MR. SPEARMAN GOES NORTH
The message, in blurred lettering and upon the flimsy tissue paper of a
carbon copy--that message which had brought tension to the offices of
Corvet, Sherrill, and Spearman and had called Constance Sherrill and
her mother downtown where further information could be more quickly
obtained--was handed to Constance by a clerk as soon as she entered her
father's office. She reread it; it already had been repeated to her
over the telephone.
"4:05 A. M. Frankfort Wireless station has received following message
from No. 25: 'We have Benjamin Corvet, of Chicago, aboard.'"
"You've received nothing later than this?" she asked.
"Nothing regarding Mr. Corvet, Miss Sherrill," the clerk replied.
"Or regarding-- Have you obtained a passenger list?"
"No passenger list was kept, Miss Sherrill."
"The crew?"
"Yes; we have just got the names of the crew." He took another copied
sheet from among the pages and handed it to her, and she looked swiftly
down the list of names until she found that of Alan Conrad.
Her eyes filled, blinding her, as she put the paper down, and began to
take off her things. She had been clinging determinedly in her thought
to the belief that Alan might not have been aboard the ferry. Alan's
message, which had sent her father north to meet the ship, had implied
plainly that some one whom Alan believed might be Uncle Benny was on
Number 25; she had been fighting, these last few hours, against
conviction that therefore Alan must be on the ferry too.
She stood by the desk, as the clerk went out, looking through the
papers which he had left with her.
"What do they say?" her mother asked.
Constance caught herself together.
"Wireless signals from No. 25," she read aloud, "were plainly made out
at shore stations at Ludington, Manitowoc, and Frankfort until about
four o'clock, when--"
"That is, until about six hours ago, Constance."
"Yes, mother, when the signals were interrupted. The steamer
_Richardson_, in response to whose signals No. 25 made the change in
her course which led to disaster, was in communication until about four
o'clock; Frankfort station picked up one message shortly after four,
and same message was also recorded by Carferry Manitoulin in southern
end of lake; subsequently all efforts to call No. 25 failed of response
until 4:35 when a message was picked up at once by Manitowoc,
Frankfort, and the _Richardson_. Information, therefore, regarding the
fate of the ferry up to that hour received at this office (Corvet,
Sherrill, and Spearman) consists of the following..."
Constance stopped reading aloud and looked rapidly down the sheet and
then over the next. What she was reading was the carbon of the report
prepared that morning and sent, at his rooms, to Henry, who was not yet
down. It did not contain therefore the last that was known; and she
read only enough of it to be sure of that.
"After 4:10, to repeated signals to Number 25 from _Richardson_ and
shore stations--'Are you in danger?' 'Shall we send help?' 'Are you
jettisoning cars?' 'What is your position?'--no replies were received.
The _Richardson_ continued therefore to signal, 'Report your position
and course; we will stand by,' at the same time making full speed
toward last position given by Number 25. At 4:35, no other message
having been obtained from Number 25 in the meantime, Manitowoc and
Frankfort both picked up the following: 'S.O.S. Are taking water fast.
S.O.S. Position probably twenty miles west N. Fox. S.O.S.' The
S.O.S. has been repeated, but without further information since."
The report made to Henry ended here. Constance picked up the later
messages received in response to orders to transmit to Corvet,
Sherrill, and Spearman copies of all signals concerning Number 25 which
had been received or sent. She sorted out from them those dated after
the hour she just had read:
"4:40, Manitowoc is calling No. 25, 'No. 26 is putting north to you.
Keep in touch.'
"4:43, No. 26 is calling No. 25, 'What is your position?'
"4:50, the _Richardson_ is calling No. 25, 'We must be approaching you.
Are you giving whistle signals?'
"4:53, No. 25 is replying to _Richardson_, 'Yes; will continue to
signal. Do you hear us?'
"4:59, Frankfort is calling No. 25, 'What is your condition?'
"5:04, No. 25 is replying to Frankfort, 'Holding bare headway; stern
very low.'
"5:10, No. 26 is calling No. 25, 'Are you throwing off cars?'
"5:14, Petoskey is calling Manitowoc, 'We are receiving S.O.S. What is
wrong?' Petoskey has not previously been in communication with shore
stations or ships.
"5:17, No. 25 is signalling No. 26, 'Are throwing off cars; have
cleared eight; work very difficult. We are sinking.'
"5:20, No. 25 is calling the _Richardson_, 'Watch for small boats.
Position doubtful because of snow and changes of course; probably due
west N. Fox, twenty to thirty miles.'
"5:24, No. 26 is calling No. 25, 'Are you abandoning ship?'
"5:27, No. 25 is replying to No. 26, 'Second boat just getting safely
away with passengers; first boat was smashed. Six passengers in second
boat, two injured of crew, cabin maid, boy and two men.'
"5:30, Manitowoc and Frankfort are calling No. 25, 'Are you abandoning
ship?'
"5:34, No. 25 is replying to Manitowoc, 'Still trying to clear cars;
everything is loose below...'
"5:40, Frankfort is calling Manitowoc, 'Do you get anything now?'
"5:45, Manitowoc is calling the _Richardson_, 'Do you get anything?
Signals have stopped here.'
"5:48, The _Richardson_ is calling Petoskey, 'We get nothing now. Do
you?'
"6:30, Petoskey is calling Manitowoc, 'Signals after becoming
indistinct, failed entirely about 5:45, probably by failure of ship's
power to supply current. Operator appears to have remained at key.
From 5:25 to 5:43 we received disconnected messages, as follows: 'Have
cleared another car ... they are sticking to it down there ...
engine-room crew is also sticking ... hell on car deck ... everything
smashed ... they won't give up ... sinking now ... we're going ...
good-by ... stuck to end ... all they could ... know that ... hand it
to them ... have cleared another car ... sink ... S.O.... Signals then
entirely ceased.'"
There was no more than this. Constance let the papers fall back upon
the desk and looked to her mother; Mrs. Sherrill loosened her fur
collar and sat back, breathing more comfortably. Constance quickly
shifted her gaze and, trembling and with head erect, she walked to the
window and looked out. The meaning of what she had read was quite
clear; her mother was formulating it.
"So they are both lost, Mr. Corvet and his--son," Mrs. Sherrill said
quietly.
Constance did not reply, either to refuse or to concur in the
conclusion. There was not anything which was meant to be merciless in
that conclusion; her mother simply was crediting what probably had
occurred. Constance could not in reason refuse to accept it too; yet
she was refusing it. She had not realized, until these reports of the
wireless messages told her that he was gone, what companionship with
Alan had come to mean to her. She had accepted it as always to be
existent, somehow--a companionship which might be interrupted often but
always to be formed again. It amazed her to find how firm a place he
had found in her world of those close to her with whom she must always
be intimately concerned.
Her mother arose and came beside her. "May it not be better,
Constance, that it has happened this way?"
"Better!" Constance cried. She controlled herself.
It was only what Henry had said to her months ago when Alan had left
her in the north in the search which had resulted in the finding of
Uncle Benny--"Might it not be better for him not to find out?" Henry,
who could hazard more accurately than any one else the nature of that
strange secret which Alan now must have "found out," had believed it;
her mother, who at least had lived longer in the world than she, also
believed it. There came before Constance the vision of Alan's defiance
and refusal to accept the stigma suggested in her father's recital to
him of his relationship to Mr. Corvet. There came to her sight of him
as he had tried to keep her from entering Uncle Benny's house when Luke
was there, and then her waiting with him through the long hour and his
dismissal of her, his abnegation of their friendship. And at that time
his disgrace was indefinite; last night had he learned something worse
than he had dreaded?
The words of his telegram took for her more terrible significance for
the moment. "Have some one who knew Mr. Corvet well enough to
recognize him even if greatly changed meet..." Were the broken,
incoherent words of the wireless the last that she should hear of him,
and of Uncle Benny, after that? "They are sticking to it ... down
there ... they won't give up ... sinking ... they have cleared another
car ... sink..." Had it come as the best way for them both?
"The _Richardson_ is searching for boats, mother," Constance returned
steadily, "and Number 26 must be there too by now."
Her mother looked to the storm. Outside the window which overlooked
the lake from two hundred feet above the street, the sleet-like snow
was driving ceaselessly; all over the western basin of the great lakes,
as Constance knew--over Huron, over Michigan, and Superior--the storm
was established. Its continuance and severity had claimed a front-page
column in the morning papers. Duluth that morning had reported
temperature of eighteen below zero and fierce snow; at Marquette it was
fifteen below; there was driving snow at the Soo, at Mackinac, and at
all ports along both shores. She pictured little boats, at the last
moment, getting away from the ferry, deep-laden with injured and
exhausted men; how long might those men live in open boats in a gale
and with cold like that? The little clock upon her father's desk
marked ten o'clock; they had been nearly five hours in the boats now,
those men.
Constance knew that as soon as anything new was heard, it would be
brought to her; yet, with a word to her mother, she went from her
father's room and down the corridor into the general office. A hush of
expectancy held this larger room; the clerks moved silently and spoke
to one another in low voices; she recognized in a little group of men
gathered in a corner of the room some officers of Corvet, Sherrill, and
Spearman's ships. Others among them, whom she did not know, were
plainly seamen too--men who knew "Ben" Corvet and who, on hearing he
was on the ferry, had come in to learn what more was known; the
business men and clubmen, friends of Corvet's later life, had not heard
it yet. There was a restrained, professional attentiveness among these
seamen, as of those in the presence of an event which any day might
happen to themselves. They were listening to the clerk who had
compiled the report, who was telephoning now, and Constance, waiting,
listened too to learn what he might be hearing. But he put down the
receiver as he saw her.
"Nothing more, Miss Sherrill," he reported. "The _Richardson_ has
wirelessed that she reached the reported position of the sinking about
half-past six o'clock. She is searching but has found nothing."
"She's keeping on searching, though?"
"Yes; of course."
"It's still snowing there?"
"Yes, Miss Sherrill. We've had a message from your father. He has
gone on to Manistique; it's more likely that wreckage or survivors will
be brought in there."
The telephone switchboard beside Constance suddenly buzzed, and the
operator, plugging in a connection, said: "Yes, sir; at once," and
through the partitions of the private office on the other side, a man's
heavy tones came to Constance. That was Henry's office and, in timbre,
the voice was his, but it was so strange in other characteristics of
expression that she waited an instant before saying to the clerk,
"Mr. Spearman has come in?"
The clerk hesitated, but the continuance of the tone from the other
side of the partition made reply superfluous. "Yes, Miss Sherrill."
"Did you tell him that mother and I were here?"
The clerk considered again before deciding to reply in the affirmative.
There evidently was some trouble with the telephone number which Henry
had called; the girl at the switchboard was apologizing in frightened
panic, and Henry's voice, loud and abusive, came more plainly through
the partition. Constance started to give an instruction to the clerk;
then, as the abuse burst out again, she changed her plan and went to
Henry's door and rapped. Whether no one else rapped in that way or
whether he realized that she might have come into the general office,
she did not know; but at once his voice was still. He made no answer
and no move to open the door; so, after waiting a moment, she turned
the knob and went in.
Henry was seated at his desk, facing her, his big hands before him; one
of them held the telephone receiver. He lifted it slowly and put it
upon the hook beside the transmitter as he watched her with steady,
silent, aggressive scrutiny. His face was flushed a little--not much;
his hair was carefully brushed, and there was something about his
clean-shaven appearance and the set of his perfectly fitting coat, one
which he did not ordinarily wear to business, which seemed studied. He
did not rise; only after a moment he recollected that he had not done
so and came to his feet. "Good morning, Connie," he said. "Come in.
What's the news?"
There was something strained and almost menacing in his voice and in
his manner which halted her. She in some way--or her presence at that
moment--appeared to be definitely disturbing him. It frightened him,
she would have thought, except that the idea was a contradiction.
Henry frightened? But if he was not, what emotion now controlled him?
The impulse which had brought her into his office went from her. She
had not seen nor heard from Henry directly since before Alan's telegram
had come late yesterday afternoon; she had heard from her father only
that he had informed Henry; that was all.
"I've no news, Henry," she said. "Have you?" She closed the door
behind her before moving closer to him. She had not known what he had
been doing, since he had heard of Alan's telegram; but she had supposed
that he was in some way cooperating with her father, particularly since
word had come of the disaster to the ferry.
"How did you happen to be here, Connie?" he asked.
She made no reply but gazed at him, studying him. The agitation which
he was trying to conceal was not entirely consequent to her coming in
upon him; it had been ruling him before. It had underlain the loudness
and abuse of his words which she had overheard. That was no capricious
outburst of temper or irritation; it had come from something which had
seized and held him in suspense, in dread--in dread; there was no other
way to define her impression to herself. When she had opened the door
and come in, he had looked up in dread, as though preparing himself for
whatever she might announce. Now that the door shut them in alone, he
approached her with arms offered. She stepped back, instinctively
avoiding his embrace; and he stopped at once, but he had come quite
close to her now.
That she had detected faintly the smell of liquor
about him was not the whole reason for her drawing back. He was not
drunk; he was quite himself so far as any influence of that kind was
concerned. Long ago, when he was a young man on the boats, he had
drunk a good deal; he had confessed to her once; but he had not done so
for years. Since she had known him, he had been among the most careful
of her friends; it was for "efficiency" he had said. The drink was
simply a part--indeed, only a small part--of the subtle strangeness and
peculiarity she marked in him. If he had been drinking now, it was,
she knew, no temptation, no capricious return to an old appetite. If
not appetite, then it was for the effect--to brace himself. Against
what? Against the thing for which he had prepared himself when she
came upon him?
As she stared at him, the clerk's voice came to her suddenly over the
partition which separated the office from the larger room where the
clerk was receiving some message over the telephone. Henry
straightened, listened; as the voice stopped, his great, finely shaped
head sank between his shoulders; he fumbled in his pocket for a cigar,
and his big hands shook as he lighted it, without word of excuse to
her. A strange feeling came to her that he felt what he dreaded
approaching and was no longer conscious of her presence.
She heard footsteps in the larger room coming toward the office door.
Henry was in suspense. A rap came at the door. He whitened and took
the cigar from his mouth and wet his lips.
"Come in," he summoned.
One of the office girls entered, bringing a white page of paper with
three or four lines of purple typewriting upon it which Constance
recognized must be a transcript of a message just received.
She started forward at sight of it, forgetting everything else; but he
took the paper as though he did not know she was there. He merely held
it until the girl had gone out; even then he stood folding and
unfolding it, and his eyes did not drop to the sheet.
The girl had said nothing at all but, having seen her, Constance was
athrill; the girl had not been a bearer of bad news, that was sure; she
brought some sort of good news! Constance, certain of it, moved nearer
to Henry to read what he held. He looked down and read.
"What is it, Henry?"
His muscular reaction, as he read, had drawn the sheet away from her;
he recovered himself almost instantly and gave the paper to her; but,
in that instant, Constance herself was "prepared." She must have
deceived herself the instant before! This bulletin must be something
dismaying to what had remained of hope.
"8:35 A.M., Manitowoc, Wis.," she read. "The schooner _Anna S.
Solwerk_ has been sighted making for this port. She is not close
enough for communication, but two lifeboats, additional to her own, can
be plainly made out. It is believed that she must have picked up
survivors of No. 25. She carries no wireless, so is unable to report.
Tugs are going out to her."
"Two lifeboats!" Constance cried. "That could mean that they all are
saved or nearly all; doesn't it, Henry; doesn't it?"
He had read some other significance in it, she thought, or, from his
greater understanding of conditions in the storm, he had been able to
hold no hope from what had been reported. That was the only way she
could explain to herself as he replied to her; that the word meant to
him that men were saved and that therefore it was dismaying to him,
could not come to her at once. When it came now, it went over her
first only in the flash of incredulous question.
"Yes," he said to her. "Yes." And he went out of the room to the
outer office. She turned and watched him and then followed to the
door. He had gone to the desk of the girl who had brought him the
bulletin, and Constance heard his voice, strained and queerly
unnatural. "Call Manitowoc on the long distance. Get the harbor
master. Get the names of the people that the _Solwerk_ picked up."
He stayed beside the girl while she started the call. "Put them on my
wire when you get them," he commanded and turned back to his office.
"Keep my wire clear for that."
Constance retreated into the room as he approached. He did not want
her there now, she knew; for that reason--if she yet definitely
understood no other--she meant to remain. If he asked her to go, she
intended to stay; but he did not ask her. He wished her to go away; in
every word which he spoke to her, in every moment of their silent
waiting, was his desire to escape her; but he dared not--dared not--go
about that directly.
The feeling of that flashed over her to her stupefaction. Henry and
she were waiting for word of the fate of Uncle Benny and Alan, and
waiting opposed! She was no longer doubting it as she watched him; she
was trying to understand. The telephone buzzer under his desk sounded;
she drew close as he took up his receiver.
"Manitowoc?" he said. "I want to know what you've heard from the
_Solwerk_.... You hear me? ... The men the _Solwerk_ picked up. You
have the names yet?"
"..."
"The _Benton_?"
"..."
"Oh, I understand! All from the _Benton_. I see! ... No; never mind
their names. How about Number 25? Nothing more heard from them?"
Constance had caught his shoulder while he was speaking and now clung
to it. Release--release of strain was going through him; she could
feel it, and she heard it in his tones and saw it in his eyes.
"The steamer Number 25 rammed proves to have been the _Benton_," he
told her. "The men are all from her. They had abandoned her in the
small boats, and the _Solwerk_ picked them up before the ferry found
her."
He was not asking her to congratulate him upon the relief he felt; he
had not so far forgotten himself as that. But it was plain to her that
he was congratulating himself; it had been fear that he was feeling
before--fear, she was beginning to understand, that those on the ferry
had been saved. She shrank a little away from him. Benjamin Corvet
had not been a friend of Henry's--they had quarreled; Uncle Benny had
caused trouble; but nothing which she had understood could explain fear
on Henry's part lest Uncle Benny should be found safe. Henry had not
welcomed Alan; but now Henry was hoping that Alan was dead. Henry's
words to her in the north, after Alan had seen her there, iterated
themselves to her: "I told that fellow Conrad not to keep stirring up
these matters about Ben Corvet.... Conrad doesn't know what he'll turn
up; I don't know either. But it's not going to be anything
pleasant...." Only a few minutes ago she had still thought of these
words as spoken only for Alan's sake and for Uncle Benny's; now she
could not think of them so. This fear of news from the north could not
be for their sake; it was for Henry's own. Had all the warnings been
for Henry's sake too?
Horror and amazement flowed in upon her with her realization of this in
the man she had promised to marry; and he seemed now to appreciate the
effect he was producing upon her. He tried obviously to pull himself
together; he could not do that fully; yet he managed a manner assertive
of his right over her.
"Connie," he cried to her, "Connie!"
She drew back from him as he approached her; she was not yet
consciously denying his right. What was controlling him, what might
underlie his hope that they were dead, she could not guess; she could
not think or reason about that now; what she felt was only overwhelming
desire to be away from him where she could think connectedly. For an
instant she stared at him, all her body tense; then, as she turned and
went out, he followed her, again calling her name. But, seeing the
seamen in the larger office, he stopped, and she understood he was not
willing to urge himself upon her in their presence.
She crossed the office swiftly; in the corridor she stopped to compose
herself before she met her mother. She heard Henry's voice speaking to
one of the clerks, and flushed hotly with horror. Could she be certain
of anything about him now? Could she be certain even that news which
came through these employees of his would not be kept from her or only
so much given her as would serve Henry's purpose and enable him to
conceal from her the reason for his fear? She pushed the door open.
"I'm willing to go home now, mother, if you wish," she said steadily.
Her mother arose at once. "There is no more news, Constance?"
"No; a schooner has picked up the crew of the ship the ferry rammed;
that is all."
She followed her mother, but stopped in the ante-room beside the desk
of her father's private secretary.
"You are going to be here all day, Miss Bennet?" she asked.
"Yes, Miss Sherrill."
"Will you please try to see personally all messages which come to
Corvet, Sherrill and Spearman, or to Mr. Spearman about the men from
Number 25, and telephone them to me yourself?"
"Certainly, Miss Sherrill."
When they had gone down to the street and were in the car, Constance
leaned back, closing her eyes; she feared her mother might wish to talk
with her. The afternoon papers were already out with news of the loss
of the ferry; Mrs. Sherrill stopped the car and bought one, but
Constance looked at it only enough to make sure that the reporters had
been able to discover nothing more than she already knew; the newspaper
reference to Henry was only as to the partner of the great Chicago ship
owner, Benjamin Corvet, who might be lost with the ship.
She called Miss Bennet as soon as she reached home; but nothing more
had been received. Toward three o'clock, Miss Bennet called her, but
only to report that the office had heard again from Mr. Sherrill. He
had wired that he was going on from Manistique and would cross the
Straits from St. Ignace; messages from him were to be addressed to
Petoskey. He had given no suggestion that he had news; and there was
no other report except that vessels were still continuing the search
for survivors, because the Indian Drum, which had been beating, was
beating "short," causing the superstitious to be certain that, though
some of the men from Number 25 were lost, some yet survived.
Constance thrilled as she heard that. She did not believe in the Drum;
at least she had never thought she had really believed in it; she had
only stirred to the idea of its being true. But if the Drum was
beating, she was glad it was beating short. It was serving, at least,
to keep the lake men more alert. She wondered what part the report of
the Drum might have played in her father's movements. None, probably;
for he, of course, did not believe in the Drum. His move was plainly
dictated by the fact that, with the western gale, drift from the ferry
would be toward the eastern shore.
A little later, as Constance stood at the window, gazing out at the
snow upon the lake, she drew back suddenly out of sight from the
street, as she saw Henry's roadster appear out of the storm and stop
before the house.
She had been apprehensively certain that he would come to her some time
during the day; he had been too fully aware of the effect he made upon
her not to attempt to remove that effect as soon as he could. As he
got out of the car, shaking the snowflakes from his great fur coat and
from his cap, looking up at the house before he came in and not knowing
that he was observed, she saw something very like triumph in his
manner. Her pulses stopped, then raced, at that; triumph for him!
That meant, if he brought news, it was good news for him; it must be
then, bad news for her.
She waited in the room where she was. She heard him in the hall,
taking off his coat and speaking to the servant, and he appeared then
at the door. The strain he was under had not lessened, she could see;
or rather, if she could trust her feeling at sight of him, it had
lessened only slightly, and at the same time his power to resist it had
been lessening too. His hands and even his body shook; but his head
was thrust forward, and he stared at her aggressively, and, plainly, he
had determined in advance to act toward her as though their
relationship had not been disturbed.
"I thought you'd want to know, Connie," he said, "so I came straight
out. The _Richardson's_ picked up one of the boats from the ferry."
"Uncle Benny and Alan Conrad were not in it," she returned; the triumph
she had seen in him had told her that.
"No; it was the first boat put off by the ferry, with the passengers
and cabin maid and some injured men of the crew."
"Were they--alive?" her voice hushed tensely.
"Yes; that is, they were able to revive them all; but it didn't seem
possible to the _Richardson's_ officers that any one could be revived
who had been exposed much longer than that; so the _Richardson's_ given
up the search, and some of the other ships that were searching have
given up too, and gone on their course."
"When did you hear that, Henry? I was just speaking with the office."
"A few minutes ago; a news wire got it before any one else; it didn't
come through the office."
"I see; how many were in the boat?"
"Twelve, Connie."
"Then all the vessels up there won't give up yet!"
"Why not?"
"I was just talking with Miss Bennet, Henry; she's heard again from the
other end of the lake. The people up there say the Drum is beating,
but it's beating short still!"
"Short!"
She saw Henry stiffen. "Yes," she said swiftly. "They say the Drum
began sounding last night, and that at first it sounded for only two
lives; it's kept on beating, but still is beating only for four. There
were thirty-nine on the ferry--seven passengers and thirty-two crew.
Twelve have been saved now; so until the Drum raises the beats to
twenty-seven there is still a chance that some one will be saved."
Henry made no answer; his hands fumbled purposelessly with the lapels
of his coat, and his bloodshot eyes wandered uncertainly. Constance
watched him with wonder at the effect of what she had told. When she
had asked him once about the Drum, he had professed the same scepticism
which she had; but he had not held it; at least he was not holding it
now. The news of the Drum had shaken him from his triumph over Alan
and Uncle Benny and over her. It had shaken him so that, though he
remained with her some minutes more, he seemed to have forgotten the
purpose of reconciliation with her which had brought him to the house.
When a telephone call took her out of the room, she returned to find
him gone to the dining-room; she heard a decanter clink there against a
glass. He did not return to her again, but she heard him go. The
entrance door closed after him, and the sound of his starting motor
came. Then alarm, stronger even than that she had felt during the
morning, rushed upon her.
She dined, or made a pretence of dining, with her mother at seven. Her
mother's voice went on and on about trifles, and Constance did not try
to pay attention. Her thought was following Henry with ever sharpening
apprehension. She called the office in mid-evening; it would be open,
she knew, for messages regarding Uncle Benny and Alan would be expected
there. A clerk answered; no other news had been received; she then
asked Henry's whereabouts.
"Mr. Spearman went north late this afternoon, Miss Sherrill," the clerk
informed her.
"North? Where?"
"We are to communicate with him this evening to Grand Rapids; after
that, to Petoskey."
Constance could hear her own heart beat. Why had Henry gone, she
wondered; not, certainly, to aid the search. Had he gone to--hinder it?