She ran out of the room and up the stairs. As she opened her wardrobe door she hesitated an instant—there was only an instant of doubt. Then, quickly, deftly, wasting not a second, she removed her cumbering skirts and clad herself in those riding-breeches which she had worn that day so long ago—the day when she had stamped herself on Potter’s heart as a fairy prince.... She knew what she purposed.... Next she donned a fur-lined coat and driving-cap that covered her ears. She was not calm now, but she was very eager. A tinge of pink appeared in her pallid cheeks. By a little the weight of horror was shifted from her heart, shifted by hope.
Perhaps she was a trifle hysterical; perhaps the long strain with its sudden tragic climax had tried her until she could not see clearly, think straight from cause to effect. But hope had dawned, a hope that, perhaps, has dawned in the hearts of many whose guilt was more real than hers. She had seen a vision. In that vision she had bought herself free—free from guilt and free from defilement.
She descended to Potter. He turned low the light in the library, leaving Herman von Essen where he lay. Hildegarde stood in the door an instant, looking down at the thing that had been her father, drew a deep, gulping breath, and, covering her face, suffered Potter to lead her away.
Neither spoke as the car sped them to the hangar. It was dark, unoccupied. Potter unlocked the door and threw it open for Hildegarde to enter. In an instant he found the switch and turned on the lights.... Before them brooded Potter’s newest aeroplane, wings spread as though something found shelter beneath them. Hildegarde spoke of that. “Like a mother chicken,” she said, pointing, “protecting her brood.... What a brood she is protecting to-night!”
“You must help,” he said, sharply. “Throw off your coat.”
She did so, stood revealed as she had stood revealed that other day, that bountiful spring day. Potter shut his eyes. “Why?” he said, “why—”
She did not answer, and he stood, eyes open now, staring at her. His lips were white, straight, compressed. His throat ached.... How could that thing be true which she had confessed?... Every line of her proclaimed it a lie. The slenderness, the grace, the piquancy and boyish beauty of her asserted her purity, her chastity. He groaned.... They lied. In her nature had created a lie....
He tore away his eyes, began to work with feverish energy, ordering Hildegarde here, ordering her there, and she obeyed quietly, intelligently. Potter tested struts and braces, wires and fastenings, controls and motor. He saw to it there were gasolene and lubricant—as far as was in his power he saw to it that his steed of the air should be at its best, potent to give the most that could be demanded of it that night. He looked at his watch.
“Nearly ten,” he said.
“Is it time to start?”