Hildegarde did not sleep until her room was light with day; she was exhausted in body, her soul was tried to the limit of its endurance. Mechanically she drew down her shades and crept into bed. It was afternoon when she awakened and dressed herself. She felt strangely calm, almost detached from herself and the events which thickened about her. The agony of the night was gone, replaced by a coldness, a numbness, as if that part of her which suffered had been deadened by a powerful drug. She could even reason with herself, and, reasoning, she reached a determination. She could endure no more—she would endure no more.

Cantor.... She was done with Cantor. Never again would she accept him as companion. She would not need what he had been able to afford—an easy access to the world outside her father’s house. She was done with her father’s house. She was done with Detroit, done with every living soul who knew her. Something assured her that she could escape, and when she had gained her freedom it would be to disappear—to disappear forever. She did not know where she would go, what she would do, but she would go, and, going, she would vanish utterly. Hildegarde von Essen would be abolished and some place another girl would come to life. She even selected a name for that other girl. It was not a German name....

Some one rapped on her door loudly. It was an overbearing, domineering rap, recognized by her as her father’s. It was like him, eloquent of his personality.

“Come out!” he called, roughly.

“What do you want?” she asked, at once on the defensive, quickened to a defensive strength. She was not afraid of him, not afraid of anything. The time for fear had passed.

“Come out!” he repeated.

She unlocked her door and stepped into the hall, facing von Essen. His heavy face was set; his mouth, more brutal than Bismarck’s mouth, was implacable.

“Go down-stairs,” he said.

“What for?”

“Because I tell you to,” he said. “Because I’m through shilly-shallying with you. Cantor is there.... You’ve put him off for months. He wants to marry you, and I want to be rid of you. You are going down to tell him you will marry him.”

She did not reply.

“Do you hear?” he said, roughly.

“Yes,” she said, quietly. “Does he want to marry me?”

Von Essen raised his fist above her. “Don’t fool with me,” he said. “You know he wants to marry you.”

“The last time he mentioned it,” she said, with a quiet that should have warned him of some alarming change in her, “he wanted me—without marriage.”

Von Essen growled incoherently. “Marriage or no marriage, it’s nothing to me.... I’ve given you to him. I’m through with you. If he’ll marry you, so much the better for you.”

“This isn’t Belgium,” she said.

He twisted her about roughly so that she faced the stairs, then he pushed her forward. “Go down!” he said.

She walked with what dignity she could muster, very white, very quiet. She had no sense of being outraged; her father’s manner and conduct toward her did not matter. They did not exist. She walked slowly, head erect, and entered the library. Cantor stood expectant.

He bowed gravely. “Good afternoon,” he said, courteously.

“Here she is,” von Essen bellowed. “I’ve put an end to her tricks. It will be yes or no now—and it won’t be no.”

She looked at him curiously, then turned her eyes upon Cantor. “I understand you’ve changed your offer again,” she said, quietly. “You’re for marrying me once more.”

“I’m for having you however I can get you,” he said, with a smile. “One hesitates to speak of love with a third party present, even if the third party is the father....”

“Love!” she said.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Love means different things to different people.... I want you. For me that is love. I want you so much that I have been patient. I’ve courted you patiently, haven’t I?”

She spoke without volition, automatically, almost as if the words had been caused to issue from her lips by some ventriloquist. “Under what name do you want to marry me? Cantor or Adolf von Arnheim?”

He stiffened into immobility; not even his eyes seemed alive. His face, naturally without color, lost even the tint which it possessed. In an instant he was transformed. He was not the careless, mocking-courteous lover; he was another man, a man of stern military bearing, a man of purpose, a man ruthless in carrying out that purpose. Hildegarde knew she was seeing the true Cantor at last, and she liked him better. She saw him infinitely capable, a man to dare and to accomplish, a man to be trusted by high authority with a mission of life or death. She almost admired him in that moment.

He remained motionless, and she knew he was not thinking of her. He was thinking of his work and what this meant to his work. He had dropped the moment and was weighing keenly, ably, the circumstance, and planning what he must do as a result of it. Somehow she felt he experienced no fear, no emotion of any sort. He merely thought. His reaction was purely intellectual.

“Where did you hear that name?” he asked, presently.

He did not ask it of the woman he loved, but of a woman, any woman, a woman in his power, bound, capable of being made to speak by means not shrunk from by the German mind. She was not an individual to him, not Hildegarde von Essen, but merely a woman who must be dealt with.

“I dreamed it,” she said.

“Where did you hear that name?” he repeated, and moved toward her. She retreated behind a great table, placing it between herself and Cantor. Her father stood uncomprehending, working himself into a passion, his florid face growing red and redder, his breath becoming more labored, the veins upon his forehead standing out with unsavory distinctness.

“I sha’n’t tell you,” she said.

“Whom have you seen? Whom have you talked with?”

“Nobody.”

“Who told you I was Adolf von Arnheim?”

“It’s true, then.”

“If it is suspected, it is the same as if it were true,” he said, and she saw the finality of his logic. For his secure position to be questioned was disaster. It was essential that he remain above suspicion.

“Call Heinrich,” he said to von Essen.

Her father obeyed, and the servant entered the room and stood stiffly at attention.

“Have you allowed Miss von Essen to leave this house?” Cantor demanded.

“No,” said the man.

“You are certain?”

“Certain.”

“Have you admitted any one to see her? Any one?”

“No one has been admitted.”

“Man or woman?”

“No one.”

“Are you sure?”

“I know.”

“Has she been allowed to receive a letter—a message?”

“Nothing.”

“How do you know?”

“There are two keys to her door. I have one. Herr von Essen has the other.”

“She has had word from outside, recently, probably yesterday or to-day.”

“It is impossible.”

“It has happened. How could it happen?”

“There is no way. Her door had not been opened by any one but myself and Herr von Essen.”

“Her window?”

“Guarded from the moment she awakes until midnight.”

“But between midnight and morning?”

“It is not guarded. But no one could—”

“Search her room,” said Cantor. “Look for a note, a letter, torn scraps of paper, ashes.”

The man went out. Cantor stood grimly gazing after him.

“What is it?” von Essen asked, with fear. “What has happened?”

“She mentioned a name,” said Cantor. “Not a man in America knew that name was mine—not even von Bernstorff before he went home. But one man in Germany knew it. Adolf von Arnheim was reported killed in battle.... Where did you hear that name?” he said, turning again to Hildegarde.

“I sha’n’t tell.”

“Who else knows what you know? Who told it to you?”

“I sha’n’t tell.”

Her father uttered a sound of fury and stumbled toward her.

“Von Essen,” said Cantor, sharply, “this is my affair.”

He paced up and down the room for ten minutes, and none of the three spoke. Herman von Essen stood panting, glaring at his daughter. Hildegarde leaned upon the table, hands spread far apart, and watched Cantor. Another ten minutes passed. Then Heinrich returned.

“Well?” said Cantor.

The man was shaken. His face was gray, and his fear was of Cantor.

“There was no paper, nothing. I examined the window. There are footprints underneath—in the snow. Some one climbed the tree. There are marks on the window-sill.”

“Were there footprints yesterday?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Johann is sure.”

Cantor waved the man away and approached the table.

“Miss von Essen,” he said, “I have got to know who entered your room last night. I have got to know who says that I am Adolf von Arnheim. It is necessary for me to know, so that I can act. Who was the man?”

She only shook her head.

“What I don’t understand,” Cantor said, as if to himself, “is why you were told.... If they know, why haven’t they acted? What does it mean?”

“If you are suspected,” said von Essen, shaking as though with an ague, his eyes glaring, his face distorted, “I am suspected. If they get you they get me.”

“You!” said Cantor, with unconscious scorn. He was not thinking of his tools then, but of his work. Nobody mattered; he would sacrifice any one for his work, and von Essen knew it. He was terrified.

“I don’t understand it,” Cantor said, puzzled by something outside his peculiar experience. “The Secret Service isn’t climbing into windows to tell secrets to girls.... There’s something else—something I’ve got to understand.”

“You tell him,” bellowed von Essen. “Tell him, I say.”

“No.”

“Do you want to see me hanged? Eh? Is that what you want?”

“Be quiet, von Essen. You’re not caught. Nobody’s caught. We can’t make her speak.” He knew Hildegarde, had studied her shrewdly during the past months, and he was a man trained to assay character.

“I’ll beat her till she speaks,” said von Essen.

“No.... It would do no good. I think it is a trap. I think they have only suspicions. I believe they prompted her to say that name—and tell them what happened. That was it.... They suspect, but that is all.” He paced up and down for another five minutes. “It means I’ve got to act. I wasn’t ready, but this forces me—crowds me. You, von Essen, forget about yourself for a while. They can trace nothing to you. You’re safe.”

“You don’t care,” said von Essen, his voice quivering with rage and terror. “What do you care what happens to me?”

Cantor shrugged his shoulders. “There’s work for you. You know the plan. It must go through to-night. I can’t wait even to get to the office to destroy papers. The office may be watched.... I’m going to act.” His eyes glowed with a sort of enthusiasm. “There shall be surprises for Detroit to-morrow—fine surprises. Factories in ruins, explosives dropped out of the sky—and no one to say how they fell.... I’ll make a circle. There’s no way to follow me and no way to stop me ... no anti-aircraft guns to dodge. I’ll fly low and make sure. They’ve worked a year getting ready to make aeroplanes, and I’ll destroy it all in an hour—and I’ll block their river. When spring comes the ore will be bottled up. I’ve the thing mapped out—first a circle over town, then I’ll see what I can do down-river. I think a bomb or two will block the new ship-channel. There isn’t time to block Lime Kiln crossing. For that we needed time. Then a circle back to the Flats and I’ll destroy the piers and block that channel.... Then to disappear. An aeroplane leaves no trail....”

“And leave us behind to take the consequences,” said von Essen, furiously.

“There’ll be no consequences, you fool, if you keep your head and follow directions. First, watch this girl. Don’t let her out of your sight. Sit in this room and keep her here. Have Heinrich or Philip telephone the office and order every scrap of paper burned. Then tell Philip and the rest to leave—and leave at once. You’ll be safe. Don’t be a fool.... And watch that girl.”

“I’ll watch her,” von Essen said, balefully.

“I’m off, then.... Good-by. I hoped to take you with me, Miss von Essen, but I can’t have a girl on my hands now.... Maybe I’ll come back for you—maybe I can come back.... Good-by—and watch for my little surprises.”

He turned and was gone. In a moment Hildegarde heard the roar of his motor, and, turning, watched him drive at breakneck pace away from the city.... She had heard, and she knew that what she had heard was no idle boasting. She knew Cantor for a determined, capable man. He would do, and was able to do, what he threatened—she was powerless to prevent him.... If she were free, if she could evade her father, she was gripped in a vise. Could she name her father a traitor?... Somehow it was unthinkable. Yet she could not exist and permit this catastrophe to fall upon her city and her country. She stared at Herman von Essen with widened eyes, conscious of no feeling toward him but disgust and hatred.

“You cat!” grated von Essen. “You meddling cat!... See what you’ve done.... I could—” He stopped, panting, his face purple, pulses throbbing visibly in his temples. He flew into a rage, the rage of the trapped animal, a rage that was half terror, and hurled curses upon her.

Here, thought she, was the man she was shielding. Here was her father—traitor, brute, and yet of her blood. For such a man she dared not move to avert the thing that threatened.... A thought pricked its way into her consciousness: Was she keeping silence because of filial duty, because this man was the husband of her mother and joint author of her being, or was she avoiding her duty because she feared its consequences upon herself? Was it because she shrank from the finger of scorn pointing to the daughter of a spy and a traitor, because she could not endure that obloquy?... She considered it. It was an accusation, direct, demanding an answer. She met it squarely, looked into the eyes of it, and knew, knew that she was not guiltless.... Not father, not mother, nor any thing created or uncreated was just reason for her to stand aside and see her country visited with calamity. She saw truly that there are duties which are supreme, which cannot be measured, which outweigh individual considerations, no matter how high, how holy. Her duty was to God, then to America, after that to family and self.... She saw and she submitted.

“I’ll do it,” she said, aloud, unconscious that she spoke aloud.

Her father called Heinrich. “Telephone at once—the office. You know the number. Tell them to destroy everything—every scrap of paper. Then tell them to go—to disappear.... When you have done—go yourself.... Tell Philip.” He stopped, gulped as if his heart were impeding the passage of air to his lungs. “Tell everybody.” His voice rose almost to a scream.

Heinrich disappeared. Presently he rushed into the room. “They didn’t answer.... I couldn’t make them answer,” he said. “Something’s wrong.”

He disappeared. Von Essen was not pacing up and down the room now; he was running. Cold sweat dripped from his forehead, yet he was hot, burning. His eyes burned; his head was on fire. His daughter could hear the hoarse gasps of his breathing, could see the labored rise and fall of his great chest. His eyes were more bulging than ever, threatening to start from his head, and the whites of them were tinged with red.... It was frenzy that she saw, a frenzy of fear. Herman von Essen felt the noose about his neck.

Once he rushed toward her, a light not of sanity in his eyes, and she cowered back of her table. But he reeled away, muttering hoarsely.

Some one rapped on the door. Von Essen rushed to it, tore it open. Philip’s wife stood there, a bit of paper in her hand.

“Philip said to give this to you, sir. He rushed in, grabbed some papers in a case, and rushed out.... What is it, sir? I’m frightened.... The way he acted!”

“Out!” roared von Essen. “Out!” He waved his hand wildly in her direction, and she fled.

He snatched open the paper, read it, lifted it above his head in a clenched fist, as if he were shaking it in the face of Heaven. He uttered a sound which was not a cry, not a bellow, not a cry of agony. It was compounded of all three—was hoarse, harsh, piercing. It cut to Hildegarde’s heart with a knife of terror. She watched her father, bound to the spot where she stood as if by the power of some magnet. She could not have moved or spoken.

He seemed to snort—to cough. The sounds were hideous. He lunged forward like a blinded lion, his hands clutching first breast, then throat, then temples. As if he had been stricken by mighty ax, he was no longer erect, was groveling on the floor, his breath issuing in stertorous, wheezing gasps.... Then he was still.

Hildegarde moved along the table an inch at a time, resting on her hands, pushing first one foot, then the other, not lifting them from the floor. Her hands crept along the table, clutching it. She tried to hold back, but she was drawn, dragged. Inch by inch she emerged and approached her father. Presently she stood over him, bent slowly, slowly. Dropped to her knees and looked upon his face. It was purple, almost black, distorted, horrible.... She did not touch him, could not have forced herself to touch him ... but she knew he was dead ... dead!

Mechanically she reached for the paper that had stricken down her father, smoothed it open. It was brief:

In that first interval she did not cry out for help, did not rush out of the room in search of assistance, but remained kneeling over her father’s body. Horror she experienced, but it faded. Even the reality of that fear-distorted dead face could not make fast the grip of horror.... She breathed deep, and it was a breath of relief. He was dead, her father was dead.... She threw back her head and closed her eyes.... She was glad, glad, glad!... Now she was free. When no help seemed possible, when there was none to intervene, when hope was dead, something had intervened.... She was awed by the thought.... Had God Himself intervened? Was this a manifestation of Divine power? She believed it, and, believing it, was glad.... God ruled the world. In spite of wars and butcheries, of crimes and treacheries, in spite of horrors and catastrophes, God still sat omnipotent in His heaven, all-knowing, all-perceiving, biding His moment.... The world was safe in His keeping....

She was free! Free at last. Free from the dreadful thing which had gripped her, encircled her.... This thing that lay before her had been her father, and he had defiled her, daubed her with the pitch of his own crimes and treacheries.... Well, the defilement was burned away; she felt uplifted, purified, purified by fire sent from heaven, by the flame that had stricken Herman von Essen to death. She was herself, untrammeled at last.... Free!... Free!...

Presently she went to the door and called. There was no answer. She rang; no one responded to the bell. The house was strangely silent.... She waited, called again, and then went in search of help. From room to room she went, calling, but there was none to answer. Not a servant remained. All had fled.... She was alone, alone in the house with that which lay outstretched on the library floor.