“I’ll shut your mouth,” he repeated, and flung her into a chair. Then he pulled shut the lofty doors and paced up and down before her, muttering. She did not cower, did not show fear, but crouched there, glaring at him with burning eyes.... Ten minutes passed—fifteen.... Footsteps, unsteady, staggering, sounded in the hall. Knuckles rapped on the door.
“Who’s there?” demanded von Essen, with the catch of awakened terror in his voice.
“Me—Philip.”
Von Essen strode to the doors and flung them open. “Come in,” he snarled. “Come in....”
Philip, face blackened and bloody, stumbled into the room and stood panting.
“What is it?” von Essen demanded in German. “What’s the matter?”
Philip stared at Hildegarde and motioned. Her father turned and scowled at her. “Never mind her. She’s been spying. She knows. We’ll have to shut her mouth.... What’s wrong?”
“We set the bomb—I lighted the fuse.... They were watching the place. Somebody jumped on me. Young Waite. Weimer jumped in and we broke away. The place was full of men.... We ran. Somebody grabbed the bomb and threw it.... Weimer was fifty feet away from me—and it struck right behind him.” Philip shut his eyes and shivered. “They’ll never find a trace of him,” he said, shakily.
Hildegarde sprang toward him. “Was anybody else hurt?... Any of Potter’s men?... Potter?”
“No,” he said. “They chased us—but I got away.”