Hildegarde heard her father burst into a torrent of imprecation, frightened imprecation. She was even sorry for him. Yet she felt a malicious satisfaction. He was trapped, neatly trapped, and he was being made to suffer. She approved of that.
“Well?” demanded the stranger when von Essen became quiet again.
“You couldn’t.... It wouldn’t be safe for you. I should describe you and tell—”
“And how long would you continue to live after that? Give a moment’s thought to that point.”
“Is that explosive in this house?”
“Plenty of it.”
Yon Essen groaned. “What do you want me to do?”
“Whatever you are told. You’ll get over this first nervousness soon—and you’ll quite enjoy yourself. Really, there’s a satisfaction in our work—when it is successful. Are you going to be reasonable?”
Von Essen made some reply unintelligible to Hildegarde, but which evidently was satisfactory to the stranger. “We’ll call it settled, then,” the latter said. “I’m pleased for your sake. You will get your orders in due time. In the mean while, stand ready at all times to obey. Am I understood?”
“Yes,” said von Essen, in a voice from which all arrogance, all courage was gone, “I understand.”