CHAPTER III
DISCUSSION OF A SHADOW
Alan, as he looked confusedly and blankly at her, made no attempt toanswer the question she had asked, or to explain. For the moment, ashe fought to realize what she had said and its meaning for himself, allhis thought was lost in mere dismay, in the denial and checking of whathe had been feeling as he entered the house. His silence andconfusion, he knew, must seem to Constance Sherrill unwillingness toanswer her; for she did not suspect that he was unable to answer her.She plainly took it in that way; but she did not seem offended; it wassympathy, rather, that she showed. She seemed to appreciate, withoutunderstanding except through her feelings, that--for somereason--answer was difficult and dismaying for him.
"You would rather explain to father than to me," she decided.
He hesitated. What he wanted now was time to think, to learn who shewas and who her father was, and to adjust himself to this strangereversal of his expectations.
"Yes; I would rather do that," he said.
"Will you come around to our house, then, please?"
She caught up her fur collar and muff from a chair and spoke a word tothe servant. As she went out on to the porch, he followed her andstooped to pick up his suitcase.
"Simons will bring that," she said, "unless you'd rather have it withyou. It is only a short walk."
He was recovering from the first shock of her question now, and,reflecting that men who accompanied Constance Sherrill probably did notcarry hand baggage, he put the suitcase down and followed her to thewalk. As she turned north and he caught step beside her, he studiedher with quick interested glances, realizing her difference from allother girls he ever had walked with, but he did not speak to her norshe to him. Turning east at the first corner, they came within sightand hearing again of the turmoil of the lake.
"We go south here," she said at the corner of the Drive. "Our house isalmost back to back with Mr. Corvet's."
Alan, looking up after he had made the turn with her, recognized theblock as one he had seen pictured sometimes in magazines andillustrated papers as a "row" of the city's most beautiful homes.Larger, handsomer, and finer than the mansions on Astor Street, eachhad its lawn or terrace in front and on both sides, where snow-mantledshrubs and straw-bound rosebushes suggested the gardens of spring.They turned in at the entrance of a house in the middle of the blockand went up the low, wide stone steps; the door opened to them withoutring or knock; a servant in the hall within took Alan's hat and coat,and he followed Constance past some great room upon his right to asmaller one farther down the hall.
"Will you wait here, please?" she asked.
He sat down, and she left him; when her footsteps had died away, and hecould hear no other sounds except the occasional soft tread of someservant, he twisted himself about in his chair and looked around. Adoor between the room he was in and the large room which had been uponhis right as they came in--a drawing-room--stood open; he could seeinto the drawing-room, and he could see through the other door aportion of the hall; his inspection of these increased the bewildermenthe felt. Who were these Sherrills? Who was Corvet, and what was hisrelation to the Sherrills? What, beyond all, was their and Corvet'srelation to Alan Conrad--to himself? The shock and confusion he hadfelt at the nature of his reception in Corvet's house, and thestrangeness of his transition from his little Kansas town to a placeand people such as this, had prevented him from inquiring directly fromConstance Sherrill as to that; and, on her part, she had assumed,plainly, that he already knew and need not be told.
He got up and moved about the rooms; they, like all rooms, must tellsomething about the people who lived in them. The rooms were large andopen; Alan, in dreaming and fancying to himself the places to which hemight some day be summoned, had never dreamed of entering such a homeas this. For it was a home; in its light and in its furnishings therewas nothing of the stiffness and aloofness which Alan, never havingseen such rooms except in pictures, had imagined to be necessary evilsaccompanying riches and luxury; it was not the richness of itsfurnishings that impressed him first, it was its livableness. Amongthe more modern pieces in the drawing-room and hall were some whichwere antique. In the part of the hall that he could see, a black andancient-looking chair whose lines he recognized, stood against thewall. He had seen chairs like that, heirlooms of colonialMassachusetts or Connecticut, cherished in Kansas farmhouses andrecalling some long-past exodus of the family from New England. On thewall of the drawing-room, among the beautiful and elusive paintings andetchings, was a picture of a ship, plainly framed; he moved closer tolook at it, but he did not know what kind of ship it was except that itwas a sailing ship of some long-disused design. Then he drew backagain into the smaller room where he had been left, and sat down againto wait.
A comfortable fire of cannel coal was burning in this smaller room in ablack fire-basket set in a white marble grate, obviously much olderthan the house; there were big easy leather chairs before it, andbeside it there were bookcases. On one of these stood a two-handledsilver trophy cup, and hung high upon the wall above the mantel was along racing sweep with the date '85 painted in black across the blade.He had the feeling, coming quite unconsciously, of liking the peoplewho lived in this handsome house.
He straightened and looked about, then got up, as Constance Sherrillcame back into the room.
"Father is not here just now," she said. "We weren't sure from yourtelegram exactly at what hour you would arrive, and that was why Iwaited at Mr. Corvet's to be sure we wouldn't miss you. I havetelephoned father, and he's coming home at once."
She hesitated an instant in the doorway, then turned to go out again.
"Miss Sherrill--" he said.
She halted. "Yes."
"You told me you had been waiting for me to come and explain myconnection with Mr. Corvet. Well--I can't do that; that is what I camehere hoping to find out."
She came back toward him slowly.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
He was forcing himself to disregard the strangeness which hissurroundings and all that had happened in the last half hour had madehim feel; leaning his arms on the back of the chair in which he hadbeen sitting, he managed to smile reassuringly; and he fought down andcontrolled resolutely the excitement in his voice, as he told herrapidly the little he knew about himself.
He could not tell definitely how she was affected by what he said. Sheflushed slightly, following her first start of surprise after he hadbegun to speak; when he had finished, he saw that she was a little pale.
"Then you don't know anything about Mr. Corvet at all," she said.
"No; until I got his letter sending for me here, I'd never seen orheard his name."
She was thoughtful for a moment.
"Thank you for telling me," she said. "I'll tell my father when hecomes."
"Your father is--?" he ventured.
She understood now that the name of Sherrill had meant nothing to him."Father is Mr. Corvet's closest friend, and his business partner aswell," she explained.
He thought she was going to tell him something more about them; but sheseemed then to decide to leave that for her father to do. She crossedto the big chair beside the grate and seated herself. As she satlooking at him, hands clasped beneath her chin, and her elbows restingon the arm of the chair, there was speculation and interest in hergaze; but she did not ask him anything more about himself. Sheinquired about the Kansas weather that week in comparison with thestorm which had just ceased in Chicago, and about Blue Rapids, whichshe said she had looked up upon the map, and he took this chat for whatit was--notification that she did not wish to continue the other topicjust then.
She, he saw, was listening, like himself, for the sound of Sherrill'sarrival at the house; and when it came, she recognized it first, rose,and excused herself. He heard her voice in the hall, then her father'sdeeper voice which answered; and ten minutes later, he looked up to seethe man these things had told him must be Sherrill standing
in the doorand looking at him.
He was a tall man, sparely built; his broad shoulders had been those ofan athlete in his youth; now, at something over fifty, they had takenon a slight, rather studious stoop, and his brown hair had thinned uponhis forehead. His eyes, gray like his daughter's, were thoughtfuleyes; just now deep trouble filled them. His look and bearing of arefined and educated gentleman took away all chance of offense from thelong, inquiring scrutiny to which he subjected Alan's features andfigure before he came into the room.
Alan had risen at sight of him; Sherrill, as he came in, motioned himback to his seat; he did not sit down himself, but crossed to themantel and leaned against it.
"I am Lawrence Sherrill," he said.
As the tall, graceful, thoughtful man stood looking down at him, Alancould tell nothing of the attitude of this friend of Benjamin Corvettoward himself. His manner had the same reserve toward Alan, the samequestioning consideration of him, that Constance Sherrill had had afterAlan had told her about himself.
"My daughter has repeated to me what you told her, Mr. Conrad,"Sherrill observed. "Is there anything you want to add to me regardingthat?"
"There's nothing I can add," Alan answered. "I told her all that Iknow about myself."
"And about Mr. Corvet?"
"I know nothing at all about Mr. Corvet."
"I am going to tell you some things about Mr. Corvet," Sherrill said."I had reason--I do not want to explain just yet what that reasonwas--for thinking you could tell us certain things about Mr. Corvet,which would, perhaps, make plainer what has happened to him. When Itell you about him now, it is in the hope that, in that way, I mayawake some forgotten memory of him in you; if not that, you maydiscover some coincidences of dates or events in Corvet's life withdates or events in your own. Will you tell me frankly, if you dodiscover anything like that?"
"Yes; certainly."
Alan leaned forward in the big chair, hands clasped between his knees,his blood tingling sharply in his face and fingertips. So Sherrillexpected to make him remember Corvet! There was strange excitement inthis, and he waited eagerly for Sherrill to begin. For severalmoments, Sherrill paced up and down before the fire; then he returnedto his place before the mantel.
"I first met Benjamin Corvet," he commenced, "nearly thirty years ago.I had come West for the first time the year before; I was about yourown age and had been graduated from college only a short time, and abusiness opening had offered itself here.
"There was a sentimental reason--I think I must call it that--as well,for my coming to Chicago. Until my generation, the property of ourfamily had always been largely--and generally exclusively--in ships.It is a Salem family; a Sherrill was a sea-captain, living in Salem,they say, when his neighbors--and he, I suppose--hanged witches; we hadprivateers in 1812 and our clippers went round the Horn in '49. The_Alabama_ ended our ships in '63, as it ended practically the rest ofthe American shipping on the Atlantic; and in '73, when our part of the_Alabama_ claims was paid us, my mother put it in bonds waiting for meto grow up.
"Sentiment, when I came of age, made me want to put this money backinto ships flying the American flag; but there was small chance ofputting it--and keeping it, with profit--in American ships on the sea.In Boston and New York, I had seen the foreign flags on the deep-waterships--British, German, French, Norwegian, Swedish, and Greek; our flagflew mostly on ferries and excursion steamers. But times were boomingon the great lakes. Chicago, which had more than recovered from thefire, was doubling its population every decade; Cleveland, Duluth, andMilwaukee were leaping up as ports. Men were growing millions ofbushels of grain which they couldn't ship except by lake; hundreds ofthousands of tons of ore had to go by water; and there were tens ofmillions of feet of pine and hardwood from the Michigan forests.Sailing vessels such as the Sherrills had always operated, it is true,had seen their day and were disappearing from the lakes; were being'sold,' many of them, as the saying is, 'to the insurance companies' bydeliberate wrecking. Steamers were taking their place. Towing hadcome in. The first of the whalebacks was built about that time, and webegan to see those processions of a barge and two, three, or four towswhich the lakemen called 'the sow and her pigs.' Men of all sorts hadcome forward, of course, and, serving the situation more or lessaccidentally, were making themselves rich.
"It was railroading which had brought me West; but I had brought withme the _Alabama_ money to put into ships. I have called it sentiment,but it was not merely that; I felt, young man though I was, that thistransportation matter was all one thing, and that in the end therailroads would own the ships. I have never engaged very actively inthe operation of the ships; my daughter would like me to be more activein it than I have been; but ever since, I have had money in lakevessels. It was the year that I began that sort of investment that Ifirst met Corvet."
Alan looked up quickly. "Mr. Corvet was--?" he asked.
"Corvet was--is a lakeman," Sherrill said.
Alan sat motionless, as he recollected the strange exaltation that hadcome to him when he saw the lake for the first time. Should he tellSherrill of that? He decided it was too vague, too indefinite to bementioned; no doubt any other man used only to the prairie might havefelt the same.
"He was a ship owner, then," he said.
"Yes; he was a shipowner--not, however, on a large scale at that time.He had been a master, sailing ships which belonged to others; then hehad sailed one of his own. He was operating then, I believe, twovessels; but with the boom times on the lakes, his interests werebeginning to expand. I met him frequently in the next few years, andwe became close friends."
Sherrill broke off and stared an instant down at the rug. Alan bentforward; he made no interruption but only watched Sherrill attentively.
"It was one of the great advantages of the West, I think--andparticularly of Chicago at that time--that it gave opportunity forfriendships of that sort," Sherrill said. "Corvet was a man of a sortI would have been far less likely ever to have known intimately in theEast. He was both what the lakes had made him and what he had made ofhimself; a great reader--wholly self-educated; he had, I think, many ofthe attributes of a great man--at least, they were those of a man whoshould have become great; he had imagination and vision. His wholethought and effort, at that time, were absorbed in furthering anddeveloping the traffic on the lakes, and not at all from mere desirefor personal success. I met him for the first time one day when I wentto his office on some business. He had just opened an office at thattime in one of the old ramshackle rows along the river front; there wasnothing at all pretentious about it--the contrary, in fact; but as Iwent in and waited with the others who were there to see him, I had thesense of being in the ante-room of a great man. I do not mean therewas any idiotic pomp or lackyism or red tape about it; I mean that theothers who were waiting to see him, and who knew him, were keyed up bythe anticipation and keyed me up....
"I saw as much as I could of him after that, and our friendship becamevery close.
"In 1892, when I married and took my residence here on the lakeshore--the house stood where this one stands now--Corvet bought thehouse on Astor Street. His only reason for doing it was, I believe,his desire to be near me. The neighborhood was what they callfashionable; neither Corvet nor Mrs. Corvet--he had married in1889--had social ambitions of that sort. Mrs. Corvet came fromDetroit; she was of good family there--a strain of French blood in thefamily; she was a schoolteacher when he married her, and she had made awonderful wife for him--a good woman, a woman of very high ideals; itwas great grief to both of them that they had no children.
"Between 1886, when I first met him, and 1895, Corvet laid thefoundation of great success; his boats seemed lucky, men liked to workfor him, and he got the best skippers and crews. A Corvet captainboasted of it and, if he had had bad luck on another line, believed hisluck changed when he took a Corvet ship; cargoes in Corvet bottomssomehow always reached port; there was a saying that in storm a Corvetship never asked help; i
t gave it; certainly in twenty years no Corvetship had suffered serious disaster. Corvet was not yet rich, butunless accident or undue competition intervened, he was certain tobecome so. Then something happened."
Sherrill looked away at evident loss how to describe it.
"To the ships?" Alan asked him.
"No; to him. In 1896, for no apparent reason, a great change came overhim."
"In 1896!"
"That was the year."
Alan bent forward, his heart throbbing in his throat. "That was alsothe year when I was brought and left with the Weltons in Kansas," hesaid.
Sherrill did not speak for a moment. "I thought," he said finally, "itmust have been about that time; but you did not tell my daughter theexact date."
"What kind of change came over him that year?" Alan asked.
Sherrill gazed down at the rug, then at Alan, then past him. "A changein his way of living," he replied. "The Corvet line of boats went on,expanded; interests were acquired in other lines; and Corvet and thoseallied with him swiftly grew rich. But in all this great development,for which Corvet's genius and ability had laid the foundation, Corvethimself ceased to take active part. I do not mean that he formallyretired; he retained his control of the business, but he very seldomwent to the office and, except for occasional violent, almost pettishinterference in the affairs of the company, he left it in the hands ofothers. He took into partnership, about a year later, Henry Spearman,a young man who had been merely a mate on one of his ships. Thisproved subsequently to have been a good business move, for Spearman hastremendous energy, daring, and enterprise; and no doubt Corvet hadrecognized these qualities in him before others did. But at the timeit excited considerable comment. It marked, certainly, the beginningof Corvet's withdrawal from active management. Since then he has beenostensibly and publicly the head of the concern, but he has left themanagement almost entirely to Spearman. The personal change in Corvetat that time is harder for me to describe to you."
Sherrill halted, his eyes dark with thought, his lips, pressed closelytogether; Alan waited.
"When I saw Corvet again, in the summer of '96--I had been South duringthe latter part of the winter and East through the spring--I wasimpressed by the vague but, to me, alarming change in him. I wasreminded, I recall, of a friend I had had in college who had thought hewas in perfect health and had gone to an examiner for life insuranceand had been refused, and was trying to deny to himself and others thatanything could be the matter. But with Corvet I knew the trouble wasnot physical. The next year his wife left him."
"The year of--?" Alan asked.
"That was 1897. We did not know at first, of course, that theseparation was permanent. It proved so, however; and Corvet, I knownow, had understood it to be that way from the first. Mrs. Corvet wentto France--the French blood in her, I suppose, made her select thatcountry; she had for a number of years a cottage near Trouville, inNormandy, and was active in church work. I know there was almost nocommunication between herself and her husband during those years, andher leaving him markedly affected Corvet. He had been very fond of herand proud of her. I had seen him sometimes watching her while shetalked; he would gaze at her steadily and then look about at the otherwomen in the room and back to her, and his head would nod justperceptibly with satisfaction; and she would see it sometimes andsmile. There was no question of their understanding and affection upto the very time she so suddenly and so strangely left him. She diedin Trouville in the spring of 1910, and Corvet's first information ofher death come to him through a paragraph in a newspaper."
Alan had started; Sherrill looked at him questioningly.
"The spring of 1910," Alan explained, "was when I received the bankdraft for fifteen hundred dollars."
Sherrill nodded; he did not seem surprised to hear this; rather itappeared to be confirmation of something in his own thought.
"Following his wife's leaving him," Sherrill went on, "Corvet saw verylittle of any one. He spent most of his time in his own house;occasionally he lunched at his club; at rare intervals, and alwaysunexpectedly, he appeared at his office. I remember that summer he wasterribly disturbed because one of his ships was lost. It was not a baddisaster, for every one on the ship was saved, and hull and cargo werefully covered by insurance; but the Corvet record was broken; a Corvetship had appealed for help; a Corvet vessel had not reached port....And later in the fall, when two deckhands were washed from another ofhis vessels and drowned, he was again greatly wrought up, though hisships still had a most favorable record. In 1902 I proposed to himthat I buy full ownership in the vessels I partly controlled and allythem with those he and Spearman operated. It was a time ofcombination--the railroads and the steel interests were acquiring thelake vessels; and though I believed in this, I was not willing to enterany combination which would take the name of Sherrill off the list ofAmerican shipowners. I did not give Corvet this as my reason; and hemade me at that time a very strange counter-proposition--which I havenever been able to understand, and which entailed the very obliterationof my name which I was trying to avoid. He proposed that I accept apartnership in his concern on a most generous basis, but that the nameof the company remain as it was, merely Corvet and Spearman.Spearman's influence and mine prevailed upon him to allow my name toappear; since then, the firm name has been Corvet, Sherrill, andSpearman.
"Our friendship had strengthened and ripened during those years. Theintense activity of Corvet's mind, which as a younger man he haddirected wholly to the shipping, was directed, after he had isolatedhimself in this way, to other things. He took up almost feverishly animmense number of studies--strange studies most of them for a man whoseyouth had been almost violently active and who had once been a lakecaptain. I cannot tell you what they all were--geology, ethnology,nearly a score of subjects; he corresponded with various scientificsocieties; he has given almost the whole of his attention to suchthings for about twenty years. Since I have known him, he hastransformed himself from the rather rough, uncouth--though alwaysspiritually minded--man he was when I first met him into an educatedgentleman whom anybody would be glad to know; but he has made very fewacquaintances in that time, and has kept almost none of his oldfriendships. He has lived alone in the house on Astor Street with onlyone servant--the same one all these years.
"The only house he has visited with any frequency has been mine. Hehas always liked my wife; he had--he has a great affection for mydaughter, who, when she was a child, ran in and out of his home as shepleased. He would take long walks with her; he'd come here sometimesin the afternoon to have tea with her on stormy days; he liked to haveher play and sing to him. My daughter believes now that his presentdisappearance--whatever has happened to him--is connected in some waywith herself. I do not think that is so--"
Sherrill broke off and stood in thought for a moment; he seemed toconsider, and to decide that it was not necessary to say anything moreon that subject.
"Recently Corvet's moroseness and irritability had very greatlyincreased; he had quarreled frequently and bitterly with Spearman overbusiness affairs. He had seemed more than usually eager at times tosee me or to see my daughter; and at other times he had seemed to avoidus and keep away. I have had the feeling of late, though I could notgive any actual reason for it except Corvet's manner and look, that thedisturbance which had oppressed him for twenty years was culminating insome way. That culmination seems to have been reached three days ago,when he wrote summoning you here. Henry Spearman, whom I asked aboutyou when I learned you were coming, had never heard of you; Mr.Corvet's servant had never heard of you....
"Is there anything in what I have told you which makes it possible foryou to recollect or to explain?"
Alan shook his head, flushed, and then grew a little pale. WhatSherrill told him had excited him by the coincidences it offeredbetween events in Benjamin Corvet's life and his own; it had not madehim "recollect" Corvet, but it had given definiteness and direction tohis speculations as to Corvet's
relation to himself.
Sherrill drew one of the large chairs nearer to Alan and sat downfacing him. He felt in an inner pocket and brought out an envelope;from the envelope he took three pictures, and handed the smallest ofthem to Alan. As Alan took it, he saw that it was a tintype of himselfas a round-faced boy of seven.
"That is you?" Sherrill asked.
"Yes; it was taken by the photographer in Blue Rapids. We all had ourpictures taken on that day--Jim, Betty, and I. Mr. Welton"--for thefirst time Alan consciously avoided giving the title "Father" to theman in Kansas--"sent one of me to the 'general delivery' address of theperson in Chicago."
"And this?"
The second picture, Alan saw, was one that had been taken in front ofthe barn at the farm. It showed Alan at twelve, in overalls andbarefooted, holding a stick over his head at which a shepherd dog wasjumping.
"Yes; that is Shep and I--Jim's and my dog, Mr. Sherrill. It was takenby a man who stopped at the house for dinner one day; he liked Shep andwanted a picture of him; so he got me to make Shep jump, and he tookit."
"You don't remember anything about the man?"
"Only that he had a camera and wanted a picture of Shep."
"Doesn't it occur to you that it was your picture he wanted, and thathe had been sent to get it? I wanted your verification that theseearlier pictures were of you, but this last one is easily recognizable."
Sherrill unfolded the third picture; it was larger than the others andhad been folded across the middle to get it into the envelope. Alanleaned forward to look at it.
"That is the University of Kansas football team," he said. "I am thesecond one in the front row; I played end my junior year and tacklewhen I was a senior. Mr. Corvet--?"
"Yes; Mr. Corvet had these pictures. They came into my possession daybefore yesterday, the day after Corvet disappeared; I do not want totell just yet how they did that."
Alan's face, which had been flushed at first with excitement, had gonequite pale, and his hands, as he clenched and unclenched themnervously, were cold, and his lips were very dry. He could think of nopossible relationship between Benjamin Corvet and himself, except one,which could account for Corvet's obtaining and keeping these picturesof him through the years. As Sherrill put the pictures back into theirenvelope and the envelope back into his pocket, and Alan watched him,Alan felt nearly certain now that it had not been proof of the natureof this relationship that Sherrill had been trying to get from him, butonly corroboration of some knowledge, or partial knowledge, which hadcome to Sherrill in some other way. The existence of this knowledgewas implied by Sherrill's withholding of the way he had come intopossession of the pictures, and his manner showed now that he hadreceived from Alan the confirmation for which he had been seeking.
"I think you know who I am," Alan said.
Sherrill had risen and stood looking down at him.
"You have guessed, if I am not mistaken, that you are Corvet's son."
The color flamed to Alan's face for an instant, then left it paler thanbefore. "I thought it must be that way," he answered; "but you said hehad no children."
"Benjamin Corvet and his wife had no children."
"I thought that was what you meant." A twinge twisted Alan's face; hetried to control it but for a moment could not.
Sherrill suddenly put his hand on Alan's shoulder; there was somethingso friendly, so affectionate in the quick, impulsive grasp ofSherrill's fingers, that Alan's heart throbbed to it; for the firsttime some one had touched him in full, unchecked feeling for him; forthe first time, the unknown about him had failed to be a barrier and,instead, had drawn another to him.
"Do not misapprehend your father," Sherrill said quietly. "I cannotprevent what other people may think when they learn this; but I do notshare such thoughts with them. There is much in this I cannotunderstand; but I know that it is not merely the result of what othersmay think it--of 'a wife in more ports than one,' as you will hear thelakemen put it. What lies under this is some great misadventure whichhad changed and frustrated all your father's life."
Sherrill crossed the room and rang for a servant.
"I am going to ask you to be my guest for a short time, Alan," heannounced. "I have had your bag carried to your room; the man willshow you which one it is."
Alan hesitated; he felt that Sherrill had not told him all heknew--that there were some things Sherrill purposely was withholdingfrom him; but he could not force Sherrill to tell more than he wished;so after an instant's irresolution, he accepted the dismissal.
Sherrill walked with him to the door, and gave his directions to theservant; he stood watching, as Alan and the man went up the stairs.Then he went back and seated himself in the chair Alan had occupied,and sat with hands grasping the arms of the chair while he stared intothe fire.
Fifteen minutes later, he heard his daughter's footsteps and looked up.Constance halted in the door to assure herself that he was now alone;then she came to him and, seating herself on the arm of the chair, sheput her hand on his thin hair and smoothed it softly; he felt for herother hand with his and found it, and held it clasped between his palms.
"You've found out who he is, father?" she asked.
"The facts have left me no doubt at all as to that, little daughter."
"No doubt that he is----who?"
Sherrill was silent for a moment--not from uncertainty, but because ofthe effect which what he must say would have upon her; then he told herin almost the same words he had used to Alan. Constance started,flushed, and her hand stiffened convulsively between her father's.
They said nothing more to one another; Sherrill seemed considering anddebating something within himself; and presently he seemed to come to adecision. He got up, stooped and touched his daughter's hand, and leftthe room. He went up the stairs and on the second floor he went to afront room and knocked. Alan's voice told him to come in. Sherrillwent in and, when he had made sure that the servant was not with Alan,he closed the door carefully behind him.
Then he turned back to Alan, and for an instant stood indecisive asthough he did not know how to begin what he wanted to say. As heglanced down at a key he took from his pocket, his indecision seemed toreceive direction and inspiration from it; and he put it down on Alan'sdresser.
"I've brought you," he said evenly, "the key to your house."
Alan gazed at him, bewildered. "The key to my house?"
"To the house on Astor Street," Sherrill confirmed. "Your fatherdeeded the house and its furniture and all its contents to you the daybefore he disappeared. I have not the deed here; it came into my handsthe day before yesterday at the same time I got possession of thepictures which might--or might not, for all I knew then--be you. Ihave the deed down-town and will give it to you. The house is yours infee simple, given you by your father, not bequeathed to you by him tobecome your property after his death. He meant by that, I think, evenmore than the mere acknowledgment that he is your father."
Sherrill walked to the window and stood as though looking out, but hiseyes were blank with thought.
"For almost twenty years," he said, "your father, as I have told you,lived in that house practically alone; during all those years a shadowof some sort was over him. I don't know at all, Alan, what that shadowwas. But it is certain that whatever it was that had changed him fromthe man he was when I first knew him culminated three days ago when hewrote to you. It may be that the consequences of his writing to youwere such that, after he had sent the letter, he could not bringhimself to face them and so has merely ... gone away. In that case, aswe stand here talking, he is still alive. On the other hand, hiswriting you may have precipitated something that I know nothing of. Ineither case, if he has left anywhere any evidence of what it is thatchanged and oppressed him for all these years, or if there is anyevidence of what has happened to him now, it will be found in hishouse."
Sherrill turned back to Alan. "It is for you--not me, Alan," he saidsimply, "to make that search. I
have thought seriously about it, thislast half hour, and have decided that is as he would want it--perhapsas he did want it--to be. He could have told me what his trouble wasany time in these twenty years, if he had been willing I should know;but he never did."
Sherrill was silent for a moment.
"There are some things your father did just before he disappeared thatI have not told you yet," he went on. "The reason I have not told themis that I have not yet fully decided in my own mind what action theycall for from me. I can assure you, however, that it would not helpyou now in any way to know them."
He thought again; then glanced to the key on the dresser and seemed torecollect.
"That key," he said, "is one I made your father give me some time ago;he was at home alone so much that I was afraid something might happento him there. He gave it me because he knew I would not misuse it. Iused it, for the first time, three days ago, when, after becomingcertain something had gone wrong with him, I went to the house tosearch for him; my daughter used it this morning when she went there towait for you. Your father, of course, had a key to the front door likethis one; his servant has a key to the servants' entrance. I do notknow of any other keys."
"The servant is in charge there now?" Alan asked.
"Just now there is no one in the house. The servant, after your fatherdisappeared, thought that, if he had merely gone away, he might havegone back to his birthplace near Manistique, and he went up there tolook for him. I had a wire from him to-day that he had not found himand was coming back."
Sherrill waited a moment to see whether there was anything more Alanwanted to ask; then he went out.
The Indian Drum Page 3