“Will a dog snatch at a bone?” countered Rudolph. “Take him back! They'll be crazy about it.”
“He has been there a long time. He may, at the last, weaken.”
But Rudolph only laughed, and drank more whisky of the German agent's providing.
“He won't weaken,” he said. “Give me a few days more to find the girl, and all hell won't hold him.”
On the Sunday morning after the President had been before Congress, he found Herman dressed for church, but sitting by the fire. All around him lay the Sunday paper, and he barely raised his head when Rudolph entered.
“Well, it's here!” said Rudolph.
“It has come. Yes.”
“Wall Street will be opening champagne to-day.”
Herman said nothing. But later on he opened up the fountain of rage in his heart. It was wrong, all wrong. We had no quarrel with Germany. It was the capitalists and politicians who had done it. And above all, England.
He went far. He blamed America and Americans for his loss of work, for Anna's disappearance. He searched his mind for grievances and found them in the ore dust on the hill, which killed his garden; in the inefficiency of the police, who could not find Anna; in the very attitude of Clayton Spencer toward his resignation.