The walls of the room were touched up, as if by a woman’s hands, with pictures and a few ornaments.  Where the garments were hanging David noticed a pair of woman’s snow shoes, and a woman’s moccasins under a picture of the Madonna.  On the mantel there was a tall vase filled with the dried stems of flowers.  And then came the most amazing discovery of all.  There was a second table between the lamp and the bed, and it was set for two!  Yes, for two!  No, for three!  For, a little in shadow, David saw a crudely made high-chair—­a baby’s chair—­and on it were a little knife and fork, a baby spoon, and a little tin plate.  It was astounding.  Perfectly incredible.  And David’s eyes sought questingly for a door through which a woman might come and go mysteriously and unseen.  There was none, and the one window of the room was so high up that a person standing on the ground outside could not look in.

And now it began to dawn upon David that all these things he was looking at were old—­very old.  In the Chateau the Missioner no longer ate on tin plates.  The shoes and slippers must have been made a generation ago.  The rag carpet under his feet had lost its vivid lines of colouring.  Age impressed itself upon him.  This was a woman’s room, but the woman had not been here recently.  And the child had not been here recently.

For the first time his eyes turned in a closer inspection of the table on which stood the big brass lamp.  Father Roland’s violin lay beside it.  He made a step or two nearer, so that he could see beyond the lamp, and his heart gave a sudden jump.  Shimmering on the faded red cloth of the table, glowing as brightly as though it had been clipped from a woman’s head but yesterday, was a long, thick tress of hair!  It was dark, richly dark, and his second impression was one of amazement at the length of it.  The tress was as long as the table—­fully a yard down the woman’s back it must have hung.  It was tied at the end with a bit of white ribbon.

David drew slowly back toward the door, stirred all at once by a great doubt.  Had Father Roland meant him to look upon all this?  A lump rose suddenly in his throat.  He had made a mistake—­a great mistake.  He felt now like one who had broken into the sanctity of a sacred place.  He had committed sacrilege.  The Missioner had not dropped the key purposely.  It must have been an accident.  And he—­David—­was guilty of a great blunder.  He withdrew from the room, and locked the door.  He dropped the key where he had found it on the floor, and sat down again with his book.  He did not read.  He scarcely saw the lines of the printed page.  He had not been in his chair more than ten minutes when he heard quick footsteps, followed by a hand at the door, and Father Roland came in.  He was visibly excited, and his glance shot at once to the room which David had just left.  Then his eyes scanned the floor.  The key was gleaming where it had fallen, and with an exclamation of relief the Missioner snatched it up.