Ingolls said: “We’re starting at the wrong end, Clare.” He looked at his daughter and she turned her face towards him but did not speak. “We’re behaving like children,” he said. “He tells us two astounding facts—first, that he is in this country as a Nazi agent—or ‘officer’ as he calls it—and second he says that he has decided that he no longer believes in Naziism. And we are so flabbergasted by the whole thing, like a pair of kids, that we just grip on to the first one—which is far less important.” He continued to look at Clare while he spoke but Otto could feel that the words were as much for him.
“We were carried away by the hope,” Ingolls said, “that the snake we’ve been nourishing in our bosom hadn’t been poisoning our friends. We had to try and prove that to ourselves. But let’s stop that nonsense right now! Let’s ask him questions which really matter.” He looked at Otto now, still standing stiffly above him. He said:
“Falken, did you say your name was? Falken: Why did you change? What, if you have changed, are you going to do about it? And in any and either case, what did you tell us for? Why—if you have changed and this isn’t some trick—did you put yourself and us in this ungodly position? Why didn’t you say nothing about it and get well and say thank you and leave and work out your unfortunate destiny in some private way?”
Otto met the hard, grey, unreadable eyes without retreat. He said:
“I changed because I have found out that what I was taught is lies. I can explain more if you wish, but it will take me very long and if you do not believe me now you will not if I say more. But it is true.”
He waited, and Ingolls said: “Go on!”
“I know what I am going to do—but I will answer that afterwards. And I told you because . . . because . . .”
He stopped. He had been ready. He had known the words he was going to say—but they had gone.
Clare got suddenly to her feet. “I know why,” she said to her father, and wheeled away from the group and the soft circle of light about the chairs and stood somewhere in the shadow.
Ingolls peered after her. “So!” His voice was without expression.
Otto plunged, not knowing whether or not he had been grateful for the interruption. He said:
“There is another reason . . .” and could have cut out his tongue for the word ‘another,’ and checked only a little and went on: “There is one reason why I told you: it is weak and I am not proud to give it. It is that I would like your opinion, sir, upon what I . . . upon the decision I have made to do. And especially is that so after what you have told me last night.” The English words were playing tricks with him now and he feared that he had not made sense with them but knew he could not do better. He swayed a little upon the splints and angrily called his body to attention.
Ingolls stood up. He pointed to his chair and said: “Sit,” in a manner which gave no room for protest.
Otto lowered himself into the chair. He felt weak and shaking and was angry with his body. He saw that Ingolls had stepped out of the light now and in the shadows was standing beside the dim straight figure of Clare. A murmuring came to his ears but no word.
And then Ingolls was back in the light, standing over him.
“I don’t know,” Ingolls said, “whether I want to hear what you’re going to do.”
He might have said more, but his daughter spoke before he could continue. She came back into the light and stood beside him, but with her back to Otto in the chair. She said:
“Of course you don’t want to hear! Why should you? It’ll only be more difficult for you to do what you have to do!” Her voice still did not sound to Otto’s ears like her own.
Ingolls said: “And why shouldn’t I hear what he’s got to say? We’ve listened so far; why no farther?”
Clare said: “Because we’re Americans,” and then cut her speech off abruptly. Otto could see her shoulders move to the labour of her breathing.
Ingolls said: “You mean that it’s our duty to report what he’s told us—that he’s what they call a fifth columnist?” His voice, as Otto noted with a dull surprise which pierced even through the bodily fatigue and mental stress which seemed at every moment to be upon the point ot overpowering him, was still his usual voice.
Clare said: “You know very well what I mean!” and turned away and went quickly out of the light again.
Ingolls sat down upon the arm of the chair next to Otto’s and leaned forward and looked into Otto’s face. He said:
“You realized all this before you said anything. You knew we were Americans—and you knew what our feelings were. You must have known that we should at least think it our duty to hand you over—I was going to say as a spy, but I’ll have to change the word to ‘saboteur.’”
“Yes,” Otto said, “I had thought that would be what you must feel.”
Ingolls said: “What else did you think, then? Or is that what you want?” He said the last sentence incredulously, and Otto could feel the grey eyes upon him.
A small, stifled sound came from the shadows behind his chair and he wanted to turn and leap to his feet tod take Clare into his arms. But he sat still and did not turn his head. He said carefully:
“I think you know that is not what I want. And you know, too, that you would be doing nothing for your country or your cause if you did now make them arrest me.”
Clare’s voice said something from the darkness behind him and Ingolls looked toward the sound as he spoke. He said:
“That’s true! If this one says he won’t talk, he won’t—not for all the cigarette-ends and rubber hose in America.” He swung around upon Otto. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
Otto said: “That is what I mean.”
Ingolls spoke to his daughter again. “This conversion: do you believe him?”
“Yes,” said Clare’s voice from the shadows. “Yes!” and Otto started as if someone had struck him.
Ingolls said: “So do I.” He faced Otto again and seemed about to speak, but then was silent for a long moment.
“Clare!” he said at last. “Come here.”
She came slowly into the light and stood beside him. He took her by the arm and pushed her gently into the chair beside Otto’s and then himself sat upon the arm of it with a hand upon her shoulder. He said to Otto:
“Tell us what you plan to do?”
Otto sat forward a little. He gripped his hands, one over the other, between his knees. He said:
“Very well. I will not use the names of places or people, but I will tell you.”
He finished—and a heavy silence seemed to hang about him. No one spoke or moved until Ingolls got to his feet and went to the table at the rim of the circle of light and busied himself with decanter and glasses and came back with a tumbler which he thrust in Otto’s hands.
“Drink that,” he said.
Otto drank, gratefully—and the silence still persisted, until Ingolls broke it.
“Before you began to talk,” he said, “I couldn’t see any way out for you; but that makes sense, Falken.”
Clare said: “It does not! It’s wrong, wrong!”
Otto did not turn his head to look at her. He felt numb and empty of strength and thought.
But Ingolls looked at her and shook his head. “No! It’s not wrong!” he said. “It’s right!”
Clare said: “It isn’t! It’s . . . it’s a frightened compromise. It’s neither one thing nor the other. It’s wrong!”
“Why?” said Otto heavily. “Why is it wrong? I do not understand you.” His voice sounded lifeless and far away in his own ears. And it surprised him: he had not known that he was going to speak.