"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.
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.