the point of inviting him into the room, and at last he came to believe that the Missioner wanted him to know what was beyond that mysterious door, and yet was afraid to tell him, or ask him in.  It was well along in March that the thing happened which he had been expecting.  Only it came in a manner that amazed him deeply.  Father Roland came from the room early in the evening, after playing his violin.  He locked the door, and as he put on his cap he said: 

“I shall be gone for an hour, David.  I am going over to Mukoki’s cabin.”

He did not ask David to accompany him, and as he turned to go the key that he had held in his hand dropped to the floor.  It fell with a quite audible sound.  The Missioner must have heard it, and would have recovered it had it slipped from his fingers accidentally.  But he paid no attention to it.  He went out quickly, without glancing back.

For several minutes David stared at the key without moving from his chair near the table.  It meant but one thing.  He was invited to go into that room—­alone.  If he had had a doubt it was dispelled by the fact that Father Roland had left a light burning in there.  It was not chance.  There was a purpose to it all:  the light, the audible dropping of the heavy key, the swift going of the Missioner.  David made himself sure of this before he rose from his chair.  He waited perhaps five minutes.  Then he picked up the key.

At the door, as the key clicked in the lock, he hesitated.  The thought came to him that if he was making a mistake it would be a terrible mistake.  It held his hand for a moment.  Then, slowly, he pushed the door inward and followed it until he stood inside.  The first thing that he noticed was a big brass lamp, of the old style, brought over from England by the Company a hundred years ago, and he held his breath in anticipation of something tremendous impending.  At first he saw nothing that impressed him forcibly.  The room was a disappointment in that first glance.  He could see nothing of its mystery, nothing of that strangeness, quite indefinable even to himself, which he had expected.  And then, as he stood there staring about with wide-open eyes, the truth flashed upon him with a suddenness that drew a quick breath from his lips.  He was standing in a woman’s room!  There was no doubt.

It looked very much as though a woman had left it only recently.  There was a bed, fresh and clean, with a white counterpane.  She had left on that bed a—­nightgown; yes, and he noticed that it had a frill of lace at the neck.  And on the wall were her garments, quite a number of them, and a long coat of a curious style, with a great fur collar.  There was a small dresser, oddly antique, and on it were a brush and comb, a big red pin cushion, and odds and ends of a woman’s toilet affairs.  Close to the bed were a pair of shoes and a pair of slippers, with unusually high heels, and hanging over the edge of the counterpane was a pair of long stockings.