Newspaper Page Text
The BUND
MAN’S
EYES
By William MacHarg
Edwin Balmer
Q
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
R. H. Livingstone
Copyright by Little, Brown and Company
"DESCRIBE HIM"
Gabriel Warden, Seattle capital
ist, tells his butler he is expecting
a caller, to be admitted without
question. He informs his wife of
danger that reatens him If he
pursues a course he considers the
only honorable one. Warden leaves
the house in his car and meets a
man whom he takes into the ma
chine. When the car returns home.
Warden is found dead, murdered,
and alone. The caller, a young
man, has been at Warden’s house,
but leaves unobserved. Bob Con
nery, conductor, receives orders to
hold train for a party. Five men
and a girl board the train, the
eastern express. The father of the
girl, Mr. Dome, is the person for
whom the train was held. Philip
D. Eaton, a young man, also
boarded the train. Dome tells his
daughter and his secretary, Don
Avery, to find out what they can
concerning him. The two make
Eaton’s acquaintance. Dome is
found nearly dead from a murder
ous assault. A surgeon operates.
Dome is revealed as Basil San
toine, blind, and a power in the
financial world as the adviser of
-‘‘big interests.” Eaton is suspected
and questioned. He refuses infor
mation about himself and admits he
was the caller at Warden’s house.
CHAPTER VlM—Continued.
Eaton had sensed already what the
nature of the message must be,
though as the conductor held It out
to him he could read only his name
at the top of the sheet and did not
know yet what the actual wording
was below. Acceptance of It must
mean arrest, Indictment for the
crime against Basil Santoine; and
that, whether or not he later was ac
quitted, must destroy him; but denial
of the message now would be hope
less.
“It Is yours, Isn’t It?” Connery
urged.
“Yes; It’s mine,” Eaton admitted;
and to make his acceptance definite,
he took the paper from Connery. As
he looked dully down at it, he read:
“He is on your train under the
name of Dome.”
The message was not signed.
Connery touched him on the shoul
der. “Come with me, Mr. Eaton.”
Eaton got up slowly and mechan
ically and followed the conductor. At
the door he halted and looked back;
Harriet Santoine was not looking;
her face was covered with her hands;
Eaton hesitated; then he went on.
Connery threw open the door of the
compartment next to the washroom
and corresponding to the drawing
room at the other end of the car, but
smaller.
“You’ll do well enough In here.”
He closed the door upon Eaton and
locked it. As Eaton stood staring at
the floor, he could hear through the
metal partition of the washroom the
nervous, almost hysterical weeping of
an overstrained girl. The thing was
done; in so far as the authorities on
the train were concerned, it was
known that he was the man who had
had thfe appointment with Gabriel
Warden and had disappeared; and in
so far as the train officials could act,
he was accused and confined for the
attack upon Basil Santoine. But be
sides being overwhelmed with the hor
ror of this position, the manner In
which he had been accused had
roused him to helpless anger, to rage
at his accusers which still Increased
as he heard the sounds on the other
side of the partition, where Avery was
now trying to silence Harriet San
toine and lead her away.
CHAPTER IX
The Blind Man's Eyes.
At noon Connery came to his door,
and behind Connery, Eaton saw Har
riet Santoine and Avery. Eaton
jumped up, and as he saw the girl’s
pale face, the color left his own.
“Miss Santoine has asked to speak
to you,” Connery announced; and he
admitted Harriet Santoine and Avery,
and himself remaining outside in the
aisle, closed the door upon them.
“How Is your father?” Eaton asked
the girl.
“He seems Just the same; at least,
1 can’t see any change, Mr. Eaton.”
“Can Doctor Sinclair see any differ
ence?” Eaton asked.
“Doctor Sinclair will not commit
himself except to say that so far as
he can tell, the indications are favcr-
L7«-» o fih fplr—** Tha frit*!
UDiCt XJIL OLC4UO IU v u A. *»C e>‘* *
choked; but when she went on, her
blue eyes were very bright and her
lips did not tremble. “Doctor Sinclair
seems to think, Mr. Eaton, that Fa
ther was found just in time, and that
whatever chance he has for recovery
came from you. Sometimes Father
had insomnia and wouldn’t get to
sleep till late in the morning; so landI —
and Mr. Avery too —would have left
him undisturbed until noon. Doctor
Sinclair says that if he had been left
as long as that, he would have had no
chance at all for life.”
“He has a chance, then, now?”
“Yes; but we don't know how much.
I—l wanted you to know, Mr. Eaton,
that I recognize—that the chance Fa
ther may have came through you, and
that I am trying to think of you as
the one who gave him the chance."
The warm blood flooded Eaton’s
face, and he bowed his head. She,
then, was not wholly hostile to him;
she had not been completely con
vinced by Avery.
Her eyes rested iwon Eaton stead
ily; and while he had been appealing
to her, a flush had come to her cheeks
and faded away and come again and
again with her Impulses as he spoke.
“If you didn’t do it, why don’t you
help us?” she cried.
“Help you?”
“Yes; tell us who yon are and w’hat
you are doing? Why did yos take the
train because Father was on it, If you
didn’t mean any harm to him? Why
don’t you tell us where you are going
or where you have been or what you
have been doing? Why can’t you give
the name of anybody you know or tell
us of anyone who knows about you?”
“I might ask you in return,” Eaton
said, “why you thought It worth while,
Miss Santoine, to ask so much about
myself when you first met me and
before any of this had happened?
Why were you curious about me?”
“My father asked me to find out
about you."
“Why?”
Harriet had reddened under Eaton’s
gaze. “You understand, Mr. Eaton, It
was —was entirely impersonal with
me. My father, being blind, Is obliged
to use the eyes of others —mine, for
one; and he has Mr. Avery. He calls
us his eyes, sometimes; and it was
only—only because I had been com
missioned to find out about you that
I was obliged to show so much
curiosity.”
Harriet arose, and Eaton got up as
she did and stood as she went toward
the door.
Avery ha<}. reached the door, hold
ing it open for her to go out. Sudden
ly Eaton tore the handle from Avery’s
grasp, slammed the door shut upon
him and braced his foot against It.
“Miss Santoine,” he pleaded, his
voice hoarse with his emotion, "for
God’s sake, make them think what
they are doing before they make a
public accusation against me —before
they charge me with this to others
not on this train! It will not be
merely accusation they make against
me —it will be my sentence I I shall
be sentenced before I am tried —con-
demned without a chance to defend
myself! That Is the reason I could
not come forward after the murder
of Mr. Warden. I could not have
helped him—or aided in the pursuit
of his enemies—if I had appeared; I
merely would have been destroyed
myself I The only thing I could hope
to accomplish has been In following
my present course —which, I swear
to you, has no connection with the
attack upon your father. What Mr.
Avery and Connery are planning to
do to me, they cannot undo. They
will merely complete the outrage and
injustice already dope me —of which
Mr. Warden spoke to his wife —and
they will not help your father. For
God’s sake, keep then from going
further 1”
Her color deepened, and for an In
stant, he thought he saw full belief in
him growing in her eyes; hut If she
could not accept the charge against
him, neither could she consciously
deny It, and the hands she had been
pressing together suddenly dropped.
“I —I’m afraid nothing I could say
would have much effect on them,
knowing as little about —about you
as I do!”
They dashed the door open then—
silenced and overwhelmed him; and
they took her from the room and left
him alone again. But there was
something left with him which they
could not take away; for in the
moment he had stood alone with her
and passionately pleading, something
had passed between them—he could
give no name to it, but he knew that
Harriet Santoine never could think
of him again without a stirring of her
pulses which drew her toward him.
The following morning the relieving
snowplows arrived from the East, and
Eaton felt it was the beginning of
the end for him. He watched from his
window men struggling in the snow
about the forward end of the train;
then the train moved forward past
the shoveled and trampled snow where
rock and pieces of the snowplow were
piled beside the track —stopped,
waited; finally It went on again and
began to take up Its steady progress.
The attack upon Santoine having
taken place In Montana, Eaton thought j
HENRY HHINTY WEEKLY, McDONOUGH. GEORGIA
that he would be turned over to the
police somewhere within that state,
and he expected it would be done at
the first stop; but when the tralu
slowed at Simons, he saw the town
was nothing more than a little hamlet
beside a side-track.
It made no material difference to
him, Eaton realized, whether the po
lice took him In Montana or Chi
cago, since In either case recogni
tion of him would be certain in the
end; but In Chicago this recognition
must be Immediate, complete, and ut
terly convincing.
The trnln was traveling steadll’- and
faster than Its regular schedule; it
evidently was running as a special,
some other trnln taking the ordinnry
traffic; It halted now only at the
largest cities. In the morning It
.crossed Into Minnesota; and In the
late afternoon, slowing, It rolled Into
some large city which Eaton knew
must be Minneapolis or St. Paul. The
car here was uncoupled from thj train
and picked up by a switch engine; as
dusk fell, Eaton, peering out of his
window, could see that they had been
left lying In the railroad yards; and
about midnight, awakening In his
berth, he realized that the car was
still motionless. He could account
for this stoppage '.n their progress
only by some change In the condition
of Santoine. Was Santoine sinking,
so that they no longer dared to travel?
Was he, perhaps—dead?
No sounds came to him from the
car to confirm Eaton In any con
clusion; there was nothing to be
learned from anyone outside the car.
Eaton lay for a long time, listening
for other sounds and wondering what
was occurring—or had occurred —at
the other end of his car. Toward
morning he fell asleep.
CHAPTER X
Publicity Not Wanted.
“Basil Santoine dying! Blind mil
lionaire lawyer taken ill on train I”
The alarm of the cry came to
answer Eaton’s question early the next
morning He threw up the curtain
and saw a vagrant newsboy, evidently
passing through the railroad yards
to sell to the trainmen. Eaton, hail
ing the boy put out his hand for a
paper. He spread the news-sheet be
fore him and read that Santolne’s con-
They Dashed the Door Open, Then —
dition was very low and becoming
rapidly worse. But below, under a
Montana date-line, Eaton saw it pro
claimed that the blind millionaire was
merely sick; there was no suggestion
anywhere of an attack. The paper
stated only that Basil Santoine, re
turning from Seattle with his daugh
ter and his secretary, Donald Avery,
had been taken seriously ill upon a
train which had been stalled for tw r o
days in the snow in Montana. The
column ended with the statement that
Mr. Santoine hud passed through
Minneapolis and gone on to Chicago
under care of Dr. Douglas Sinclair.
Eaton stared at the newspaper with
out reading, after he saw that. He
had not realized, until now that he
was told that Harriet Santoine had
gone—for if her father had gone on,
of course she was with him —the ex
tent to which he had felt her fair
ness, almost her friendship to him. At
least, he knew now that, since she had
spoken to him after he was first ac
cused of the attack on her father,
he had not felt entirely deserted or
friendless till now.
But why, :f Santoine had been
taken away, or was dead or dying,
had they left Eaton all night In the
car in the yards? Since Santoine was
dying, would there be any longer an
object in concealing the fact that he
had been murdered?
He dressed and then paced back
and forth the two or three steps his
compartment allowed him. He
stopped now and then to listen; from
outside came the noises of the yard;
but he made out no sound within the
car. If it had been occupied as on
the days previous, he must have heard
some one coming to the washroom at
his end. Was he alone In the car
now, or had the customary moving
about taken place before he awoke?
Finally, to free himjelf from nls
nervous listening for sounds which
never came, he picked up the paper
again. He «reud:
“The news o* Mr. Santolne’s visit
of a week on the Coast, if not known
already in great financial circles, Is
likely to prove interesting there. For
years he has been the chief agent
in keeping peace among some of the
great conflicting interests, and more
than once he hns advised the declar
ing of financial war when war seemed
to him the correct solution. Thus,
five years ago, when the violent death
of Matthew Latron threatened to pre
cipitate trouble among western
capitalists, Santoine kept order In
what might very well become
financial chaos. If his recent visit
to the Pacific coast was not purely
for personal reasons but was also
to adjust antagonisms such as charged
by Gabriel Warden before his death,
the loss of Santoine at this time may
precipitate troubles which, living, fits
advice and information might have
been able to prevent.”
Having read and reread this long
paragraph. Eaton thrust the sheet
out the window. As jie sat think
ing, with lips tight closed, he henrd
for the first time that morning foot
steps at his end of the car. The
door of his compartment was un
locked and opened, and he saw Doc
tor Sinclair.
“Mr. Santoine wants to speak to
you,” the surgeon announced quietly.
This startling negation of all he
imagined, unnerved Eaton. He
started up, then sank bnck for bet
ter composure.
“Mr. Santoine Is here, then?”
“Here? Of course he’s here?”
“And he’s conscious?”
“He has been conscious for the
better part of two days. Didn’t they
tell you?”
Eaton looked toward the window,
breathing hard. “ I heard the news
boys—”
Sinclair shrugged. "The pnpers
print what they can get and In tne
way which seems most effective to
them,” was his only comment.
The surgeon led Eaton to the door
of the drawing room, showed him in
and left him.
Harriet Santoine was sitting on the
little lounge opposite the berth where
her father lny. She was watching
the face of her father, and as 'Eaton
stood in the door, he saw her lean
forward and gently touch her father’s
hand; then she turned and saw Eaton.
“Here is Mr. Eaton, Father,” she
said.
“Sit down,” Santoine directed.
The blind man was very weak and
must stay quite still; and he recog
nized It; but lie knew too that his
strength was more than equal to the
task of recovery, and he showed that
he knew it. Ills mind and will were,
obviously, at tiieir full activity, and
he had fully his sense of hearing.
Harriet’s lips, trembled as she
turned to Eaton; but she did not
speak directly to him yet; it was
Basil Santoine who suddenly Inquired:
“What is it they call you?”
“My name Is Philip D. Eaton.”
Eaton realized as soon as he had
spoken that both question and answer
had been unnecessary, and Santoine
had asked only to henr Eaton’s voice.
The blind man was silent for a
moment, as he seemed to consider
the voice and try again vainly to
place it In his memories. Then he
spoke to his daughter.
“Describe him, Harriet.”
Harriet paled and flushed.
“About thirty,” she said, “ —under
rather thnn over that. Six feet or
a little more in height. Slender, but
muscular and athletic-. Skin and feyes
clear and with a look of health. Com
plexion naturally rather fair, but
darkened by being outdoors a good
deal. Hair dark brown, straight and
parted at the side. Smooth ehaven.
Eyes blue-gray, with straight lashes.
Eyebrows straight and dark. Fore
head smooth, broad and Intelligent.
Nose straight and neither short nor
long; nostrils delicate. Mouth straight,
with lips neither thin nor full. Chin
neither square nor pointed, and with
out a cleft. Face and head, In gen
eral, of oval Anglo-American type.”
“Go on,” said Santoine.
Harriet was breathing quickly.
“Hands well shaped, strong but with
out sign of manual labor; noils cared
for but not polished. Gray business
suit, new. Soft-bosomed shirt of plain
design with soft cuffs. Medium
height turn-down white linen collar.
Four-in-hand tie, tied by himself.
Black shoes. No Jewelry except
watch-chain.”
“Tn general?” Santoine suggested.
“In general/ apparently well-edu
ated. well-bred, intelligent young
American. Expression 'rank. Manner
self-controlled and reserved. Seems
sometimes younger than he must be,
sometimes older. Something has
happened at some time which has
had a great effect and can’t be for
gotten.”
“I understand; of course,
Hugh! But you—you’r® here!
In his house!"
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
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