Bemidji Daily Pioneer Newspaper, March 24, 1922, Page 8

WT®'T | THE BEMIDJI DALY PIONEER ~' =7 7= W Willtam ‘T‘”\u('}‘iurq = almers Gopyright by Edwi (Contimued from last issue) 7 She went back and plcked up the |wedding ring. The thought which had I( me to her that this was Alan’s moth- 4 'er's wedding ring, had fastened itself upon her with a sense of certainty. It |defended that unknown mother; it !freed her, at 1éasy, from the stigma |which Constance’s own mother had {been so ready to cast. Constance, could {not yet begih to place Unde Benny iin relation ta that ring; but she was 'hoginning to Be able to think, of Alan and his mother. She held the little 'band .of gold very’ tenderly in her (hand; she was glad that, as the ac- ‘(‘ll‘utll\n against his mother had come !through het people, she could ‘tell him U igoon of this. She could not send the iring to him, not knowing where he fwas{ thuc was too much risk.” But she could ask him to ‘come to her; t gave that right. | She sat thoughtfuli for several min! utes, the ring clasped warmly in her band; then she wentito her.desk and i3 wrote: “Mr., John Welton, . “Blue Rapids, Kansas. “Dear Mr. Welton: “It Is possible that Alan Conrad has mentioned me—or' at least told you of my father—iniconnection with - ‘his stay in Chicago. After Alan left Chicago, my father wrote twice to his LBlue Rapids address, but evidently he Tad instructed the postmaster there to forward his mail and nad not made .any change in those instructions, for ‘the letters were returned to Alan’s ad- ‘dress aud In that way came back to us. We did not Jike to press inquiries further than that, as of course he could ‘have -communicated with us if he ‘haql not felt that there was some reason. for not doing so. Now, how- ever, something of such supreme im- portance to him has come to. us that it is necessary for us to get word to him at once.. If you can téll me any address at which he can be reached by telegraph or mall—or where a mes- seuger can find-him—it will oblige us very much and will be to his intevest.” She heslmtell about to sign it; then, | impulsively, she added: [ trust you know that' we ' have Alan's interest at heart and that you, ean safely tell us anything you may | know as to where he I8 or what he may he doing. We all liked him ‘here ®o very much. , . She signed Her name, There were still two other letters to write. Only the handwriting of the address upon ’ the package, the Manitowoc postmark and the shoe box furnished clues to ‘the sender of the ring and the watch and the other things. Constance her- self could pot trace those clues, but Henry or her father could. She wrote to both of them, therefore, describing the. articles which hud come and re- lating what she had done. The' next noon she received a wire from Henry that he was *“coming ‘wp.” It did not surprise her, as she | “had exp ( him the end of the week. Late that evening, she sat with ler mother on the wide, screened veranda. The lights of some boat turning in between the points and moving swift- the path’of the moonlight, its look was #0 like that of Henry’s power yacht that she arose. . moon as he had decided to leave busi- mess again and go to her, to arrive as soon as possible ; that had been his way recently, particularly, = So the sight of the yacht stirred her warmly and she wat¢hed while it ran in close, stopped and instantly dropped a dingey from the davits, She saw Henry in the stern of the little boat; 1t disappesred In the shadow of a pier . . . she heard, presently, the gravel of' the walk crunch under his quick steps, and then she saw him in the moonlight among the trees. -She went down on the path to meet him. “How quickly you came!” “You let yourself think you needed me, Connie!” i (T | He had caught her land in his and Jie held it while he brought her to the porch and exchanged greetings with iher. mother. Then he led her on past and into the house. When she saw his face in the light, there were signs of strain in it. “You're tired, Henry!" He shook his head. “It's been rot- ten hot in Chicago; then I guwess I was wentally stoking all the way up ‘here, Connie. But first, where are ‘the things you wanted me to see?” he ran upstairg and brought them (down to him. Her hands were shak- ‘ing now asshe gave them to him; she could not exactly understund why ; but Jier tremor increased as she saw his big hands furubling as he unwrapped the muffler and shook out the things it inclosed. He took them up one by one: and looked at them, as she had do His fingers were. steady now, ‘but only by mastering of control, the % “effort for which amazed her. o lad the-watch in his hands. ‘fghe inscription Is inside the front,” said 2 G *"ty caught her attention. As it entered ] It was his way, as |\ 7 INDIAN DRUM and Fdwin Balmer 2 She pried the cover open again and read, with him, the words engraved within. “As master of . .7 What ship was he master of then, Henry, and how did he rescue the Winnebago's peo- ple?” “He never talked to me about things like that, Constance. This is all?”. “Yes.” Henry put the lhln"% back in the bhox. “Of course, this is the end of Benjamin Corvet.” “Qt’ course,” Constance said. She was shaking again and, without will- ing It, she withdrew a little from Hen- yy. He caught her hand again and drew her back toward him. His hand was quite steady. “You know why I came to you as quick as I could? You know why I— why my mind was behind e\el 'y thrust of the engines?” “No. “You don't? Oh, you know; you must know now!” - “Yes, Henry,” she said. “P've been patient, Connie. Till T got your letter telling me this about Ben, I'd waited for your sake—for our sakes—though It seemed at times it was impossible. You haven't known quite what's the matter between us these last months, little girl; but Tve known. We've been eugaged; but that's about all there’s been to it. Don't think I make little of that; yon know what I mean, You've beep mine; but—but you haven't let me realize it, you see. And I've been patient, for 1 knew the reason. It was Ben poison- ing your mind against me.” “No! No, Hehry 1" “You've denied .it; T've recognized that’ yow've denfed it,-not only to' me ‘and to your people, but to yourself. I, of course, knew, as I know that I am there with your hand In mine, and as we will stand before the altar togeth- er, that he had no cause to speak against me. I've waited, Connie, to ‘give hiim'a chance to say to you what he had to say; I wanted you to hear it before making you wholly mine. But now there’s no need to walt any long- ‘er, you and 1. Ben's gone, never to ‘come back. I was sure of that by what you wrote me, so this time when T started to you I brought with me— this.” He felt In his pocket and brought out a ring of plain gold; he held it be- fore her so that she could see within it her own Initials and his and a blank left for the date. Her gaze went from it for ‘an fustant to:the box where he had put back the other ring—Alan's mother's, Feeling for her long ago igazing thus, as she must have, at that ring, held her for a moment. Was it because of that that Constance found herself cold now? “You menn you want me to marry ‘you—at once, Henry?" He drew her to hip powerfully; she felt him warm, almost rough with passions. Since ‘that day when, in He Drew Her to Him Powerfully; She Felt Him Warm, Almost Rough With Passions. Alan Conrad's presence, he had grasped and Kissed her, ghe had not let him “realize” their cngagement, as’ he had put it. “Why not?" he turned her face up to his now, “Your mother's here; your father will follow soon; or, If you will, ‘we'll run away—Constance! You've kept me oft so long! You don't be- lleve there’'s anything' against me, dear? Do you? Do you?" “Noj no! Of course not!" "'.llwn we're .going, to .be nmrrled « + . Right away; welll ‘have it then; up here; now!” not now, Henry. Not up “Not- here? Why not?” t She could give no answer. He held her and commanded her againj cnlv when he frightened her, he ceased. “Why must it L:. ut once, Henry? I I 1l don’t Gnd ¥ “It's not must, dear,” he denied. H's Just that I want you so!” When would it be, he demanded .then; before spring, she promised at Jast. - But that was all he’céuld make her say. And so he let her go. The next evening, in the moonlight, ‘she drove him to Petoskey. 'He had ‘messages to send and preferred to trust the telegraph office in the lflrger town. T A AL Alan was driving northward along the long, sandy peninsula which sep- arates the blue waters of Grand Trav- erse from Lake Michigan; and, think- ing of Constance,, he knew that she was near. He not only bad remem- Dbered that she would be north at Har- bor Point this month; he had seen in, one of the Petoskey papers that she and her mother were at the Sherrill summer_home. “His business now was taking bim nearer them than he had been at any time before; and, it he wished to weaken, he might convince himself that he might learn from her circumstances which would aid him in nis task. But he was not going to her for help; that was following in his fa- ther’s footsteps. When he knew every- | thing, then—not till then—he could go to her; for then he would know exact- ( Jy what was upon him and what he should do. His visits to the people named :on those sheets written by his father had been confusing, at first; he had bad great difficulty in tracing some of them at all; and, afterward, he could uncover no certain connection elther hetween them and Benjamin-Corvet or between themselves. But recently, he had been succeeding better in this lat- ter: He had seen—he reckoned them over again—fourteen of the twenty-one. pamed originally on Benjamin Cor- vet’s lists; that is, he had seen either the individual originally named, or the surviving relative written in below the pame crossed off. He had found that the crossing out of the name meant that the person was dead, ‘except in the case of two who had left the coun- try and whose whereabouts were us unknown to their present relatives as they had been to Benjamin Corvet, and the case of one other, who was in an insane asylum. # He had found: that no one of the persons whom he saw had known Ben- jamin Corvet personally; many of them did not kmow him at all, the’ others knew him -only as a name. But, when Alan proceeded, always there was one connotation with. emch of the original names; always one cir- cumstance bound all together. When he had established that circumstance as influencing the fortunes of the first two on his lists, he had said to him- self, as the blood pricked queerly un- der the skin, that the fact might be R mere coincidence. When 'he estab- lished it also as affecting the fate of the third and of' the fourth and of the fifth, such explanation no lowser sufficed; and he found it in common to all fourteen, sometimes as thc de- clding factor of their fate, sometimes as only slightly - affecting them. but alyays it was there. In how many different ways, ‘In what strange, diverse manifestations that single clrcumstance had 'spread. to these people whom- Alan had’ inter- viewed! . No two-of them had been affected alike, he reckoned, as he went over his notes of them. Now he was going to trace those consequences to another. To what sort of place would it bring him today and what would he find there? He knew only that 1t would be quite distinct'from the rest. The driver turned aside from the road across a cleared field where ruts showed the passing of .many previous vehicles; crossing this, they entered the woods, Little fires for cooking burned all about them, and nearer were parked an immense number of |- farm wagons and buggles, with horses unharnessed and munching grain. Al- an’s guide found a place among these for his.automobile, and they got out and went forward on foot. All about them, seated upon the moss or walk- ing about, were Indians, family groups among which children played. Alan saw among these looking on, the bright dresses and sport coats of summer visitors who had come to wateh, The figure of a girl among these caught his attention, and he started; then swiftly he told himself that it was only his thinking of Oon- stance Sherrill that made him believe this was she. But now she had seen him; she paled, then as quickly flushed, and leaving the group she had been with, came toward him. He had no choice now whether he would avoid her or not; and his hap- piness at seelng her held him stupid, watching her. Her eyes were very bright and with something more than friendly greeting; there was: happl- ness in them too. His throat shut together as he recognized this, and his hand closed warmly, over the small, trembling hand which she put out to him. All his conscious thought was lost for the moment in the mere realization of her presence; he stood, holding her hand, oblivious that there were people looking; she too seemed careless of that. Then she whitened again and withdrew her hand; she seemed slightly confused. He was con- fused as well; it was not like this that he had meant to greet her; he caught himself . together. Cap in hand, he stood beside her, "trying to look and to feel as any or- dinary acquaintance of hers’ would have looked. CHAPTER XIill. The Owner of the.Waich. “So they got word to you!” Con- stance exclaimed: she seemed still confused. = “Oh, uo—of course they couldn’t hzve done thatl - They've hardly got my letter yet.” “Your letter?” Alan asked. “T wrote to. Plue Rapids,” she ex- | to her four 'days before, with the | inquiries have led me to those who - .FRIDAY EVENING, MARCH 24, 1922 plained.” *Some flnlngs cnme——lhey were sent to' me. Some things ot Uncle Benny's which were meant tor you' instead of me.” “You mean yau'\e heard' ' from him?” “No—not that.” “What things, Miss Sherrill?": “A watch of his and some coins and —a ring.” She did not explain’ the significance of -those things, and. he could not tell froni her mere enumera- tion of them and without seelng: them | that they furnished proof that hln‘ father was dead.” She could not in- form him of that, she felt, just here and now. { “Pll tell you about that later.: You— you were coming to Harbor Pointto see us?" 3 He colored. “I'm afraid not. ¥ got as near as this to you, because there is'a man—an Indian—I have to see.” “An Indlan! - What i3 his name? You see, I know quite a lot of them.” “Jo Papo.” She shook her/head. know him.”" ° She found a spdt’ where the moss was covered with dry pine. ueealcs and sat down upon,the ground. “Sit. down,” she invited; “I want vou to tell me what you ‘have been do- ing” “I'Ve been on the boats.” He | dropped down_ upon the moss beside, her.. “Until yesterday I was a not| very - highly honored member. of the crew of the package freighter Oscoda; T left her at Frankfort and came up here.” “Is Wassaquam with you?” “He wasn't on the Oscoda; but he was with me at first. Now, I believe, he has gone back to his own people— to Middle Village:” “You mean you've been lool(lnz for Mr. Corvét in that way?” g “Not exactly that,”’ He hesitated; but he could see no repson for not tell- ing what 'he had been doing. - He had not so much hidden from her and her father what he had found. in Benja- min -Corvet’s house; rather, he had re- frained from mentioning it in‘his notes to them when he left Chicago because he had' thought that the lists would lead to an immediate’ explanation; they had not led to that, but only to a - suggestion, indefinjte’ yet. .He had known that, if his search finally de- veloped nothing more than it had, he must at last consult Sherrill'and get Sherrill's aid. “We found some writing, Miss Sher- ril,” he said, “In the house on Astor street that night after L\xke came.” “What writing?” ¥ ¢ He took the'lists from his yocLet and ‘showed them to her.’ She"sepa- rated and. 1doked through .the. sheets and read the names written'in’ the same hand that had written the direc- tions upon the_slip of paper that came “No; I don’t things, from Uncle Beriny’s pockets. /“Myfather had kept these cretly,” he explained. “He had, tlmm hidden. Wassaquam knew where they were, and" that night after Luke was dead and you had gone ‘rome, he gnve them' to me.” “After 1 had gone “home? -, Henry went back to see youthat night; he had said he was going back, and after- ward I asked him, and he told me he had seen "you lnln. Did you show him these?” “He saw. them—yes.” “He was there when Wassaquam showed you where they were?” “Yest A little line deepened. between her brows, and she sat thoughtful. “So you have been going about see- ing these people,” she said. “What have you found out?” “Nothing_definite at all. None of them knew my father; they were only othing Definite At All. None of Them Knew My Father.” amazed to find that anyone in Chicago had known their names.” In her feeling for him, she had laid her hand upon his arm; now her fin- gers tightened to sudden tenseness. “What do you mean?” she uked. - “Qn, it Is mot definite " yet—not clear!” She feit the bitterness in his toue. “They have not any of:them been able to make it wholly clear to me. It is like & record that has been —blurred. ‘These original names must have been written down.by wy father many years ago—many, most of those people, 1 think—are dead; some are nearly forgotten. The only thing that is fully. plain is that in every case my have . lost ‘ oue, and sometimes more than one relative upon tlie-lakes.” Constance thrilled: to a .vague:hor- Liis father; und he did not know Withi certainty yet that his father was dead. “You'll lunch . with wus,:‘of: course,” she said to- Alan, “and then go back with us to Harbor Polnt, Journey around the two bnys; ‘but we've a boat here.” He assented, and they w\ent down'to the wiiter; where the white and brown power yacht, with long, graceful lines,: i lay somnolently in'the sunlight.: A it- | tle boat took them out over the shim- mering,. smooth surface to the ship; swells from a faraway freighter swept under the beautiful, burnished craft, causing it to"roll lazily as they board- ed it.. A party of hearly a dozen men and girls with an older woman chap- eroning- them, lounged under the ‘shade of an’ awning -over the after deck. They’ greeted her gally and looked ;urhmslx at" Alan ‘s she introduced im, “Have you worked on any of our boats?” she asked him, after luncheon had been finished, and the anchor of the ship had been raised. A queer expression came upon his face. “I've:thought it best not to do that, Miss Sherrill,” he replied. She did not know why the next mo- ment she should think of Henry, The ' yacht was .pushing swiftly, #mogthly, with hardly a hum from its motors, north along the shore. He watched intently the rolling, wooded hills and the ragged little bays and in- lets, His work and his investigatings had not brought him to the neighbor- hood. before, but she found that she dld not have to name the places to him; he knew them from the charts. :“Grand Traverse light,” he said to her as a - white tower showed upon their left. Then, leaving the shore, they pushed out across the wide mouth of the larger bay toward Little Trav- erse. He grew more silent as they'ap- proached it. “It is up there, isn't it* he asked, pointing, “that they hear the Drum?” “Yes; how did you know the place?” “I don’t know it exactly; I wabt you to show me.” She pointed out to him the copse, dark, primeval, blue in its contrast with the lighter gréen of the trees about it ‘and the glistening white of the ‘shipgle and of the more distant sand hluffs. Heleaned forward, staring at it, until the changed course of the yacht, as it swung about toward the entrance to the bay, oblcured it. i “See{ng the ships made me fee! that I belonged here on the lakes,” he re- minded her. “I have felt something— not recognition exactly, but something that was. like the beginning of recog- nition—many times this summer when 1 saw certain places. It's like one of those dreams, you know, in which you are conscious of having’had the same dream before. I feel that I 'ought to knoyw. this place.” They landed only a few hundred yards from the cottage. After bid- ding good-b¥ to her’ friends, they went up to-it together through the trees. There was a small sun room, rather shut off from the rest of the house, to which ‘she led him, Leaving him there, she ran upstairs to get the things. She halted an’ instant beside the door,” with the box in her hands, be- fore she went back to him, thinking how to prepare him against the sig- nificance .of ‘these relics of his father, She need not prepare him against: the mere fact of his fathet’s death; he had been beginning to belleve that al- ready; but these things must-have far more meaning for him than merely that. She went in and put the box down-upon the card table. “The muffler-in the box was your father’s,” she told him. “He had it on the day -he disappeared. The other things,” her voice choked a little, “are the ‘things he must have had in his pockets. They’'ve been lying in water and sand—" He gazed at her. “I understand,” he said after an instant. “You mean .| that titey prove his death.” She assented gently, without speak- ing. As he approached the box, she drew back from it and slipped away into the next room. She walked up and down there, pressing her hands together. .He must be looking at the things now, unrolling the muffler. « .. ». What would he be feeling as he saw them? Would he be glad, with that same gladness which had wingled with ‘her own sorrow ov.r Uncle Benny, that hig father was gone—gone from his guilt and his fear and his disgruce? Or would he. resent that death which thus left everything un- explained to him? He would be look- ing at the ring, That, atleast, must hring more joy than grief to him. He would recognize that it must be his mother’s wedding ring; If it told him that his mother must be dead, it would tell him that she had been married, or had believed that she was married! Suddenly she heard him calling her. “\Hss Sherrill!” his voice had a sharp thrill of excitement. She “hurried toward the sun room. She. could see him. through the door- |way, bending over the card table with the things spread cut upon its top in front of him, iyes He- stralghtened he was very pale. “Would -colns that my father had in his pocket all have been more than twenty years old?” . She ran and bent beside him over the coins. ‘“I'wenty years!” she re- peated, She was making out the dates of the coins now herself; the markings were eroded, nearly gone in some in- staices; but in every case enough re- mained ‘to make - plain the date. “Eighteen-ninety — 1894 —1889,” she made them out. Her voice hushed queerly. “WHat does it mean?" she whispered. He turned over and r&exnmlned the articles with hands suddenly steady- ror; it was not anything to which she ‘could give definite reason. Hls tone quite as much as what he sald was its cause. His experience plainly had been_forciug him to bitterness against ing. “There are two sets of things here,” he concluded. “The muffler and paper of directions—they be- longed to wy father. The other things isn’t six months or less than six It's a day’s. | months that théy've laln in sand and water to become worn. like' this; itU's twenty years. My father ‘can't haye had these things; they were some- where else, or some,one’else had them. He wrote his_directions to. that; per- son—after June twelfthi lie said, so it was before June twelfth he wrote it; but we can’t tell how loux‘hetare It might have been, in February,. when he disappeared ; it might have been any time after that. But if the directions were written so long ago, why weren't the things, sent to you befu;e this? Didn't | the person have the things then? ' Did’ we have to walt to get them? Or—was it the instructions to send them that he didn’t have? Or, if he had the instructions, was he walt- ing to receive word when they iwere to be sent?" You thought these things pro:ad my father was dead. { Mhink they prove he is alive! Oh, we must think this out!” He paced up and down the room ; she sank into a chair, watching him. “The first thing that we must do,” he said suddenly, “is7to-find out about the watch,, “'llat%s the ’phone numher of the telegraph office?” She told him, and he went out to the telephone; she sprang up to follow him,. but checked herself and merely waited’ until hé came back. “I've ' wired to : Buffalp,” “he ‘an- nounced. “The Merchapts’ exchange, 1f it is still in"existence, must have a record of - the presentation of the watch.” © “Then you'll smy here wlth us until an answer comes?” “If we get a reply by lomuyrow morn- Ing; Il wait till then. If not, I'll ask You to forward it to me. I must see about:the trains and get.back to Frank- fort. I can cross by boat from there to Manitowoc—that will be. quickest. We must begin there, by tryiog to find B out who'sent the paekage.” . She helped him put the muffler ‘and the other articles into the hox ; she no- ticed that the wedding Was no longer with-them. He had tuien that, then; it had meant to him all that she .had known' it must mean. . . . In the morning ' she -was up veny early; but: Alan, the sprvauts told her. had risen before she-had and had ge out.‘The morning, after the; cocd borih- ern: night, “was chill."" She slmrul a sweater on and went out oy Ve vernn. da, looking ‘about for 'him. - An:irides- cent haze shrouded tbe hills and the n it she heard a ship’s_bell strike then another struck twice—then another—and another—and another. The haze. thinned- as_ the sup. grew warmer, - showing .the placid .water.of the bay on which the ships stood dou- ble.: She: saw Alan .returning, and knowing.from’the direction from which ke came that he must have been to the telsgraph office; 'she ran-to.meet him; ““\Was there an answer?” she inquired eagerly. He' took a-yellow . telegraph-. «heet from his pocket and held'. n for her to read.’, “Watch Stafford, master of propeller freighter Marvin Halch, for rescue of crew and passengers of sinking steamer Winne- bago off Long point, Lake Erie.” She was breathing quickly in her ex- citement. - “Caleb - Stafford!” she ex- claimed. “Why, that was Captain Staf- ford of Stafford and ansdell' They owned- the Miwaka!” “Yes,” Alan said. A great. change bad come over him since last night; hé was under emotion so strong that“he seemed scarcely to dare speak lest it master him—a leap- ing, exultant impulse it was, which e fought, to keep down. “What- is it, Alan?” ‘she asked. “What is it about the Miwaka? You said. you'd found some reference to it in Uncle Benny’s house. ~What was it? What did you find there?” “The man—" Alan.swallowed, and e steadied himself and repcated—*‘‘the ] man I met in' the house that night wentioned it. He seemed to think I was a’'ghost that had-haunted Mr. Cor- vet—the ghost from the Miwaka; at least he shouted out to- me that I couldn’t save the Miwaka!” “Save the Miwaka! What do you mean, Alan? The Miwaka was lost with “Save the Miwaka! Mean, Alan?” What Do You all her people—officers and crew—no otie knows how .or where!”. “All except the one for whom.the Drum qAidn’t bedt!” “What's that?” Blood pricked in her cheeks. “What do you mean, Alan?” “I don’t know yet; but I think Ill soon_find- out.” (Contmued in Next Issue) ‘I'HE PIONEER WANT ADS BRING RESULTS presented Captain (.uleb) T i BUSINESS ; ‘ PROfiESSlONAL NAL 1 S - DOCTORS * > DRS. Johnson & Borreson Physicians and Surgeons | BEMIDJI, MINN: . .. DRS. Garlock & Garlock Eye—Ear—Nose—Throat " GLASSES FITTED " Dr. E. H. Smith. Physiclan and Surgeon OFFICE, Security Bank Block Gilmore & McCann Physicians and Surgeons OFFICE, Miles Block —_— Dr. H. A. Northrop Osteopathic Physician and Surgeon Battles Blfl' Office Phone 153-W C. R. Sanborn, M. D. PHYSICIAN and SURGEON Office, Miles Block . House Phone 449—Office Phone 55 Dannenberg & Two CHIROPRACTORS Office Hours: 10 to 12 A. M.—1:30.to 5 P. M. 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