It so happened that on the morning following the day on which the telegram was despatched, Hildegarde von Essen went to the rooms over her father's garage to carry certain delicacies to Philip's wife, who was ill. She remained until she heard the car arrive in the garage below, and then, because she did not want to meet the man, be required to talk with him, whom she believed to be a murderer and a plotter, she arose hastily and stepped out upon the stairs. Philip was not alone; a stranger was with him. Involuntarily Hildegarde stopped and listened. "This'll be easy," Philip was saying. "Softest job we've tackled--no work and no danger. Just set a charge and beat it." "No watchmen? You have rotten luck with watchmen?" "There's a man sleeps there, but he'll be inside. It's just a wooden shack. Built it for a hangar and then added to it. The boss would like some drawings and papers out of the place, and he's been after them, but he can't make the riffle.... He hadn't expected to get busy so soon, but we got a tip that Waite had wired the Signal Corps to come on to watch a test of the engine. Well--there won't be any test to speak of. That engine'll fly without any wings." "TNT?" asked the other. "Sure. That does the business." "To-night, eh?... It's a nice place to work, 'way down on the shore there. Nobody likely to be passing." "He must 'a' picked it on purpose for us," Philip said, with a laugh.... "Eleven o'clock." "You'll bring the stuff?" "Naturally. And you be on hand prompt." "Who's running this--von Essen or the boss?" "What comes from one comes from the other, lately." "I'd love to be that watchman," said the man as he moved toward the door. "He'll wake up straddling a cloud." Hildegarde shuddered. Quietly she stepped back inside the door, stood there trembling a few moments, then opened it noisily and commenced to descend. She nodded to Philip, who looked at her queerly, and walked rapidly to the house. She did not go to her room, but threw herself in a chair in the library. She could not be said to think for some time; her mind was in chaos. But matters arranged themselves before her after a time with cruel clearness. Her father was plotting deliberately to murder a man, for that is what it amounted to--to murder a watchman faithful at his post. That very night. And the watchman was Potter Waite's! This attack was to be made upon him, and the labor which had meant so much to him for the past year would be brought to nothing, destroyed by one blast of devilish explosive.