She could not hold him off. His heavy hands clutched her again and drew her face close to his, and in his eyes she saw terror and rage glowing side by side. His voice was a snarl. “You know, do you?... You’ve been spying.... You’ve been listening.” He broke into German, searching the language for epithet and invective. Then, “You know.... Tell me what you know—everything you know.”
“I know,” she panted, “that you’re a traitor to your country, and a murderer.... I know you’re a plotter, a German spy.... I know this house is full of plots—and treason.... Your chauffeur—everybody here is in it.... That watchman at the Waite Motor Company—Philip killed him.... I know that sound was an explosion—your explosion.... And Potter Waite was there.” Her voice rose shrilly, “If you’ve killed him—”
“If I’ve killed him—what?” he said, hoarsely. “What?” He did not wait for her to answer. “What else do you know? Who else do you know?”
“I know you and I know Philip.” Her eyes defied him.
“Who else?”
“No one.”
“Are you lying?... If you lie to me—”
She laughed. “I’d lie to you till I choked with lies,” she said. “I hate you.... I despise you—my own father.... You have done this thing ... this horrible thing.... Benedict Arnold.... And you’ve defiled me—I’m of your blood ... your daughter.... Thank God mother is dead.... Yes, I’d lie to you if I had a reason. If I could only tell the world the lie that you’re not my father! You abominable, squalid traitor.... But I’m not lying to you now.... Oh, I wish I knew more of your kind.”
He roared incoherently and shook her as if she were without weight. “You know, eh?... Well, what do you intend to do about it? I’ll shut your mouth—”
“If—you’ve—killed—Potter—” she gasped.