He saw Herman von Essen’s limousine drive away from the house, half determined to follow it and settle accounts with Hildegarde’s father. He was in a state of mind which would permit of wild actions. But he did not follow; instead he applied the brakes savagely, skidded perilously, and headed in the other direction. It was bitterly cold, but he was hardly conscious of it; was conscious of nothing but a seething impatience, a sort of breathless anticipation. Again he looked at his watch, for it seemed as if he had been driving back and forth for days. It was only nine-thirty.
As he passed the von Essen house again he peered at it eagerly. There were few lights, and those dim. The place was quieting down for the night; servants would be in bed, or drowsily waiting for their master’s return. Soon it would be safe to make the attempt.
After another turn or so he halted his car facing toward his own home and at a little distance from the entrance to the von Essen grounds. Snapping on his dimmers, he leaped out and walked across the street to the deeply shaded area midway between street lights. Carefully he looked in either direction; no pedestrians were visible; the street was clear save for a distant automobile approaching from the city. He hesitated a second, then stepped from the walk into the sheltering shrubbery. With caution he dodged from dark spot to dark spot, taking pleasure in his subtle approach with a certain boyishness, a certain pretense—as if he were playing Indian. The snow reached well above his ankles, and at each step its brittle crust crackled and crashed alarmingly, but none seemed to take the alarm.
He rounded the big house in safety and stood under the window Hildegarde had described as her own. There was no light. Potter crept behind a snow-shrouded bush and scrutinized it, rising cautiously to his feet and standing for an instant exposed to view. If Hildegarde were watching alertly, he said to himself, she would surely see him. He waited. In a moment he could hear the window open.
“Potter,” whispered Hildegarde.
“Here,” he said.
She disappeared, but came back presently, holding out something black and bulky. “My bag,” she whispered. “Catch!”
He caught it and deposited it on the snow; then, while he wondered how he was to get her down from her room, she climbed upon the window-sill, lowered herself until she hung by her fingers.
“Careful.” he said, with incautious loudness. “Wait.”
But Hildegarde was driven by the same impatience as himself. There would be no waiting for her, no caution. She loosed her hold and dropped, falling into a little heap in the snow. Potter raised her quickly.