“Who—who killed him?” Somehow he dreaded to ask that question.
“God!” she said, simply.
He stood up, grasped her shoulders with firm hands. “Pull yourself together,” he said, harshly. “Don’t go to pieces. What has happened? What does this mean?”
“I’m not going to pieces. I’m calm—but I’m frightened.”
Potter switched on the lights and bent over von Essen, examining him to find what had struck him down.
“There is no wound,” he said, lifting his face. “How did he die?”
“Because,” she said, quietly, “one of us had to die. God chose him.”
He fancied he caught a note of joy in her voice; it startled him, repelled him, so unnatural did it seem.
“Such a father,” she went on with unnatural calm. “His blood was my blood—but I hated him. His touch, the air he breathed, was defilement. I could not have borne it another day.... He had to die.”
“Hildegarde!”