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. "Ho! ho!" Kathryn spread them before her and read greedily--not sympathetically--but amusedly. There were references to eyes, hair, expressions; even "mud-stained breeches." With elbows on the table, daintily gloved hands supporting her chin, Kathryn read and thought and wove _her_ plot with Northrup's words, but half understood, lying under her gaze. Suddenly Kathryn's eyes widened--her ears caught a sound. Never while she lived was Kathryn Morris to forget her sensations of that moment, for they were coloured and weighted by events that followed rapidly, dramatically. In the doorway stood Mary-Clare, a very embodiment of the girl described in the pages on the table. The tall, slim, boyish figure in rough breeches, coat, and cap, was a staggering apparition. The beauty of the surprised face did not appeal to Kathryn, but she was not for one instant deceived as to the sex of the person on the threshold, and her none-too-pure mind made a wild and dangerous leap to a most unstable point of disadvantage.