"Who told you I was Adolf von Arnheim?" "It's true, then." "If it is suspected, it is the same as if it were true," he said, and she saw the finality of his logic. For his secure position to be questioned was disaster. It was essential that he remain above suspicion. "Call Heinrich," he said to von Essen. Her father obeyed, and the servant entered the room and stood stiffly at attention. "Have you allowed Miss von Essen to leave this house?" Cantor demanded. "No," said the man. "You are certain?" "Certain." "Have you admitted any one to see her? Any one?" "No one has been admitted." "Man or woman?" "No one." "Are you sure?" "I know." "Has she been allowed to receive a letter--a message?" "Nothing." "How do you know?" "There are two keys to her door. I have one. Herr von Essen has the other." "She has had word from outside, recently, probably yesterday or to-day." "It is impossible." "It has happened. How could it happen?" "There is no way. Her door had not been opened by any one but myself and Herr von Essen." "Her window?" "Guarded from the moment she awakes until midnight." "But between midnight and morning?" "It is not guarded. But no one could--" "Search her room," said Cantor. "Look for a note, a letter, torn scraps of paper, ashes." The man went out. Cantor stood grimly gazing after him. "What is it?" von Essen asked, with fear. "What has happened?" "She mentioned a name," said Cantor. "Not a man in America knew that name was mine--not even von Bernstorff before he went home. But one man in Germany knew it. Adolf von Arnheim was reported killed in battle.... Where did you hear that name?" he said, turning again to Hildegarde. "I sha'n't tell." "Who else knows what you know? Who told it to you?" "I sha'n't tell." Her father uttered a sound of fury and stumbled toward her. "Von Essen," said Cantor, sharply, "this is my affair." He paced up and down the room for ten minutes, and none of the three spoke. Herman von Essen stood panting, glaring at his daughter. Hildegarde leaned upon the table, hands spread far apart, and watched Cantor. Another ten minutes passed. Then Heinrich returned. "Well?" said Cantor. The man was shaken. His face was gray, and his fear was of Cantor. "There was no paper, nothing. I examined the window. There are footprints underneath--in the snow. Some one climbed the tree. There are marks on the window-sill." "Were there footprints yesterday?" "No." "Are you sure?" "Johann is sure." Cantor waved the man away and approached the table. "Miss von Essen," he said, "I have got to know who entered your room last night. I have got to know who says that I am Adolf von Arnheim. It is necessary for me to know, so that I can act. Who was the man?" She only shook her head. "What I don't understand," Cantor said, as if to himself, "is why you were told.... If they know, why haven't they acted? What does it mean?"