A clump of bushes surrounded a tree which stood close by the house, and he pressed close to them, became a part of them, and peered upward to locate Hildegarde's window.... A handful of gravel rattled against its glass. He waited. There was no responsive movement within. He tossed another handful of pebbles, this time more forcibly. Again he waited.... He fancied he saw movement, a something in the window that hinted at whiteness. He tossed more pebbles. The window was raised softly; he knew who had raised it, though he could not see. Nothing was visible but that hint of whiteness. "What is it?... Who is there?" Hildegarde whispered. "Potter Waite," he replied, in a similar voice. "I must see you. I'm coming up." "No!" she said. "No!..." "I'm coming up," he repeated. "You mustn't!... You don't understand! If they found you--" He made no reply, but began to scramble up the tree and out upon a limb which climbed upward past the window, not distant from it. "Open the window wide," he whispered. "You mustn't come in!... I'll close the window." "Then I'll come _through_ it," he said, swinging nearer. "Wait," she said, and ran to throw a gown about her nightdress. She reappeared. "Please!... Please!" she said, tremulously. "I've got to talk to you," he answered. She surrendered. "Then quietly ... not a sound. Oh, you don't know what you're doing!" In an instant his knees pressed the window-sill; her hands caught his arm, steadying him, and he was in her room, upon the window-seat where she had crouched on so many ghastly days, through so many harrowing hours. "Potter," she said, faintly, "Potter...." There was fear in her whisper, not for herself, but for him, and there was love, hungry love rejoicing, even at such a moment, in his presence. He did not perceive it, did not touch her, rather held himself at a distance from her. She felt his drawing away and her hands clutched his sleeve again as she whispered his name. "What is it? Why did you come?... What has happened?" "Who is Cantor?" he demanded. She gasped, drew back in her turn, frightened now, not comprehending. "Mr. Cantor?" she said, so faintly he could scarcely hear. "Is Cantor Adolf von Arnheim?" he said. "No.... I don't know.... I never heard of Adolf von Arnheim." "Are you telling the truth?" "Potter!" she whispered, and the whisper was akin to a cry of pain. She bent toward him, her face close to his face, her eyes seeking his eyes. "I must know," he said. "I must know who Cantor is--what he is. I believe you know. That is why I came."