Morris's silences brooded over a rare storeroom
of treasure or over a haunted and empty chamber.

Without any one being aware of the reasons for his reappearance, a
certain Alexander Arnold materialized while Northrup had been at his
worst. Sandy Arnold had figured rather vehemently in the year
following Kathryn's "coming out," but had faded away when Northrup
began to show signs of becoming famous.

Arnold was a man who made money and lost it in a breath-taking
fashion, but gradually he was steadying himself and was more often up
than down--he was decidedly up at the time of Northrup's darkest hour;
he was still refusing to disappear when Northrup emerged from the
shadows and showed signs of persisting. This was disconcerting.
Kathryn faced a situation, and situations were never thrilling to her:
she lacked the sporting spirit; she always played safe or endeavoured
to. Sandy was still in evidence when Northrup disappeared from the
scene.

Mrs. Northrup read Brace's letter to Kathryn, and something in the
girl rose in alarm. This ignoring of her, for whatever reason, was
most disturbing. Brace should have taken her, if not his mother, into
his confidence. Instead he had "cut and run"--that was the way Kathryn
_thought_ of it. Aloud she said, with that ravishing look of hers:

"How very Brace-like! Getting material and colour I suppose he calls
it. I wish"--this with a tender, yearning smile--"I wish, for your
sake and mine, dear, that his genius ran in another direction, stocks
or banking--anything with an office. It is so worrying, this trick of
his of hunting plots."

"I only hope that he can write again," Mrs. Northrup returned, patting
the letter on her knee. Once she had wanted to write, but she had had
her son instead. In her day women did not have professions _and_ sons.
They chose. Well, she had chosen, and paid the price. Her husband had
cost her much; her son was her recompense. He was her interpreter,
also.

"Where do you think he'll go?" Kathryn asked.

"He'll tell us when he comes home." There was something cryptic about
Helen Northrup when she was seeking to help her son. Kathryn once more
bridled. She was direct herself, very direct, but her advances were
made under a barrage fire.

Her next step was to go to Doctor Manly. She chose his office hour,
waited her turn, and then pleaded wakefulness and headache as her
excuse for the call.

Manly hated wakefulness and headaches. You couldn't put th