that the most agonizing blow he could strike Cantor would be to unmask him, to exhibit him to the world in the loathsome habiliments of plotter, spy, murderer—and to bring his patient, stealthy labors to a fruition of futility.... There lay a vengeance to rejoice in.

His thoughts made headlong plunges; it was his nature to follow them with equal rashness.... Hildegarde von Essen knew Cantor’s secret; it was in her power to make plain the path that led to him. If that were true, she should be compelled to make that path plain so that Potter could follow it—and he would compel her. He would see her, would force his way to her, would make her speak.

He looked at his watch. It was nearing one o’clock. As easy to see her now as another time, he thought, knowing well he would be refused admission to Herman von Essen’s house at whatever hour he applied. Better now, hidden by night. He knew he could reach her. It was rashness, not reason; if he had acted otherwise he had not been Potter Waite, but some differently constituted organism. His decision was made and he acted without hesitation or dubiousness.

Presently he was walking in the direction of the von Essen residence, along the broad road, lonely in its blackness. No other human being seemed to be abroad; he was the sole living atom in a world of murkiness and shadows, and he moved forward swiftly, silently, stealthily. Five minutes brought him to the commencement of Herman von Essen’s grounds. There he stood against a tree, merged in its blackness, and strained his eyes toward the house. It was silent; there was neither light nor motion to be detected. The house itself was invisible, save as a black outline upon a field only less sable. Slowly and silently he advanced toward the house, toward that window which he knew was Hildegarde’s window. His pockets were filled with gravel from the road.

A clump of bushes surrounded a tree which stood close by the house, and he pressed close to them, became a part of them, and peered upward to locate Hildegarde’s window.... A handful of gravel rattled against its glass. He waited. There was no responsive movement within. He tossed another handful of pebbles, this time more forcibly. Again he waited.... He fancied he saw movement, a something in the window that hinted at whiteness. He tossed more pebbles.

The window was raised softly; he knew who had raised it, though he could not see. Nothing was visible but that hint of whiteness.

“What is it?... Who is there?” Hildegarde whispered.

“Potter Waite,” he replied, in a similar voice. “I must see you. I’m coming up.”

“No!” she said. “No!...”

“I’m coming up,” he repeated.

“You mustn’t!... You don’t understand! If they found you—”

He made no reply, but began to scramble up the tree and out upon a limb which climbed upward past the window, not distant from it.

“Open the window wide,” he whispered.

“You mustn’t come in!... I’ll close the window.”

“Then I’ll come through it,” he said, swinging nearer.

“Wait,” she said, and ran to throw a gown about her nightdress. She reappeared. “Please!... Please!” she said, tremulously.

“I’ve got to talk to you,” he answered.

She surrendered. “Then quietly ... not a sound. Oh, you don’t know what you’re doing!”

In an instant his knees pressed the window-sill; her hands caught his arm, steadying him, and he was in her room, upon the window-seat where she had crouched on so many ghastly days, through so many harrowing hours.

“Potter,” she said, faintly, “Potter....”

There was fear in her whisper, not for herself, but for him, and there was love, hungry love rejoicing, even at such a moment, in his presence. He did not perceive it, did not touch her, rather held himself at a distance from her. She felt his drawing away and her hands clutched his sleeve again as she whispered his name.

“What is it? Why did you come?... What has happened?”

“Who is Cantor?” he demanded.

She gasped, drew back in her turn, frightened now, not comprehending. “Mr. Cantor?” she said, so faintly he could scarcely hear.

“Is Cantor Adolf von Arnheim?” he said.

“No.... I don’t know.... I never heard of Adolf von Arnheim.”

“Are you telling the truth?”

“Potter!” she whispered, and the whisper was akin to a cry of pain. She bent toward him, her face close to his face, her eyes seeking his eyes.

“I must know,” he said. “I must know who Cantor is—what he is. I believe you know. That is why I came.”

“That is why you came?” she repeated, dully. That was why he had come. Love had not brought him; he had not been driven to her by his heart. He had come to ask questions about Cantor—that was all. She felt cold, numb.... It was a bitter moment. He said no word of love; he was brusque, even harsh. He did not put his arms about her hungrily, nor give her, against her will, another of those high moments of which she had experienced too few.

“Cantor is a spy,” he said, “a German spy.... I know it. I must have proof.... You know it, too.”

“No,” she said, “I know nothing.”

“Hildegarde,” he said, “whatever you are, whatever you have done, you’re not a traitor.... You can’t be that. You are shielding this man. Knowing what he is doing, you shield him.... You used to talk about America and patriotism....”

“I’m not a traitor!... I’m not a traitor!” she whispered. “I don’t know anything. I can’t tell you anything.” Had the hour struck? she asked herself. Was her father about to be exposed in his perfidy; was she about to step on the world’s stage as the daughter of a spy, a traitor, an inciter to murder? Her brain refused to credit it. The thing was monstrous, impossible.... She had feared it, been certain of its coming, but now she denied it. It could not happen—to her.

“You must tell the truth,” he said, striving to make his voice gentle. “You warned me once.... Your warning was true. If you had not known you couldn’t have warned me.... You know.”

“No!... No!...”

“How did you know they were coming to my shop that night?”

“I can’t tell you.... I sha’n’t tell you.”

“You’re shielding him!”

“No, not him.”

“Do you love that man? Is that why you protect him?” Again the personal element was obtruding. Jealousy showed its face where there should have been only a calm desire to know the truth.

“I hate him! Oh, how I hate him!—more than anything else on earth!”

“But you are with him always ... daily. That doesn’t look like hate.... A girl doesn’t—” He stopped, could not say the thing, could not tell her to her face that a girl like her does not become the mistress of a man she hates.

“You don’t know.... You don’t understand. I can’t help myself. I have to be with him. I have to, I tell you. Can’t you believe me?”

“Why?” he said, briefly.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Do you know what this man is doing? Do you know your country is at war, and this man and his work are more dangerous than an army on the battlefield? Do you know that? Do you know that for years he has plotted and worked against America? That he has burned mills, dynamited bridges, stirred up labor troubles—bought and paid for murders—for Germany? You do know. I know that you know.... And yet you call yourself an American and say you are no traitor.... You’re as bad as he.”

“You mustn’t say that.” Her flaming spirit was awakened to anger, an anger sending her on as headlong a course as his. “I sha’n’t listen to it.... I tell you I hate him.”

“Is he Adolf von Arnheim?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is he the man who stole Matthews’s aeroplane?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is he the man who plotted to blow up my workshop?”

“I don’t know.”

“You are not telling the truth.”

“I am telling the truth.”

He was silent a moment; then he said, as if dazed by the thought: “I loved you.... I could love you. I thought you were everything good and glowing in the world. I worshiped you.... It was never you I loved, but a girl who never existed, some one I mistook for you; ... some one who never could have become what you have become; ... some one who was honest, not a friend and partner of spies; ... some one who could never have been touched by squalid defilement—”

She reached toward him and clutched both his cheeks with tense fingers, drawing his face toward hers. “Could I help it?” she said, fiercely. “Was it my fault? Could I say to God, I will not have this blood in my veins, and force Him to change it?...”

“German blood,” he said, moodily.

“German blood,” she repeated after him. “Do you think I would keep a drop of it if I could open a vein and let it out? It’s there. I can never get rid of it.”

“But it doesn’t compel you to this. It’s possible to be German and loyal.”

“I tell you I am loyal, Potter Waite—as loyal as you.”

“Who is Cantor?” he said.

“I don’t know,” she answered.

“And you call yourself loyal.... This minute, if he is awake, he is plotting to blow up the shops where I am making motors for America’s aeroplanes. He’s plotting to blow up and destroy other factories that work for the government.... What if he succeeds?... If he could destroy our plant and half a dozen more it would be a greater victory for Germany than the capture of an American army.... You can stop it. You can tell me what you know—all you know. It will show me how to reach him, for I can’t reach him now.... I know he’s guilty. You can tell me how to prove it.”

“I can’t. I tell you I don’t know.... Suspicion? What is suspicion? You don’t know what you are asking.”

“I’m asking what any American girl, who was true to her country, would give gladly ... unless she loved the man.”

“If Mr. Cantor were a spy and I could give him to you—if I could give him to you without—” She stopped, bit her lips. She had almost said, “without betraying my father.” She went on, hurriedly, “I would let them kill me if I could give him to you.”

“I hope,” he said, bitterly, “that you may never know what it is to love and be forced—forced—to despise the one you love.... You told me you loved me—and lied when you said it.... Even after you had made that confession, after you had told me that thing, I loved you.... I would have taken you and married you and it should never have existed for us.... I could have done that. Even then I didn’t despise you. It hurt—it was a thing I couldn’t think of and live—but I didn’t despise you.... It was only when I saw you with that man, day after day, shameless—only after you made me see that loyalty and truth and decency were not in you, and that you were a traitor to your country—that I despised you. And even now, if I were able to see your eyes, I would doubt it.... How can you be what you are and keep that look in your eyes?...”

“Potter!” she cried. “No!...”

“Who is Cantor?” he said, harshly.

“I can’t tell you.”

“You see?” he said, bitterly. Then his voice changed, became charged with emotion, and the emotion thrilled her, moved her as she had never been moved. “Even now I could love you; I could forget—everything but this. You can’t be bad. Great God! It isn’t possible that you can be altogether what you seem to be. Tell me, Hildegarde.... You can tell me what I must know. It’s your duty. It’s a thing your country demands of you.... It’s your chance. Can’t you see it is your chance—to keep something of your soul alive? Do this thing; be loyal in this—and I can keep on loving you till the end, with the rest blotted out. I will remember only this.... Think, Hildegarde!... Don’t let me go now. Don’t leave this thing as it is....”

She was sobbing, clinging to him childishly. The flame was gone out of her, the light dead; the pertness, the keenness which had been so much of her charm, had vanished, and she was nothing but a broken, wailing child.

“Oh, Potter—don’t—don’t!... Don’t go away! Don’t leave me!... I love you, and I’m afraid! Oh, be good to me! Don’t speak to me so!... Hold me; take me in your arms and hold me—so I can feel safe—so I can know that there is goodness in the world!... I love you!... I love you!”

If she had been clothed in flaming pitch he could not have resisted her; he must have taken her in his arms and strained her against his heart if the very touch of her had eaten the flesh from his bones.... They stood, lips to lips, and the pain of his arms crushing her was very sweet.

He lifted his head. “Tell me,” he said.

She uttered a tiny moan.... It was all a dream. This moment had never existed. Or, if it had existed, she had stolen it from bitter fate to be detected instantly in the theft. “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t.” She dared not even tell him why she could not, for that would be to tell the thing she must conceal. If he only could know—without knowing. If he only could know that she must act as she did; that her reason for seeming to be what she was was not a squalid reason, was not a reason which would have failed to move the loftiest soul.... If he could but have that knowledge; have it imparted to him by some mystic power!... But he could not.

He pushed her away from him. She was glad she could not see his face, could not be seared by its scorn nor wracked by its agony. He did not speak again, but began silently to creep through the window. She clung to him.

“Potter!” she sobbed. “Not this way! Don’t go this way!”

“Let go,” he said.

Her hands dropped to her sides and she stepped back. In an instant he was swinging above the ground, a swaying blot against the night; in another instant he was gone.... She closed the window and sank upon the seat, her body too frail to endure the crucifixion of her soul....

Potter stood for a moment beneath the window, then moved toward the front of the house, but paused abruptly, for steps approached on the driveway. He pressed himself against a clump of shrubbery and waited. Two men appeared, passed, vanished. The incident gripped Potter, tore his thoughts away from that room above him.... He had come for information; here was a fact. It was a suspicious fact to him that two men should slink down that driveway at two o’clock in the morning. Silently, craftily he followed. He saw them against the garage door, was near enough to hear their low voices.

“He’s gone to bed.”

“Not him. Said he’d wait up. This is the hour we always have to come. He hain’t takin’ no chances of bein’ seen with us.”

“Rap again.”

Potter heard three raps, a pause, then two raps. In a moment the door opened silently and the men stepped inside. The door swung to after them. In a moment a dim fight flowed within, and Potter made his way to a window in the side. Peering through, he could see Philip, the chauffeur, and the two men. The backs of the men were toward him and he could not see their faces. He listened. Faintly their voices reached his ear.

“Pay-day to-morrow night,” said one of the men.

“And see you pay,” Philip said. “Don’t let any of this stick to your fingers.”

“The men that earn it git it,” said the man.

Philip shrugged his shoulders. “So long as we get what we pay for, I don’t care where the money goes.”

“If you’re afraid, you better pay off yourself.”

“Fine chance,” Philip said. “Enough people know me now. So long as we pay through you—and the others—they don’t get to know too much.”

“If they get nabbed they can’t give anybody away but us,” said the man. “Fine for us, isn’t it?”

“They haven’t been nabbed yet.... And say, Harker, I want more for my money out of you. The last week your crowd hasn’t earned its salt. If the Waite plant isn’t better taken care of, we’ll have somebody else in charge.”

“It’s a tough job. That young Waite has the men buffaloed. Now we have to look out for the spotters and for every man in the place. They’re all on the watch. It’s a wonder we pull off as much as we do.”

Philip passed over a number of bills. “Here,” he said. “Now sign the receipt. The boss is systematic.”

Potter could scarcely credit his senses. Here were efficiency and system indeed. He reflected an instant on the peculiarity of the German mind that insisted upon system even in its corps of spies, upon receipts for spy-money, which, doubtless, were properly filed in some inoffensive-appearing office in the city—one day to be transferred to Berlin!

He had come for information, and here was information. One of the men who received money from Philip was a man who received a weekly wage from the Waite Motor Company.... The gang-boss of the spies who were working in the plant. Potter recognized the name, and, as the man turned, recognized the man.... And Philip—von Essen’s chauffeur, the man who had struck him down in Cantor’s behalf that day out in Bloomfield Hills! Philip, apparently paymaster-in-chief for the master spy! It was getting close to headquarters.... Did the trail lead from Philip to Cantor? Could it be followed?

He reflected. Here was no time for headlong action. Now was the moment to exercise guile and restraint. To frighten the subordinate would be to warn the superior. To catch the subordinates would be nothing but a temporary setback; to use the subordinates as stepping-stones to reach the chief would be an achievement. He remained motionless, waiting.

Presently the men stepped out of the garage and stealthily made their way to the street. Potter did not follow. For ten minutes, twenty minutes, he waited, then feeling it would be safe to move, he stepped from his place and crept inch by inch away from the garage. Presently he got to his feet and, dodging from shrub to shrub, reached the street and hastened toward home.

It had been a night of nights; a night of bitter failure, of gnawing suffering; a night of unexpected success. The success did not uplift him. It was there. The facts were in his possession to be made what use of was possible.... He did not continue to consider them for long. The personal grief was stronger than the public benefit. It meant more to him that Hildegarde von Essen was wholly contemptible than that he had it within his power to thwart the plot calculated to destroy the thing his country needed most. In that hour aeroplanes were less to him than one girl....