He saw something there, blackly outlined, something that sprawled grotesquely, offensively, something that sprawled motionless and horrible. Again he felt the rising of his hair and the chill of dread, and hesitated. Then he forced himself to step forward, to bend over that sprawling black thing, to light a match. As it flamed Hildegarde uttered a faint scream. The tiny flame threw a fitful, distorting light on the man that lay there; made his features grotesque, appalling. The bulging, staring eyes seemed to be fastened upon Potter's eyes. "God!..." he exclaimed. "Your father!" "My father," she repeated. "You were alone with _that_? Alone in the dark?" "It was awful!" she whispered. "He is dead." "Dead." "Who--who killed him?" Somehow he dreaded to ask that question. "God!" she said, simply. He stood up, grasped her shoulders with firm hands. "Pull yourself together," he said, harshly. "Don't go to pieces. What has happened? What does this mean?" "I'm not going to pieces. I'm calm--but I'm frightened." Potter switched on the lights and bent over von Essen, examining him to find what had struck him down. "There is no wound," he said, lifting his face. "How did he die?" "Because," she said, quietly, "one of us had to die. God chose him." He fancied he caught a note of joy in her voice; it startled him, repelled him, so unnatural did it seem. "Such a father," she went on with unnatural calm. "His blood was my blood--but I hated him. His touch, the air he breathed, was defilement. I could not have borne it another day.... He _had_ to die." "Hildegarde!" "You think I'm heartless. You think I ought to cry.... Oh, I could sing! I'm free at last. Free of him, free of his defilement. If I could only get his blood out of my veins...." "What are you saying? What has been going on here? Tell me." "He was a spy and a traitor and a murderer.... I discovered it. I knew it--and I couldn't denounce him. He was my father, don't you see? My father!... You can't betray your father to the police. I hated him for it, and I loved my country--but I couldn't denounce him." "Your father a spy? A German agent?" "Yes." This explained much. He fell silent, striving to comprehend something of the tortures she had endured, striving to picture the life she must have led. "You poor child!" he said, softly. "When you came with questions--I couldn't answer. You called me a traitor ... and I dared not tell you. He was my father and--and I couldn't have lived to have people point to me and call me the daughter of a traitor. Could you have borne that?" "No," he said. "No." "He knew I had discovered what he was.... He locked me in. I've been watched day and night. I've been a prisoner." "Cantor?..."