“If you are suspected,” said von Essen, shaking as though with an ague, his eyes glaring, his face distorted, “I am suspected. If they get you they get me.”
“You!” said Cantor, with unconscious scorn. He was not thinking of his tools then, but of his work. Nobody mattered; he would sacrifice any one for his work, and von Essen knew it. He was terrified.
“I don’t understand it,” Cantor said, puzzled by something outside his peculiar experience. “The Secret Service isn’t climbing into windows to tell secrets to girls.... There’s something else—something I’ve got to understand.”
“You tell him,” bellowed von Essen. “Tell him, I say.”
“No.”
“Do you want to see me hanged? Eh? Is that what you want?”
“Be quiet, von Essen. You’re not caught. Nobody’s caught. We can’t make her speak.” He knew Hildegarde, had studied her shrewdly during the past months, and he was a man trained to assay character.
“I’ll beat her till she speaks,” said von Essen.
“No.... It would do no good. I think it is a trap. I think they have only suspicions. I believe they prompted her to say that name—and tell them what happened. That was it.... They suspect, but that is all.” He paced up and down for another five minutes. “It means I’ve got to act. I wasn’t ready, but this forces me—crowds me. You, von Essen, forget about yourself for a while. They can trace nothing to you. You’re safe.”
“You don’t care,” said von Essen, his voice quivering with rage and terror. “What do you care what happens to me?”