“Look here,” Cantor said, ungently. “What about this? Had you any idea this lunatic was planning this sort of thing? What does it mean, anyhow?”
Hildegarde was bewildered herself. What did it mean? What had Potter’s words meant? Did they signify that he knew who Cantor was, had discovered her father’s guilt? She held that fear, but put it away from her. It was something else, something she did not understand.
“It means that he loves me,” she said, piteously.
“It looks as if it meant that you loved him.... Is that it? Have you been making a fool of me?... Tell me.”
“Love him?” she said, with a sudden intensity. “I love him with every breath I draw.” Her voice broke and failed. “But it’s no use—no use.”
Potter stirred, opened his eyes and shut them again, breathed heavily, and struggled to sit up. He peered about him dizzily, saw Cantor bending over him, looking down calculatingly.
“I knew it was you,” Potter said, queerly. “Was the ’plane smashed?... What are you doing here, Cantor? Where’s Miss von Essen?”
“I’m here, Potter,” she said. “Are you hurt? Can you stand? Don’t try to stand. Wait! Let me wet my handkerchief. There’s water over on the green.” She got up and hurried to the putting-green. Potter shook his head. “I thought—” he said, and stopped. “You were there,” he said to himself. “I always thought you were there. I was sure I saw your face.”
In a moment his brain cleared and he remembered. “You dog!” he said, his eyes blazing as he tried to get to his feet.
Cantor pushed him back. “Be quiet,” he said, “or Philip will hand you another lesson. What do you mean, you fool, going around roaring like a lunatic and starting rows?”