She stared at him, quite taken by surprise.
“Exactly,” said he. “You know, Hildegarde, I’ve been attracted by you. You’ve seen that.... You couldn’t help it. I’d have told you before this—that I love you and want you to marry me, but the moment never seemed to come.... But I can tell you now.... You’re unhappy here. Something has gone very wrong.... I offer you a way out—and once married to me, you are free of Herman von Essen—free of him forever.... Won’t you think about it, Hildegarde? I wouldn’t be such a rotten husband, and I’m mighty fond of you.”
“You’re—actually—proposing marriage?”
“I love you,” he said.
Her eyes blazed. “Did you and father think marriage would close my mouth?”
“I don’t understand you.”
“You think if I were married to you you would have me safe. Oh, you understand me, all right.... I’m not so blind. You know I’ve suspected you, and now I know. I know.... This proves it. I know who you are.”
“Who am I but myself?”
“You are the man who was in this library talking to father. You are the man who trapped him; who forced him to be a spy and a traitor.... Not that he needed forcing past anything but his cowardice.... You’re a German spy, in command of German spies. You’re the man who plans these explosions and fires and murders—and sets tools to carry out your plans....”
“Nonsense!” said Cantor, with an easy laugh. “You’ve been having nightmare. Why,” he declared, “I’m French! At least I was born in Alsace.... Wherever did you get such a notion?”