not led to that, but only to a suggestion, indefinite as jet. He had known that, if his search finally developed nothing more than it had, he must at last consult Sherrill and get Sherrill's aid.
"We found some writing, Miss Sherrill," he said, "in the house on Astor Street that night after Luke came."
"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. Wassaquam 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 Wassaquam 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."
