hrew it open. In
the dusk the figure of the man outside was not at all recognizable; but
as he entered with heavy and deliberate steps, passing Alan without
greeting and going straight to Constance, Alan saw by the light in the
hall that it was Spearman.

"What's up?" Spearman asked. "They tried to get your father at the
office and then me, but neither of us was there. They got me
afterwards at the club. They said you'd come over here; but that must
have been more than two hours ago."

His gaze went on past her to the drawn hangings of the room to the
right; and he seemed to appreciate their significance; for his face
whitened under its tan, and an odd hush came suddenly upon him.

"Is it Ben, Connie?" he whispered. "Ben ... come back?"

He drew the curtains partly open. The light in the library had been
extinguished, and the light that came from the hall swayed about the
room with the movement of the curtains and gave a momentary semblance
of life to the face of the man upon the couch. Spearman drew the
curtains quickly together again, still holding to them and seeming for
an instant to cling to them; then he shook himself together, threw the
curtains wide apart, and strode into the room. He switched on the
light and went directly to the couch; Alan followed him.

"He's--dead?"

"Who is he?" Alan demanded.

Spearman seemed to satisfy himself first as to the answer to his
question. "How should I know who he is?" he asked. "There used to be
a wheelsman on the _Martha Corvet_ years ago who looked like him; or
looked like what this fellow may have looked like once. I can't be
sure."

He turned to Constance. "You're going home, Connie? I'll see you over
there. I'll come back about this afterward, Conrad."

Alan followed them to the door and closed it after them. He spread the
blankets over Luke. Luke's coats, which Alan had removed, lay upon a
chair, and he looked them over for marks of identification; the
mackinaw bore the label of a dealer in Manitowoc--wherever that might
be; Alan did not know. A side pocket produced an old briar: there was
nothing else. Then Alan walked restlessly about, awaiting Spearman.
Spearman, he believed, knew this man; Spearman had not even ventured
upon modified denial until he was certain that the man was dead; and
then he had answered so as not to commit himself, pending learning from
Constance what Luke had told.

But Luke had said nothing about Spearman. It h