Northrup was restless and nervous. There was much to be done before he left. He must see Rivers and finish that business--it might have to be hurried, but he felt confident that by raising Larry's price he could secure his ends. And then, because of the finality in the turn of events, Northrup desperately decided upon a compromise with his conscience. Strange as it now seemed he had, before his talk with Kathryn, believed that he was done forever with his experience, but he realized, as he reconsidered the matter, that hope, a strange, blind hope, had fluttered earlier but that now it was dead; dead! Since that was the case, he would do for a dead man--Northrup gruesomely termed himself that--what the dead man could not do for himself. Surely no one, not even Rivers, would deny him that poor comfort, if all were known. He would write a note to Mary-Clare, go early in the morning to that cabin on the hill and leave it--where her eye would fall upon it when she entered. That the cabin was sacred to Mary-Clare he very well knew; that she shared it with no one, he also knew; but she would forgive his trespassing, since it was his only way in honour out--out of her life. Very well, then! At nine-thirty he decided to go over to the Point again and, if he found Larry, finish that business. If Larry were not there, he would lie in wait for him and gain his ends. So he prepared for another night away from the inn, if necessary. Aunt Polly, hovering on the outskirts of all that was going on, materialized, as he was about leaving the house like a thief of the night. "Now, son, must you go out?" she pleaded, her spectacles awry on the top of her head, her eyes unnaturally bright. "Yes, Aunt Polly." Northrup paused, the knob of the door in hand, and looked down at the little creature. "Is it fair, son?" Aunt Polly was savagely thinking of the gossip of the Forest--she wildly believed that Northrup might be going to the yellow house. The hurry of departure might blind him to folly. "Fair--fair to whom, Aunt Polly?" Northrup's brows drew together. "To yourself, son. Bad news and the sudden going away----" the old voice choked. It was hard to use an enemy's weapon against one's own, even to save him. "Aunt Polly, look at me." This was spoken sternly. "I _am_ looking, son, I am looking." And so she was. "I'm going out, because I must, if I am to do my duty by others. You must trust me. And I want you to know that all my future life will be the stronger, the safer, because of my weeks here with you all! I came to you with no purpose--just a tired, half-sick man, but things were taken out of my hands. I've been used, and I don't know myself just yet for what. I'm going to have faith and you must have it--I'm with you, not against you. Will you kiss me, Aunt Polly?"