r. Spearman is coming
here now!"

Her impulse was to remain where she was, lest he should think she was
afraid of him; but realization came to her that there might be
advantage in seeing him before he knew that she was there, so she
reclosed the door and drew back into the cabin.

CHAPTER XX

THE SOUNDING OF THE DRUM

Noises of the wind and the roaring of the lake made inaudible any sound
of his approach to the cabin; she heard his snowshoes, however, scrape
the cabin wall as, after taking them off, he leaned them beside the
door. He thrust the door open then and came in; he did not see her at
first and, as he turned to force the door shut again against the wind,
she watched him quietly. She understood at once why the Indian woman
had been afraid of him. His face was bloodless, yellow, and
swollen-looking, his eyes bloodshot, his lips strained to a thin,
straight line.

He saw her now and started and, as though sight of her confused him, he
looked away from the woman and then back to Constance before he seemed
certain of her.

"Hello!" he said tentatively. "Hello!"

"I'm here, Henry."

"Oh; you are! You are!" He stood drawn up, swaying a little as he
stared at her; whiskey was upon his breath, and it became evident in
the heat of the room; but whiskey could not account for this condition
she witnessed in him. Neither could it conceal that condition; some
turmoil and strain within him made him immune to its effects.

She had realized on her way up here what, vaguely, that strain within
him must be. Guilt--guilt of some awful sort connected him, and had
connected Uncle Benny, with the _Miwaka_--the lost ship for which the
Drum had beaten the roll of the dead. Now dread of revelation of that
guilt had brought him here near to the Drum; he had been alone upon the
beach twelve hours, the woman had said--listening, counting the beating
of the Drum for another ship, fearing the survival of some one from
that ship. Guilt was in his thought now--racking, tearing at him. But
there was something more than that; what she had seen in him when he
first caught sight of her was fear--fear of her, of Constance Sherrill.

He was fully aware, she now understood, that he had in a measure
betrayed himself to her in Chicago; and he had hoped to cover up and to
dissemble that betrayal with her. For that reason she was the last
person in the world whom he wished to find here now.

"The point is," he said heavil