Potter lighted a fire quickly and carried Hildegarde before it. He chafed her hands, compelled her to remove her boots, and chafed her feet—and she suffered him to attend her in silence.... She was at peace. She had offered herself, had shared the risks, had almost felt the wind of bullets that passed.... The ways of the human mind are not wholly to be understood. The thing she had done might not have satisfied another, yet she was satisfied. She had paid her ransom, bought her redemption.... She was at peace, and to be at peace was good ... good.

She sat on a chair; Potter knelt beside her. She smiled down at his head; her fingers reached out to touch his hair.

“Potter....” she said, softly.

“Garde....”

He was looking up into her face now with eyes that glowed, glowed with the pride of success, with the happiness that comes only from the consciousness of a great service performed worthily.

“How proud you should be!” she said, gently. “How proud the country will be of you!... To love one’s country—and to be able to do a great thing for one’s country....”

The spirit of the high places was still upon them; they could not think small thoughts, speak puny words. For a time they sat in silence. Then Potter spoke:

“I knew—up there—that you should never leave me,” he said.

She acquiesced; it was a thing that had come to her as well.

“Never,” she said.

“We were created for each other.... Nothing could hold us apart.”

“Nothing.”

“Can anything be greater than love?”

“I don’t know.”

“I believe there is something—something that selects a man and woman and brings them together.... We have been brought together.”

“I felt it—to-night.”

Again silence fell. Her hand rested on his head—it was the only contact of their bodies.

“Hildegarde,” he said, presently, “there is a thing I must mention this once—and then never again. It must never arise between us, in your heart or in my heart.”

“What is it, Potter?”

“You confessed to me once—here in this room—” He hesitated, sought for words in which to clothe the thing, words that would carry no bitterness, no accusation, none of the horror the fact had brought to him. “You said you loved me, but could marry no man.”

“Yes, I said it,” she replied.

“Was it true?”

“It was true—then.”

“Then?... It is not true now?”

“It is not true now.... I was defiled.”

“That was the word.”

“God had burned away the defilement.”

He groped for her meaning; it was hidden from him.

“What do you mean?”

“It was his blood in my veins—the blood of a man who could betray his country.... It defiled me. He was my father, and the fact defiled me. He was loathsome to me, but my life came from him.... How could I marry any man? Could I hand on such an inheritance to the innocent?”

His heart seemed to stop. Did he hear aright? Was this the defilement and the manner of her defilement? He could have cried aloud with joy, for she was as he had thought her. Looking into her face, into her eyes, he had been unable to believe—but the fact of her confession had daunted him.... And this was her confession....

A doubt came. The matter must be placed beyond all doubtings. He believed he understood, but now he must know.

“Your father’s death—” he said.

“I knew God had seen and had taken the matter into His hands. I saw the punishment.... I knew I was free.”

“But Cantor?”

“Cantor?” It was her turn to be puzzled. “What has he to do with it?”

“With your—defilement?”

She did not comprehend; thank God she did not comprehend ... she should never comprehend; never know the black, sordid thing he had believed of her.... He was on his knees before her, his head bowed on her knees.

“Forgive me,” he said, unsteadily. “Forgive me.”

“Forgive you?... For what, Potter?”

“For being only human—with a man’s understanding—when I should have known what no man could have known.”

She laughed softly. “I can forgive that,” she said.

They were warm flesh and blood again; two human beings, man and woman, with human love calling the one to the other. He held out his arms toward her and she came into them, lips pressed lips, and heart beat against heart.

“I was wrong,” he said, presently. “There’s nothing like love.”

“Like our love,” she said.

After a long time he put her away from him gently. “We must go,” he said. “There are things to be done.... I will take you to mother again, and this time you will stay.”

“I’ll make her keep me,” she said.

“Your father—I will attend to what must be done.”

“Yes.”

“What moments we have had in this room!” he said, looking about him lingeringly.

“Bitter and sweet,” she said.

“There shall be no more bitter—only sweet.”

“It will be the sweeter,” she said, with knowledge born of experience.

They went out reluctantly. He placed her in his car and they drove toward his home—their home now.... The house was ablaze with lights. Two cars stood at the curb. Potter entered the driveway, wondering, stopped at the door and alighted. Side by side he entered with Hildegarde.

His father stood in the hall in hat and coat, fresh from the street.

“Dad!” said Potter.

“Son!... Son, where have you been? What has happened? We’ve hunted for you—Downs has hunted for you.... We thought—”

“Where’s mother, Dad?... I want to take—my wife—to her.”

“Your wife? Is that what you’ve been doing? Getting married?”

“Not getting married—getting the wife.... We will be married—”

“In good time,” said Hildegarde, gravely.

Downs appeared in the door of the library, came forward eagerly. “Waite, I’m glad to see you. I’m relieved. We were afraid they had you.”

Potter wanted to ask questions, not to answer them.

“What have you done? Have you got them? Did they get away?”

“We had a mighty successful round-up,” Downs said, “and those papers were worth their weight in diamonds.... We smashed the organization, smashed it flat.... But the man Cantor got away. There’s not a trace of him.”

“No,” said Potter, soberly, “Cantor did not get away.”

“What’s that? Where is he?”

“Let me tell you,” said Hildegarde. “Potter won’t tell it as it ought to be told.” She took up the story, told it vividly, feelingly, so that her hearers saw the things she saw, experienced the things she had experienced, and as she continued Downs and Fabius Waite looked at Potter as at a stranger suddenly set among them, some stranger worthy of deference, of something like awe.

“So,” finished Hildegarde, “Potter met him in the air—and shut the highway to him.... And that was Cantor’s end.”

“Son,” said Fabius Waite, his words vibrant with pride, “I can’t say what I feel.... I’m proud—proud.... The whole country will be proud.”

“The country mustn’t know,” said Potter, looking at Downs.

“Until the war is done,” said Downs. “But there are those who shall know.... My report will go to them. I think you may count on the thanks, the gratitude of the man who lives in the White House.... It was a big job, well done.”

“Can you wait, Downs? I want to take Hildegarde to mother. There’s something I must arrange with you.”

Hildegarde need not have feared for her welcome, not after Potter’s mother looked into her face and heard her say, “This time, Mrs. Waite, I can tell you that I love him.”

Potter hastened back to Downs. “Did those papers name Herman von Essen?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“He is dead.... I found him dead on his library floor. That girl was his daughter—she’s going to be my wife.”

“I understand. You’re entitled to some reward, Mr. Waite, and this is a small one. No one shall ever know. His record will be clean.”

“Thank you,” Potter said. “I’m tired.... Good night.”

“Good night,” said the Secret Service man, and he stood looking after Potter until the young man disappeared up the stairs. “That,” he said to himself, “is America....”