Now, if fools rush in where angels fear to tread, surely they often rush to their undoing. Kathryn followed the trail to the cabin in the woods, breathlessly and in momentary danger of breaking her ankles, for she teetered painfully on her French heels and humorously wished that when the Lord was making hills He had made them all down-grade; but at 189 last she came in sight of the vine-covered shack and stood still to consider.
It was characteristic of Kathryn that she never doubted her intuitions until she was left high and dry by their incapacity to hold her up.
“Ho! ho!” she murmured. “So this is where he burrows? Another edition of the East Side tenement room where he hid while writing his abominable book!”
Kathryn went nearer, stepping carefully––Northrup might be inside! No; the strange room was empty! Kathryn recalled the one visit she had made to the tenement while Northrup was writing. There had been a terrible woman with a mop outside the door there who would not let her pass; who had even cast unpleasant suggestions at her––suggestions that had made Kathryn’s cheeks burn.
She had never told Northrup about that visit; she would not tell him about this one, either, unless her hand were forced. In case he came upon her, she saw, vividly, herself in a dramatic act––she would be a beautiful picture of tender girlhood nestling in his environment, led to him by sore need and loving intuition.
Kathryn, thus reinforced by her imagination, went boldly in, sat down by the crude table, smiled at the Bible lying open before her––then she raised her eyes to Father Damien. The face was familiar and Kathryn concluded it must be a reproduction of some famous painting of the Christ!
That, and the Bible, made the girl smile. Temperament was insanity, nothing less!
Kathryn looked about for evidences of Northrup’s craft.
“I suppose he takes his precious stuff away with him. Afraid of fires or wild beasts.”
This latter thought wasn’t pleasant and Kathryn turned nervously to the door. As she did so her arm pushed the Bible aside and there, disclosed to her ferret glance, were the pages of Northrup’s manuscript, duplicate sheets, that Mary-Clare had been rereading.