As he passed the von Essen house again he peered at it eagerly. There were few lights, and those dim. The place was quieting down for the night; servants would be in bed, or drowsily waiting for their master's return. Soon it would be safe to make the attempt. After another turn or so he halted his car facing toward his own home and at a little distance from the entrance to the von Essen grounds. Snapping on his dimmers, he leaped out and walked across the street to the deeply shaded area midway between street lights. Carefully he looked in either direction; no pedestrians were visible; the street was clear save for a distant automobile approaching from the city. He hesitated a second, then stepped from the walk into the sheltering shrubbery. With caution he dodged from dark spot to dark spot, taking pleasure in his subtle approach with a certain boyishness, a certain pretense--as if he were playing Indian. The snow reached well above his ankles, and at each step its brittle crust crackled and crashed alarmingly, but none seemed to take the alarm. He rounded the big house in safety and stood under the window Hildegarde had described as her own. There was no light. Potter crept behind a snow-shrouded bush and scrutinized it, rising cautiously to his feet and standing for an instant exposed to view. If Hildegarde were watching alertly, he said to himself, she would surely see him. He waited. In a moment he could hear the window open. "Potter," whispered Hildegarde. "Here," he said. She disappeared, but came back presently, holding out something black and bulky. "My bag," she whispered. "Catch!" He caught it and deposited it on the snow; then, while he wondered how he was to get her down from her room, she climbed upon the window-sill, lowered herself until she hung by her fingers. "Careful." he said, with incautious loudness. "Wait." But Hildegarde was driven by the same impatience as himself. There would be no waiting for her, no caution. She loosed her hold and dropped, falling into a little heap in the snow. Potter raised her quickly. "Hurt?" he asked. "No," she said, "of course not." He picked up her bag. "My car's just across the street," he said, and they walked hurriedly toward it. As they approached a black blot made by the shadow of a clump or ornamental shrubbery, the dark figure of a man arose, almost from under their feet, and scurried away. Potter's impulse was to give chase, but Hildegarde clutched his arm. "What in thunder?" Potter burst out, angrily. "Somebody spying on us." "Not on us," said Hildegarde, bitterly. "Of course it was on us. He probably saw me sneak into the grounds, and sneaked after to see what I was up to.... I wonder why."