Philip passed over a number of bills. “Here,” he said. “Now sign the receipt. The boss is systematic.”
Potter could scarcely credit his senses. Here were efficiency and system indeed. He reflected an instant on the peculiarity of the German mind that insisted upon system even in its corps of spies, upon receipts for spy-money, which, doubtless, were properly filed in some inoffensive-appearing office in the city—one day to be transferred to Berlin!
He had come for information, and here was information. One of the men who received money from Philip was a man who received a weekly wage from the Waite Motor Company.... The gang-boss of the spies who were working in the plant. Potter recognized the name, and, as the man turned, recognized the man.... And Philip—von Essen’s chauffeur, the man who had struck him down in Cantor’s behalf that day out in Bloomfield Hills! Philip, apparently paymaster-in-chief for the master spy! It was getting close to headquarters.... Did the trail lead from Philip to Cantor? Could it be followed?
He reflected. Here was no time for headlong action. Now was the moment to exercise guile and restraint. To frighten the subordinate would be to warn the superior. To catch the subordinates would be nothing but a temporary setback; to use the subordinates as stepping-stones to reach the chief would be an achievement. He remained motionless, waiting.
Presently the men stepped out of the garage and stealthily made their way to the street. Potter did not follow. For ten minutes, twenty minutes, he waited, then feeling it would be safe to move, he stepped from his place and crept inch by inch away from the garage. Presently he got to his feet and, dodging from shrub to shrub, reached the street and hastened toward home.
It had been a night of nights; a night of bitter failure, of gnawing suffering; a night of unexpected success. The success did not uplift him. It was there. The facts were in his possession to be made what use of was possible.... He did not continue to consider them for long. The personal grief was stronger than the public benefit. It meant more to him that Hildegarde von Essen was wholly contemptible than that he had it within his power to thwart the plot calculated to destroy the thing his country needed most. In that hour aeroplanes were less to him than one girl....
CHAPTER XXV
Hildegarde did not sleep until her room was light with day; she was exhausted in body, her soul was tried to the limit of its endurance. Mechanically she drew down her shades and crept into bed. It was afternoon when she awakened and dressed herself. She felt strangely calm, almost detached from herself and the events which thickened about her. The agony of the night was gone, replaced by a coldness, a numbness, as if that part of her which suffered had been deadened by a powerful drug. She could even reason with herself, and, reasoning, she reached a determination. She could endure no more—she would endure no more.
Cantor.... She was done with Cantor. Never again would she accept him as companion. She would not need what he had been able to afford—an easy access to the world outside her father’s house. She was done with her father’s house. She was done with Detroit, done with every living soul who knew her. Something assured her that she could escape, and when she had gained her freedom it would be to disappear—to disappear forever. She did not know where she would go, what she would do, but she would go, and, going, she would vanish utterly. Hildegarde von Essen would be abolished and some place another girl would come to life. She even selected a name for that other girl. It was not a German name....
Some one rapped on her door loudly. It was an overbearing, domineering rap, recognized by her as her father’s. It was like him, eloquent of his personality.