"What writing?"

He took the lists from his pocket and showed them to her. She separated and looked through the sheets and read the names written in the same hand that had written the directions upon the slip of paper that came to her four days before, with the things from Uncle Benny's pockets.

"My father had kept these very secretly," he explained. "He had them hidden. Wa.s.saquam knew where they were, and that night after Luke was dead and you had gone home, he gave them to me."

"After I had gone home? Henry went back to see you that night; he had said he was going back, and afterwards I asked him, and he told me he had seen you again. Did you show him these?"

"He saw them--yes."

"He was there when Wa.s.saquam showed you where they were?"

"Yes."

A little line deepened between her brows, and she sat thoughtful.

"So you have been going about seeing these people," she said. "What have you found out?"

"Nothing definite at all. None of them knew my father; they were only amazed to find that any one in Chicago had known their names."

She got up suddenly. "You don't mind if I am with you when you talk with this Indian?"

He arose and looked around for the guide who had brought him. His guide had been standing near, evidently waiting until Alan's attention was turned his way; he gestured now toward a man, a woman, and several children who were lunching, seated about a basket on the ground. The man--thin, patient and of medium size--was of the indefinite age of the Indian, neither young nor yet old. It was evident that life had been hard for the man; he looked worn and undernourished; his clothing was the cast-off suit of some one much larger which had been inexpertly altered to make it fit him. As Alan and Constance approached them, the group turned on them their dark, inexpressive eyes, and the woman got up, but the man remained seated on the ground.

"I'm looking for Jo Papo," Alan explained.

"What you want?" the squaw asked. "You got work?" The words were p.r.o.nounced with difficulty and evidently composed most of her English vocabulary.

"I want to see him, that's all." Alan turned to the man. "You're Jo Papo, aren't you?"

The Indian a.s.sented by an almost imperceptible nod.

"You used to live near Escanaba, didn't you?"

Jo Papo considered before replying; either his scrutiny of Alan rea.s.sured him, or he recalled nothing having to do with his residence near Escanaba which disturbed him. "Yes; once," he said.

"Your father was Azen Papo?"

"He's dead," the Indian replied. "Not my father, anyway. Grandfather.

What about him?"

"That's what I want to ask you," Alan said. "When did he die and how?"

Jo Papo got up and stood leaning his back against a tree. So far from being one who was merely curious about Indians, this stranger perhaps was coming about an Indian claim--to give money maybe for injustices done in the past.

"My grandfather die fifteen years ago," he informed them. "From cough, I think."

"Where was that?" Alan asked.

"Escanaba--near there."

"What did he do?"

"Take people to shoot deer--fish--a guide. I think he plant a little too."

"He didn't work on the boats?"

"No; my father, he work on the boats."

"What was his name?"

"Like me; Jo Papo too. He's dead."

"What is your Indian name?"

"Flying Eagle."

"What boats did your father work on?"

"Many boats."

"What did he do?"

"Deck hand."

"What boat did he work on last?"

"Last? How do I know? He went away one year and didn't come back? I suppose he was drowned from a boat."

"What year was that?"

"I was little then; I do not know."

"How old were you?"

"Maybe eight years; maybe nine or ten."

"How old are you now?"

"Thirty, maybe."

"Did you ever hear of Benjamin Corvet?"

"Who?"

"Benjamin Corvet."

"No."