The Indian Drum

  CHAPTER VIII

  MR. CORVET'S PARTNER

  The instant of meeting, when Alan recognized in Sherrill's partner theman with whom he had fought in Corvet's house, was one of swiftreadjustment of all his thought--adjustment to a situation of which hecould not even have dreamed, and which left him breathless. But forSpearman, obviously, it was not that. Following his noncommittal nodof acknowledgment of Sherrill's introduction and his first steadyscrutiny of Alan, the big, handsome man swung himself off from the deskon which he sat and leaned against it, facing them more directly.

  "Oh, yes--Conrad," he said. His tone was hearty; in it Alan couldrecognize only so much of reserve as might be expected from Sherrill'spartner who had taken an attitude of opposition. The shipmasters,looking on, could see, no doubt, not even that; except for theexcitement which Alan himself could not conceal, it must appear to themonly an ordinary introduction.

  Alan fought sharply down the swift rush of his blood and the tighteningof his muscles.

  "I can say truly that I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Spearman," he managed.

  There was no recognition of anything beyond the mere surface meaning ofthe words in Spearman's slow smile of acknowledgment, as he turned fromAlan to Sherrill.

  "I'm afraid you've taken rather a bad time, Lawrence."

  "You're busy, you mean. This can wait, Henry, if what you're doing isimmediate."

  "I want some of these men to be back in Michigan to-night. Can't weget together later--this afternoon? You'll be about here thisafternoon?" His manner was not casual; Alan could not think of anyexpression of that man as being casual; but this, he thought, came asnear it as Spearman could come.

  "I think I can be here this afternoon," Alan said.

  "Would two-thirty suit you?"

  "As well as any other time."

  "Let's say two-thirty, then." Spearman turned and noted the houralmost solicitously among the scrawled appointments on his desk pad;straightening, after this act of dismissal, he walked with them to thedoor, his hand on Sherrill's shoulder.

  "Circumstances have put us--Mr. Sherrill and myself--in a verydifficult position, Conrad," he remarked. "We want much to be fair toall concerned--"

  He did not finish the sentence, but halted at the door. Sherrill wentout, and Alan followed him; exasperation--half outrage yet halfadmiration--at Spearman's bearing, held Alan speechless. The bloodrushed hotly to his skin as the door closed behind them, his handsclenched, and he turned back to the closed door; then he checkedhimself and followed Sherrill, who, oblivious to Alan's excitement, ledthe way to the door which bore Corvet's name. He opened it, disclosingan empty room, somewhat larger than Spearman's and similar to it,except that it lacked the marks of constant use. It was plain that,since Spearman had chosen to put off discussion of Alan's status,Sherrill did not know what next to do; he stood an instant in thought,then, contenting himself with inviting Alan to lunch, he excusedhimself to return to his office. When he had gone, closing the doorbehind him, Alan began to pace swiftly up and down the room.

  What had just passed had left him still breathless; he felt bewildered.If every movement of Spearman's great, handsome body had not recalledto him their struggle of the night before--if, as Spearman's handrested cordially on Sherrill's shoulder, Alan had not seemed to feelagain that big hand at his throat--he would almost have been ready tobelieve that this was not the man whom he had fought. But he could notdoubt that; he had recognized Spearman beyond question. And Spearmanhad recognized him--he was sure of that; he could not for an instantdoubt it; Spearman had known it was Alan whom he had fought in Corvet'shouse even before Sherrill had brought them together. Was there notfurther proof of that in Spearman's subsequent manner toward him? Forwhat was all this cordiality except defiance? Undoubtedly Spearman hadacted just as he had to show how undisturbed he was, how indifferent hemight be to any accusation Alan could make. Not having told Sherrillof the encounter in the house--not having told any one else--Alan couldnot tell it now, after Sherrill had informed him that Spearman opposedhis accession to Corvet's estate; or, at least, he could not tell whothe man was. In the face of Spearman's manner toward him to-day,Sherrill would not believe. If Spearman denied it--and his story ofhis return to town that morning made it perfectly certain that he woulddeny it--it would be only Alan's word against Spearman's--the word of astranger unknown to Sherrill except by Alan's own account of himselfand the inferences from Corvet's acts. There could be no risk toSpearman in that; he had nothing to fear if Alan blurted an accusationagainst him. Spearman, perhaps, even wanted him to do that--hoped hewould do it. Nothing could more discredit Alan than such anunsustainable accusation against the partner who was opposing Alan'staking his father's place. For it had been plain that Spearmandominated Sherrill, and that Sherrill felt confidence in and admirationtoward him.

  Alan grew hot with the realization that, in the interview just past,Spearman had also dominated him. He had been unable to find anythingadequate to do, anything adequate to answer, in opposition to this manmore than fifteen years older than himself and having a lifelongexperience in dealing with all kinds of men. He would not yield toSpearman like that again; it was the bewilderment of his recognition ofSpearman that had made him do it. Alan stopped his pacing and flunghimself down in the leather desk-chair which had been Corvet's. Hecould hear, at intervals, Spearman's heavy, genial voice addressing theship men in his office; its tones--half of comradeship, half ofcommand--told only too plainly his dominance over those men also. Heheard Spearman's office door open and some of the men go out; after atime it opened again, and the rest went out. He heard Spearman's voicein the outer office, then heard it again as Spearman returned aloneinto his private office.

  There was a telephone upon Corvet's desk which undoubtedly connectedwith the switchboard in the general office. Alan picked up thereceiver and asked for "Mr. Spearman." At once the hearty voiceanswered, "Yes."

  "This is Conrad."

  "I thought I told you I was busy, Conrad!" The 'phone clicked asSpearman hung up the receiver.

  The quality of the voice at the other end of the wire had altered; ithad become suddenly again the harsh voice of the man who had calleddown curses upon "Ben" and on men "in Hell" in Corvet's library.

  Alan sat back in his chair, smiling a little. It had not been for him,then--that pretense of an almost mocking cordiality; Spearman was nottrying to deceive or to influence Alan by that. It had been merely forSherrill's benefit; or, rather, it had been because, in Sherrill'spresence, this had been the most effective weapon against Alan whichSpearman could employ. Spearman might, or might not, deny to Alan hisidentity with the man whom Alan had fought; as yet Alan did not knowwhich Spearman would do; but, at least, between themselves there was tobe no pretense about the antagonism, the opposition they felt towardone another.

  Little prickling thrills of excitement were leaping through Alan, as hegot up and moved about the room again. The room was on a corner, andthere were two windows, one looking to the east over the white and blueexpanse of the harbor and the lake; the other showing the roofs andchimneys, the towers and domes of Chicago, reaching away block afterblock, mile after mile to the south and west, till they dimmed andblurred in the brown haze of the sunlit smoke. Power andpossession--both far exceeding Alan's most extravagant dream--werepromised him by those papers which Sherrill had shown him. When he hadread down the list of those properties, he had had no more feeling,that such things could be his than he had had at first that Corvet'shouse could be his--until he had heard the intruder moving in thathouse. And now it was the sense that another was going to make himfight for those properties that was bringing to him the realization ofhis new power. He "had" something on that man--on Spearman. He didnot know what that thing was; no stretch of his thought, nothing thathe knew about himself or others, could tell him; but, at sight of him,in the dark of Corvet's house, Spearman had cried out in horror, he hadscreamed at him the name of a sunken ship, and in t
error had hurled hiselectric torch. It was true, Spearman's terror had not been at AlanConrad; it had been because Spearman had mistaken him for some oneelse--for a ghost. But, after learning that Alan was not a ghost,Spearman's attitude had not very greatly changed; he had fought, he hadbeen willing to kill rather than to be caught there.

  Alan thought an instant; he would make sure he still "had" thatsomething on Spearman and would learn how far it went. He took up thereceiver and asked for Spearman again.

  Again the voice answered--"Yes."

  "I don't care whether you're busy," Alan said evenly. "I think you andI had better have a talk before we meet with Mr. Sherrill thisafternoon. I am here in Mr. Corvet's office now and will be here forhalf an hour; then I'm going out."

  Spearman made no reply but again hung up the receiver. Alan satwaiting, his watch upon the desk before him--tense, expectant, withflushes of hot and cold passing over him. Ten minutes passed; thentwenty. The telephone under Corvet's desk buzzed.

  "Mr. Spearman says he will give you five minutes now," the switchboardgirl said.

  Alan breathed deep with relief; Spearman had wanted to refuse to seehim--but he had not refused; he had sent for him within the time Alanhad appointed and after waiting until just before it expired.

  Alan put his watch back into his pocket and, crossing to the otheroffice, found Spearman alone. There was no pretense of courtesy now inSpearman's manner; he sat motionless at his desk, his bold eyes fixedon Alan intently. Alan closed the door behind him and advanced towardthe desk.

  "I thought we'd better have some explanation," he said, "about ourmeeting last night."

  "Our meeting?" Spearman repeated; his eyes had narrowed watchfully.

  "You told Mr. Sherrill that you were in Duluth and that you arrivedhome in Chicago only this morning. Of course you don't mean to stickto that story with me?"

  "What are you talking about?" Spearman demanded.

  "Of course, I know exactly where you were a part of last evening; andyou know that I know. I only want to know what explanation you have tooffer."

  Spearman leaned forward. "Talk sense and talk it quick, if you haveanything to say to me!"

  "I haven't told Mr. Sherrill that I found you at Corvet's house lastnight; but I don't want you to doubt for a minute that I know you--andabout your damning of Benjamin Corvet and your cry about saving the_Miwaka_!"

  A flash of blood came to Spearman's face; Alan, in his excitement, wassure of it; but there was just that flash, no more. He turned, whileSpearman sat chewing his cigar and staring at him, and went out andpartly closed the door. Then, suddenly, he reopened it, looked in,reclosed it sharply, and went on his way, shaking a little. For, as helooked back this second time at the dominant, determined, able manseated at his desk, what he had seen in Spearman's face was fear; fearof himself, of Alan Conrad of Blue Rapids--yet it was not fear of thatsort which weakens or dismays; it was of that sort which, merelywarning of danger close at hand, determines one to use every meanswithin his power to save himself.

  Alan, still trembling excitedly, crossed to Corvet's office to awaitSherrill. It was not, he felt sure now, Alan Conrad that Spearman wasopposing; it was not even the apparent successor to the controllingstock of Corvet, Sherrill, and Spearman. That Alan resembled someone--some one whose ghost had seemed to come to Spearman and might,perhaps, have come to Corvet--was only incidental to what was going onnow; for in Alan's presence Spearman found a threat--an active, presentthreat against himself. Alan could not imagine what the nature of thatthreat could be. Was it because there was something still concealed inCorvet's house which Spearman feared Alan would find? Or was itconnected only with that some one whom Alan resembled? Who was it Alanresembled? His mother? In what had been told him, in all that he hadbeen able to learn about himself, Alan had found no mention of hismother--no mention, indeed, of any woman. There had been mention,definite mention, of but one thing which seemed, no matter what formthese new experiences of his took, to connect himself with all ofthem--mention of a ship, a lost ship--the _Miwaka_. That name hadstirred Alan, when he first heard it, with the first feeling he hadbeen able to get of any possible connection between himself and thesepeople here. Spoken by himself just now it had stirred, queerlystirred, Spearman. What was it, then, that he--Alan--had to do withthe _Miwaka_? Spearman might--must have had something to do with it.So must Corvet. But himself--he had been not yet three years old whenthe _Miwaka_ was lost! Beyond and above all other questions, what hadConstance Sherrill to do with it?

  She had continued to believe that Corvet's disappearance was related insome way to herself. Alan would rather trust her intuition as to thisthan trust to Sherrill's contrary opinion. Yet she, certainly, couldhave had no direct connection with a ship lost about the time she wasborn and before her father had allied himself with the firm of Corvetand Spearman. In the misty warp and woof of these events, Alan couldfind as yet nothing which could have involved her. But he realizedthat he was thinking about her even more than he was thinking aboutSpearman--more, at that moment, even than about the mystery whichsurrounded himself.

  Constance Sherrill, as she went about her shopping at Field's, wasfeeling the strangeness of the experience she had shared that morningwith Alan when she had completed for him the Indian creation legend andhad repeated the ship rhymes of his boyhood; but her more activethought was about Henry Spearman, for she had a luncheon engagementwith him at one o'clock. He liked one always to be prompt atappointments; he either did not keep an engagement at all, or he was onthe minute, neither early nor late, except for some very unusualcircumstance. Constance could never achieve such accurate punctuality,so several minutes before the hour she went to the agreed corner of thesilverware department.

  She absorbed herself intently with the selection of her purchase as oneo'clock approached. She was sure that, after his three days' absence,he would be a moment early rather than late; but after selecting whatshe wanted, she monopolized twelve minutes more of the salesman's timein showing her what she had no intention of purchasing, before shepicked out Henry's vigorous step from the confusion of ordinaryfootfalls in the aisle behind her. Though she had determined, a fewmoments before, to punish him a little, she turned quickly.

  "Sorry I'm late, Connie." That meant that it was no ordinary businessmatter that had detained him; but there was nothing else noticeablyunusual in his tone.

  "It's certainly your turn to be the tardy one," she admitted.

  "I'd never take my turn if I could help it--particularly just afterbeing away; you know that."

  She turned carelessly to the clerk. "I'll take that too,"--sheindicated the trinket which she had examined last. "Send it, please.I've finished here now, Henry."

  "I thought you didn't like that sort of thing." His glance had gone tothe bit of frippery in the clerk's hand.

  "I don't," she confessed.

  "Then don't buy it. She doesn't want that; don't send it," he directedthe salesman.

  "Very well, sir."

  Henry touched her arm and turned her away. She flushed a little, butshe was not displeased. Any of the other men whom she knew would havewasted twenty dollars, as lightly as herself, rather than confess, "Ireally didn't want anything more; I just didn't want to be seenwaiting." They would not have admitted--those other men--that such asum made the slightest difference to her or, by inference, to them; butHenry was always willing to admit that there had been a time when moneymeant much to him, and he gained respect thereby.

  The tea room of such a department store as Field's offers to youngpeople opportunities for dining together without furnishing reason foreven innocently connecting their names too intimately, if a girl is notseen there with the same man too often. There is something essentiallycasual and unpremeditated about it--as though the man and the girl,both shopping and both hungry, had just happened to meet and go tolunch together. As Constance recently had drawn closer to HenrySpearman in her thought, and particularly since
she had been seriouslyconsidering marrying him, she had clung deliberately to this unplannedappearance about their meetings. She found something thrilling in thiscasualness too. Spearman's bigness, which attracted eyes to him alwaysin a crowd, was merely the first and most obvious of the things whichkept attention on him; there were few women who, having caught sight ofthe big, handsome, decisive, carefully groomed man, could look away atonce. If Constance suspected that, ten years before, it might havebeen the eyes of shop-girls that followed Spearman with the greatestinterest, she was certain no one could find anything flashy about himnow. What he compelled now was admiration and respect alike for hisgood looks and his appearance of personal achievement--a tribute verydifferent from the tolerance granted those boys brought up asirresponsible inheritors of privilege like herself.

  As they reached the restaurant and passed between the rows of tables,women looked up at him; oblivious, apparently, to their gaze, he chosea table a little removed from the others, where servants hurried totake his order, recognizing one whose time was of importance. Sheglanced across at him, when she had settled herself, and the firstlittle trivialities of their being together were over.

  "I took a visitor down to your office this morning," she said.

  "Yes," he answered.

  Constance was aware that it was only formally that she had taken AlanConrad down to confer with her father; since Henry was there, she knewher father would not act without his agreement, and that whateverdisposition had been made regarding Alan had been made by him. Shewondered what that disposition had been.

  "Did you like him, Henry?"

  "Like him?" She would have thought that the reply was merelyinattentive; but Henry was never merely that.

  "I hoped you would."

  He did not answer at once. The waitress brought their order, and heserved her; then, as the waitress moved away, he looked across atConstance with a long scrutiny.

  "You hoped I would!" he repeated, with his slow smile. "Why?"

  "He seemed to be in a difficult position and to be bearing himselfwell; and mother was horrid to him."

  "How was she horrid?"

  "About the one thing which, least of all, could be called hisfault--about his relationship to--to Mr. Corvet. But he stood up toher!"

  The lids drew down a little upon Spearman's eyes as he gazed at her.

  "You've seen a good deal of him, yesterday and to-day, your fathertells me," he observed.

  "Yes." As she ate, she talked, telling him about her first meetingwith Alan and about their conversation of the morning and the queerawakening in him of those half memories which seemed to connect him insome way with the lakes. She felt herself flushing now and then withfeeling, and once she surprised herself by finding her eyes wet whenshe had finished telling Henry about showing Alan the picture of hisfather. Henry listened intently, eating slowly. When she stopped, heappeared to be considering something.

  "That's all he told you about himself?" he inquired.

  "Yes."

  "And all you told him?"

  "He asked me some things about the lakes and about the _Miwaka_, whichwas lost so long ago--he said he'd found some reference to that andwanted to know whether it was a ship. I told him about it and aboutthe Drum which made people think that the crew were not all lost."

  "About the Drum! What made you speak of that?" The irritation in histone startled her and she looked quickly up at him. "I mean," heoffered, "why did you drag in a crazy superstition like that? Youdon't believe in the Drum, Connie!"

  "It would be so interesting if some one really had been saved and ifthe Drum had told the truth, that sometimes I think I'd like to believein it. Wouldn't you, Henry?"

  "No," he said abruptly. "No!" Then quickly:

  "It's plain enough you like him," he remarked.

  She reflected seriously. "Yes, I do; though I hadn't thought of itjust that way, because I was thinking most about the position he was inand about--Mr. Corvet. But I do like him."

  "So do I," Spearman said with a seeming heartiness that pleased her.He broke a piece of bread upon the tablecloth and his big, well-shapedfingers began to roll it into little balls. "At least I should likehim, Connie, if I had the sort of privilege you have to think whether Iliked or disliked him. I've had to consider him from another point ofview--whether I could trust him or must distrust him."

  "Distrust?" Constance bent toward him impulsively in her surprise."Distrust him? In relation to what? Why?"

  "In relation to Corvet, Sherrill, and Spearman, Connie--the companythat involves your interests and your father's and mine and theinterests of many other people--small stockholders who have noinfluence in its management, and whose interests I have to look afterfor them. A good many of them, you know, are our own men--our oldskippers and mates and families of men who have died in our service andwho left their savings in stock in our ships."

  "I don't understand, Henry."

  "I've had to think of Conrad this morning in the same way as I've hadto think of Ben Corvet of recent years--as a threat against theinterests of those people."

  Her color rose, and her pulse quickened. Henry never had talked toher, except in the merest commonplaces, about his relations with UncleBenny; it was a matter in which, she had recognized, they had beenopposed; and since the quarrels between the old friend whom she hadloved from childhood and him, who wished to become now more than a merefriend to her, had grown more violent, she had purposely avoidedmentioning Uncle Benny to Henry, and he, quite as consciously, hadavoided mentioning Mr. Corvet to her.

  "I've known for a good many years," Spearman said reluctantly, "thatBen Corvet's brain was seriously affected. He recognized that himselfeven earlier, and admitted it to himself when he took me off my ship totake charge of the company. I might have gone with other people then,or it wouldn't have been very long before I could have started in as aship owner myself; but, in view of his condition, Ben made me promisesthat offered me most. Afterwards his malady progressed so that hecouldn't know himself to be untrustworthy; his judgment was impaired,and he planned and would have tried to carry out many things whichwould have been disastrous for the company. I had to fight him--forthe company's sake and for my own sake and that of the others, whoseinterests were at stake. Your father came to see that what I was doingwas for the company's good and has learned to trust me. But you--youcouldn't see that quite so directly, of course, and you thought Ididn't--like Ben, that there was some lack in me which made me fail toappreciate him."

  "No; not that," Constance denied quickly. "Not that, Henry."

  "What was it then, Connie? You thought me ungrateful to him? Irealized that I owed a great deal to him; but the only way I could paythat debt was to do exactly what I did--oppose him and seem to pushinto his place and be an ingrate; for, because I did that, Ben's been arespected and honored man in this town all these last years, which hecouldn't have remained if I'd let him have his way, or if I told otherswhy I had to do what I did. I didn't care what others thought aboutme; but I did care what you thought; yet if you couldn't see what I wasup against because of your affection for him, why--that was all righttoo."

  "No, it wasn't all right," she denied almost fiercely, the flushflooding her cheeks; a throbbing was in her throat which, for aninstant, stopped her. "You should have told me, Henry; or--I shouldhave been able to see."

  "I couldn't tell you--dear," he said the last word very distinctly, butso low that she could scarcely hear. "I couldn't tell you now--if Benhadn't gone away as he has and this other fellow come. I couldn't tellyou when you wanted to keep caring so much for your Uncle Benny, and hewas trying to hurt me with you."

  She bent toward him, her lips parted; but now she did not speak. Shenever had really known Henry until this moment, she felt; she hadthought of him always as strong, almost brutal, fighting down fiercely,mercilessly, his opponents and welcoming contest for the joy ofoverwhelming others by his own decisive strength and power. And shehad been a
lmost ready to marry that man for his strength and dominancefrom those qualities; and now she knew that he was mercifultoo--indeed, more than merciful. In the very contest where she hadthought of him as most selfish and regardless of another, she had mostcompletely misapprehended.

  "I ought to have seen!" she rebuked herself to him. "Surely, I shouldhave seen that was it!" Her hand, in the reproach of her feeling,reached toward him across the table; he caught it and held it in hislarge, strong hand which, in its touch, was very tender too. She hadnever allowed any such demonstration as this before; but now she lether hand remain in his.

  "How could you see?" he defended her. "He never showed to you the sidehe showed to me and--in these last years, anyway--never to me the sidehe showed to you. But after what has happened this week, you canunderstand now; and you can see why I have to distrust the young fellowwho's come to claim Ben Covert's place."

  "Claim!" Constance repeated; she drew her hand quietly away from hisnow. "Why, Henry, I did not know he claimed anything; he didn't evenknow when he came here--"

  "He seems, like Ben Corvet," Henry said slowly, "to have thecharacteristic of showing one side to you, another to me, Connie. Withyou, of course, he claimed nothing; but at the office-- Your fathershowed him this morning the instruments of transfer that Ben seems tohave left conveying to him all Ben had--his other properties and hisinterest in Corvet, Sherrill, and Spearman. I very naturally objectedto the execution of those transfers, without considerable examination,in view of Corvet's mental condition and of the fact that they put thecontrolling stock of Corvet, Sherrill, and Spearman in the hands of ayouth no one ever had heard of--and one who, by his own story, neverhad seen a ship until yesterday. And when I didn't dismiss my businesswith a dozen men this morning to take him into the company, he claimedoccasion to see me alone to threaten me."

  "Threaten you, Henry? How? With what?"

  "I couldn't quite make out myself, but that was his tone; he demandedan 'explanation' of exactly what, he didn't make clear. He has beengiven by Ben, apparently, the technical control of Corvet, Sherrill,and Spearman. His idea, if I oppose him, evidently is to turn me outand take the management himself."

  Constance leaned back, confused. "He--Alan Conrad?" she questioned."He can't have done that, Henry! Oh, he can't have meant that!"

  "Maybe he didn't; I said I couldn't make out what he did mean,"Spearman said. "Things have come upon him with rather a rush, ofcourse; and you couldn't expect a country boy to get so many thingsstraight. He's acting, I suppose, only in the way one might expect aboy to act who had been brought up in poverty on a Kansas prairie andwas suddenly handed the possible possession of a good many millions ofdollars. It's better to believe that he's only lost his head. Ihaven't had opportunity to tell your father these things yet; but Iwanted you to understand why Conrad will hardly consider me a friend."

  "I'll understand you now, Henry," she promised.

  He gazed at her and started to speak; then, as though postponing it onaccount of the place, he glanced around and took out his watch.

  "You must go back?" she asked.

  "No; I'm not going back to the office this afternoon, Connie; but Imust call up your father."

  He excused himself and went into the nearest telephone booth.