“Are you telling the truth?”
“Potter!” she whispered, and the whisper was akin to a cry of pain. She bent toward him, her face close to his face, her eyes seeking his eyes.
“I must know,” he said. “I must know who Cantor is—what he is. I believe you know. That is why I came.”
“That is why you came?” she repeated, dully. That was why he had come. Love had not brought him; he had not been driven to her by his heart. He had come to ask questions about Cantor—that was all. She felt cold, numb.... It was a bitter moment. He said no word of love; he was brusque, even harsh. He did not put his arms about her hungrily, nor give her, against her will, another of those high moments of which she had experienced too few.
“Cantor is a spy,” he said, “a German spy.... I know it. I must have proof.... You know it, too.”
“No,” she said, “I know nothing.”
“Hildegarde,” he said, “whatever you are, whatever you have done, you’re not a traitor.... You can’t be that. You are shielding this man. Knowing what he is doing, you shield him.... You used to talk about America and patriotism....”
“I’m not a traitor!... I’m not a traitor!” she whispered. “I don’t know anything. I can’t tell you anything.” Had the hour struck? she asked herself. Was her father about to be exposed in his perfidy; was she about to step on the world’s stage as the daughter of a spy, a traitor, an inciter to murder? Her brain refused to credit it. The thing was monstrous, impossible.... She had feared it, been certain of its coming, but now she denied it. It could not happen—to her.
“You must tell the truth,” he said, striving to make his voice gentle. “You warned me once.... Your warning was true. If you had not known you couldn’t have warned me.... You know.”
“No!... No!...”