Potter was not one to make preparations before the event. In matters which concerned himself he was not given to looking into the future, but to doing the thing as it came to hand, and taking care of the consequences that flowed from it as they should appear. In a vague way he determined what he would do when he had helped Hildegarde to escape from her father's house. His common-sense told him that such escapades were looked upon askance by a staid and plodding world; his innate chivalry and decency and sportsmanship--and a solicitude for Hildegarde born of his love for her--impressed it upon him that he must take some steps to safeguard her as much as would be possible from the wagging of malicious tongues. Therefore, out of hand, he determined to take her immediately to his own home, to hand her over to his mother, and then to scamper off for license and parson.... It seemed perfectly adequate. He dined at home. As he was leaving the table he said to his mother: "I'll be home fairly early--probably before eleven. I wonder if you will wait up for me.... There's something rather important." "Of course, Potter," she said, no little amazed, for it was the first request of this character she had ever listened to from her son. He went out to the garage, put extra robes into his car, and drove out into the street. Hours must elapse before he could enter upon his adventure, but he could not put off the starting; he had to be about it. It was said of Potter that he was never late for anything and usually was a little ahead of time--and it was natural that he should be. He could not bear inaction, especially if some event were promised. He had to be moving toward that event, or making himself feel he was moving toward it. So he started at eight o'clock to reach a spot not half a mile away which he knew he must not reach before ten. It was his way. He drove past the von Essen mansion, turned a mile beyond, and retraced his way. He scrutinized his watch, and it seemed to him he had made no impression whatever on the time that must elapse. For several blocks he drove at a snail's pace, then he turned again and sped back over the icy pavement at a dangerous speed. Again he consulted his watch.... So for two hours he drove up and down impatient, eager, unable to quiet himself. He must be moving; there could be no repose. He saw Herman von Essen's limousine drive away from the house, half determined to follow it and settle accounts with Hildegarde's father. He was in a state of mind which would permit of wild actions. But he did not follow; instead he applied the brakes savagely, skidded perilously, and headed in the other direction. It was bitterly cold, but he was hardly conscious of it; was conscious of nothing but a seething impatience, a sort of breathless anticipation. Again he looked at his watch, for it seemed as if he had been driving back and forth for days. It was only nine-thirty.