“I’ve got to talk to you,” he answered.
She surrendered. “Then quietly ... not a sound. Oh, you don’t know what you’re doing!”
In an instant his knees pressed the window-sill; her hands caught his arm, steadying him, and he was in her room, upon the window-seat where she had crouched on so many ghastly days, through so many harrowing hours.
“Potter,” she said, faintly, “Potter....”
There was fear in her whisper, not for herself, but for him, and there was love, hungry love rejoicing, even at such a moment, in his presence. He did not perceive it, did not touch her, rather held himself at a distance from her. She felt his drawing away and her hands clutched his sleeve again as she whispered his name.
“What is it? Why did you come?... What has happened?”
“Who is Cantor?” he demanded.
She gasped, drew back in her turn, frightened now, not comprehending. “Mr. Cantor?” she said, so faintly he could scarcely hear.
“Is Cantor Adolf von Arnheim?” he said.
“No.... I don’t know.... I never heard of Adolf von Arnheim.”