"There'll be no consequences, you fool, if you keep your head and follow directions. First, watch this girl. Don't let her out of your sight. Sit in this room and keep her here. Have Heinrich or Philip telephone the office and order every scrap of paper burned. Then tell Philip and the rest to leave--and leave at once. You'll be safe. Don't be a fool.... And watch that girl." "I'll watch her," von Essen said, balefully. "I'm off, then.... Good-by. I hoped to take you with me, Miss von Essen, but I can't have a girl on my hands now.... Maybe I'll come back for you--maybe I can come back.... Good-by--and watch for my little surprises." He turned and was gone. In a moment Hildegarde heard the roar of his motor, and, turning, watched him drive at breakneck pace away from the city.... She had heard, and she knew that what she had heard was no idle boasting. She knew Cantor for a determined, capable man. He would do, and was able to do, what he threatened--she was powerless to prevent him.... If she were free, if she could evade her father, she was gripped in a vise. Could she name her father a traitor?... Somehow it was unthinkable. Yet she could not exist and permit this catastrophe to fall upon her city and her country. She stared at Herman von Essen with widened eyes, conscious of no feeling toward him but disgust and hatred. "You cat!" grated von Essen. "You meddling cat!... See what you've done.... I could--" He stopped, panting, his face purple, pulses throbbing visibly in his temples. He flew into a rage, the rage of the trapped animal, a rage that was half terror, and hurled curses upon her. Here, thought she, was the man she was shielding. Here was her father--traitor, brute, and yet of her blood. For such a man she dared not move to avert the thing that threatened.... A thought pricked its way into her consciousness: Was she keeping silence because of filial duty, because this man was the husband of her mother and joint author of her being, or was she avoiding her duty because she feared its consequences upon herself? Was it because she shrank from the finger of scorn pointing to the daughter of a spy and a traitor, because she could not endure that obloquy?... She considered it. It was an accusation, direct, demanding an answer. She met it squarely, looked into the eyes of it, and knew, knew that she was not guiltless.... Not father, not mother, nor any thing created or uncreated was just reason for her to stand aside and see her country visited with calamity. She saw truly that there are duties which are supreme, which cannot be measured, which outweigh individual considerations, no matter how high, how holy. Her duty was to God, then to America, after that to family and self.... She saw and she submitted. "I'll do it," she said, aloud, unconscious that she spoke aloud.