It is a thing for philosophers to ponder upon that humanity is not essentially collective, but individual; it rarely acts in the mass or thinks for the mass. In the mind of man the little outweighs the big, if the little be individual and the big a matter of race or of nation. So Potter lost sight of Cantor in his larger aspects; submerged the menace of the German master-spy in the minor offense of a wrong done by an individual to an individual. Hildegarde von Essen hid from sight the United States of America. While his rage was in eruption Potter was no patriot laboring in the service of his country, but an individualist of individualists, thirsting for private vengeance. He plotted revenge.... When a man begins to plot he begins to reason; reason and fiery rage cannot dwell side by side in the same brain.... As he thought more rationally it was clear to him that the most agonizing blow he could strike Cantor would be to unmask him, to exhibit him to the world in the loathsome habiliments of plotter, spy, murderer--and to bring his patient, stealthy labors to a fruition of futility.... There lay a vengeance to rejoice in. His thoughts made headlong plunges; it was his nature to follow them with equal rashness.... Hildegarde von Essen knew Cantor's secret; it was in her power to make plain the path that led to him. If that were true, she should be compelled to make that path plain so that Potter could follow it--and he would compel her. He would see her, would force his way to her, would make her speak. He looked at his watch. It was nearing one o'clock. As easy to see her now as another time, he thought, knowing well he would be refused admission to Herman von Essen's house at whatever hour he applied. Better now, hidden by night. He knew he could reach her. It was rashness, not reason; if he had acted otherwise he had not been Potter Waite, but some differently constituted organism. His decision was made and he acted without hesitation or dubiousness. Presently he was walking in the direction of the von Essen residence, along the broad road, lonely in its blackness. No other human being seemed to be abroad; he was the sole living atom in a world of murkiness and shadows, and he moved forward swiftly, silently, stealthily. Five minutes brought him to the commencement of Herman von Essen's grounds. There he stood against a tree, merged in its blackness, and strained his eyes toward the house. It was silent; there was neither light nor motion to be detected. The house itself was invisible, save as a black outline upon a field only less sable. Slowly and silently he advanced toward the house, toward that window which he knew was Hildegarde's window. His pockets were filled with gravel from the road.