“Son,” said Fabius Waite, his words vibrant with pride, “I can’t say what I feel.... I’m proud—proud.... The whole country will be proud.”
“The country mustn’t know,” said Potter, looking at Downs.
“Until the war is done,” said Downs. “But there are those who shall know.... My report will go to them. I think you may count on the thanks, the gratitude of the man who lives in the White House.... It was a big job, well done.”
“Can you wait, Downs? I want to take Hildegarde to mother. There’s something I must arrange with you.”
Hildegarde need not have feared for her welcome, not after Potter’s mother looked into her face and heard her say, “This time, Mrs. Waite, I can tell you that I love him.”
Potter hastened back to Downs. “Did those papers name Herman von Essen?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“He is dead.... I found him dead on his library floor. That girl was his daughter—she’s going to be my wife.”
“I understand. You’re entitled to some reward, Mr. Waite, and this is a small one. No one shall ever know. His record will be clean.”
“Thank you,” Potter said. “I’m tired.... Good night.”