ght.

CHAPTER XII

THE LAND OF THE DRUM

Alan went with Wassaquam into the front library, after the Indian had
shown Spearman out.

"This was the man, Judah, who came for Mr. Corvet that night I was
hurt?"

"Yes, Alan," Wassaquam said.

"He was the man, then, who came here twice a year, at least, to see Mr.
Corvet."

"Yes."

"I was sure of it," Alan said. Wassaquam had made no demonstration of
any sort since he had snatched at Spearman's wrist to hold him back
when Alan had bent to the drawer. Alan could define no real change now
in the Indian's manner; but he knew that, since Wassaquam had found him
quarreling with Spearman, the Indian somehow had "placed" him more
satisfactorily. The reserve, bordering upon distrust, with which
Wassaquam had observed Alan, certainly was lessened. It was in
recognition of this that Alan now asked, "Can you tell me now why he
came here, Judah?"

"I have told you I do not know," Wassaquam replied. "Ben always saw
him; Ben gave him money. I do not know why."

Alan had been holding his hand over the papers which he had thrust into
his pocket; he went back into the smaller library and spread them under
the reading lamp to examine them. Sherrill had assumed that Corvet had
left in the house a record which would fully explain what had thwarted
his life, and would shed light upon what had happened to Corvet, and
why he had disappeared; Alan had accepted this assumption. The careful
and secret manner in which these pages had been kept, and the
importance which Wassaquam plainly had attached to them--and which must
have been a result of his knowing that Corvet regarded them of the
utmost importance--made Alan certain that he had found the record which
Sherrill had believed must be there. Spearman's manner, at the moment
of discovery, showed too that this had been what he had been searching
for in his secret visit to the house.

But, as Alan looked the pages over now, he felt a chill of
disappointment and chagrin. They did not contain any narrative
concerning Benjamin Corvet's life; they did not even relate to a single
event. They were no narrative at all. They were--in his first
examination of them, he could not tell what they were.

They consisted in all of some dozen sheets of irregular size, some of
which had been kept much longer than others, a few of which even
appeared fresh and new. The three pages which Alan thought, from their
yellowed and worn look,