Newspaper Page Text
The BLIND
MAN’S
EYES
Q
By Will iam MacHarg
Edwin Balmer
Copyright by Little, Brown and Company
CHAPTER XV—Continued.
—l3
She halted suddenly In her dressing,
perplexed and troubled. Her father
had sent Eaton to the country club
with Avery; there Avery, plainly, had
forced Eaton into the polo '•ame. By
her father’s instructions? Clearly
there seemed to have been purpose in
what had been done, and purpose
which had not been confided to her
self either by her father or Avery.
For how could they have suspected
Eaton would betray himself in the
game unless they had also suspected
that he had played polo before? To
suspect that, they must at least have
some theory as to who Eaton was.
But her father had no such theory; he
had been expending unavailingly, so
far, every effort to ascertain Eaton’s
connections. So her thoughts led her
only into deeper and greater perplex
ity, but with them came sudden —and
unaccountable resentment against
Avery.
At seven Harriet went in to dinner
with her father. The blind man was
alone; he had been awaiting her, and
they were served at once. All through
the dinner she was nervous and
moody; for she knew she was going
to do something she had never done
before: she was going to conceal
something from her father. She told
of Eaton’s reception at the country
club, and of his taking part in the
polo practice and playing badly; but
of her own impression that Eaton
knew the game and her present con
viction that Donald Avery hau seen
even more than that, she said noth
ing. She watched her father’s face,
but she could see there no conscious
ness that she was omitting anything
in her account.
An hour later, when after reading
aloud to him for a time, he dismissed
her, she hesitated before going.
“You’ve seen Donald?" she asked.
“Yes.’’
“What did he tell you?”
“The same as yor have told, though
not quite so fully.”
She was outside the door and In
the hall before realization came to
her that her father’s reply could mean
only that Donald, like herself, had
concealed his discovery of Eaton’s
ability to play polo. Why Donald had
not told, she could not imagine; the
only conclusion she could reach was
that Donald’s silence in some way
menaced Eaton; for —suddenly now—
it came to her what this must mean
to Eaton. All that he had been so
careful to hide regarding himself and
his connections must he obtainable
by Avery now, and Avery, for some
purpose of his own, was withholding
betrayal to make use of it as he might
see fit.
She moved once mord to return to
her father; again she stopped; then,
swiftly, she turned and went down
stairs.
She looked hurriedly about for
Avery. She did not find him, nor at
first did she find Eaton either. She
discovered him presently in the music
room with Blatchford. Blatchford at
once excused himself, tired evidently
of his task of watching over Eaton.
Harriet caught herself together and
controlled herself to her usual man
ner.
“What shall It be this evening, Mr.
Eaton?” she asked. “Music, billiards?"
“Billiards, if you like,” he respond
ed.
They went up to the billiard room,
and for an hour played steadily; but
her mind was not upon the game—nor,
she saw, was his. Finally, as they
ended a game, he put his cue back in
the rack and faced her.
“Miss Santoine,” he said, “I want
to ask a favor.”
“What is It?”
“I want to go out—unaccompanied.”
“Why?”
“I wish to speak to a friend who
will be waiting for me.’*
“How do you know?”
“He got word to me at the coun
try club today. Excuse me—l did not
mean to inform on Mr. Avery; he was
really most vigilant 1 believe he only
made one slip.”
“He was not the only one observing
you.”
“I suppose not. In fact, I was cer
tain of it. However, I received a mes
sage which was undoubtedly authen
tic and had not been overseen.”
“But you were not able to make
re*i!y.”
“I was able to receive all that was
necessary.”
She considered for a moment. •‘What
do you want me to do?”
"Either because of my presence or
because of what has happened —or
perhaps normally—you have at least
four men about the grounds, two of
whom seem to be constantly on duty
to observe anyone who may approach.
I wish you to order them to let me
pass and go to a place perhaps ten
minutes’ walk from here. If you do
so, I will return at the latest within
half an hour” (he glanced at his
watch) “ —to be definite, before a quar
ter of eleven.”
“Why should I do this?”
He came close to her and faced her.
“What do you think of me now, Miss
Santoiue?”
“Why—”
“You are certain now, are you not,
that I had nothing to do with the at
tack on your father —that is, In any
other connection than that the attack
might be meant for me. I denied yes
terday that the men in the automobile
meant to run me down; you did not ac
cept that denial. I may as well admit
to you that I know perfectly well they
meant to kill me. They are likely to
try again to kill me.”
“We recognize that too,” she an
swered. “The men on watch about
the house are warned to protect you
as well as watch you.”
“I appreciate that."
“But are they all you have to fear,
Mr. Eaton?" She was thinking of
Donald Avery.
He seemed to recognize what was in
her mind; his eyes, as he gazed in
tently at her, clouded, then darkened
still more with some succeeding
thought. “No, not all.”
“And it will aid you to —to protect
yourself if you see your friend to
night?”
“Yes.”
“But why should not one of Fa
ther’s men be with you?”
“Unless I were alone, my friend
would not appear.”
“I see.”
He moved away from her, then
came back; the importance to him of
what he was asking was very plain to
her —he was shaking nervously with
it. “Miss Santolne,” he said intently,
“you do not think badly of me now. I
do not have to doubt that; I can see
it; you have wanted me to see it. I
ask you to trust me for a few minutes
tonight. I cannot tell you whom I
wish to see or why, except that the
man comes to do me a service and to
endanger no one—except those trying
to injure me.”
She herself was trembling with her
desire to help him, but recollection of
her father held her back; then swiftly
there came to her the thought of Ga
briel Warden; because Warden had
tried to help him—in some way and
for some reason which she did not
know—Warden had been killed. And
feeling that in helping him there might
be danger to herself, she suddenly and
eagerly welcomed that danger, and
made her decision.
“You’ll promise, Mr. Eaton, not to
try to—leave?”
“Yes.”
“Let us go out,” she said.
She led the way downstairs and, in
the hall, picked up a cape; he threw
it over her shoulders and brought his
overcoat and cap. But in his absorp
tion he forgot to put them on until,
as they went out into the garden to
gether, she reminded him; then he put
on the cap. The night was clear and
cool, and no one but themselves
seemed to be about the house.
“Which way do you want to go?”
she asked. ,
He turned toward the forested
acres of the grounds which ran down
to a ravine at the bottom of which
a little stream trickled toward the
lake. As they approached the side
of this ravine, a man appeared and
investigated them. He recognized the
girl’s figure and halted.
“It’s all right, Willis,” she said qui
etly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
They passed the man and went
down the path Into the ravine and up
the tiny valley. Eaton halted.
“You don’t mind waiting here a few
moments for me?”
“No,” she said. “You will return
here?”
“Yes,” he said; and with that per
mission, he left her.
Both had spoken so that the man
above could not have heard; and Har
riet now noticed that, as her compan
ion hurried ahead, he went almost
noiselessly. She stood still, shivering
a little now in the cold; and she lis
tened, she no longer heard his foot
steps. What she had done was done;
then just as she wan telling herself
that it must be many moments before
she would know whether he was com
ing back, she heard him returning;
at some little distance, he spoke her
name so as not to frighten her. She
knew at once it was he, but a change
in the tone surprised her. She stepped
forward to meet him.
“You found your friend?”
“Yes."
“What did he tell you? I mean
what is wrong that you did not ex
pect?”
She heard his breath come fast.
“Nothing.” he denied.
HENRY COUNTY WEEKLY, McDONOL' Georgia.
“No; you must tell me I Cant you
trust me?”
“Trust you!” he cried. He turned
to her and seized her hamis. “You
ask me to—trust you l”
“Yes; I’ve trusted you. Can’t you
believe as much in me?”
“Believe in you, Miss Santolne!"
He crushed her fingers in his grasp.
“Oh, my God, I wish I could 1”
“You wish you could?” she echoed.
The tone of it struck her like a blow,
and she tore her hands away. “Wlmt
do you mean by that?”
He made no reply but stood staring
at her through the dark. “We must
go back,” he said queerly. “You’re
cold.”
She did not nnswer hut started hack
up the path to the house. He seemed
to have caught himself together
against some impulse that stirred him
strongly. “The man out there who
saw us? He will report to your fa
ther, Miss Santolne?” he asked un
steadily.
“Reports for Father are first made
to me.”
“I see.” He did not ask her what
she was going to do; if he was assum
ing that her permission to exceed his
set limits bound her not to report to
her father, she did not accept that
assumption, though she would not re
port to the blind man tonight, for she
knew he must now be asleep. But
she felt that Eaton was no longer
thinking of this. As they entered the
house and he helped her lay off her
cape, he suddenly faced her.
“We are in a strange relation to
each other, Miss Santolne—stranger
than you know,” he said unevenly.
She waited for him to go on.
“When the time comes that you
comprehend wlmt our actual relation
is, I —l want you to know that I un
derstand that whatever you have done
was done because you believed it
might bring about the greater good.
I—l have seen in you—ln your father
—only kindness, high honor, sympa
thy. If I did not know —”
She started, gazing at him, what he
said had absolutely no meaning for
her. “What is it thut you know?” she
demanded.
lie did not reply; his hand went out
to hers, seized it, crushed it, and he
started away. As he went up the
stairs —still, In his absorption, carrying
cap and overcoat —she stood staring
after him in perplexity.
CHAPTER XVI
The Fight in the Study. »
Eaton dismissed the man who had
been waiting In his rooms for him; he
locked the door and carefully drew
down all the window shades. Then he
put Ills overcoat, folded as he had
been carrying it under his arm, on
the writing table In the center of the
room, and from its folds and pockets
took a “breast-drill” such ns iron
workers use in drilling steel, an auto
matic pistol with three clips of car
tridges, an electric flashlight and a
little bottle of nitroglycerin. He
loaded the pistol and pat It In his
pocket; then he carefully inspected
the other things.
He raised a shade and window, and
sat In the dark. The night was
cloudy and very dark. He gazed at
the south wing of the house; the win
dows of the first floor were closed and
the curtains drawn; but tonight there
was no light In the room. Then la the
dark he moved to the table where he
had left his overcoat, and distributed
In bis pockets and within his clothing
the articles he had brought; and now
he felt again in the overcoat and
brought out a short, strong bar of
steel curved and flattened at one end—
a “jimmy” for forcing the windows.
Eaton slipped off his shoes and went
to his room door; he opened the door
and found the hnll dark and quiet.
He stepped out, closing his door care
fully behind him, and with groat cau
tion he descended the stairs. He went
to a window In the drawing room
which was set In a recess and so
placed that It was not visible from
other windows In the house. He
opened this window and let himself
down upon the lawn. He gained the
south comer of the wing, unobserved
or at least without sign that he had
been seen, and went on around it
He stopped at the first high French
window on the south. As he tried to
slip his jimmy under the bottom of
the sash, the window, to his amaze
ment, opened silently upon its hinges;
it had not been locked. The heavy
curtains within hung just in front of
him ; he put out his hand and parted
them. Then he started back in aston
ishment and crouched close to the
ground; inside the room was a man
moving about, flashing an electric
torch before him and then exploring
an Instant in darkness and flashing
his torch again.
Eaton had not been at all prepared
for this; now he knew suddenly that
he ought to have been prepared for it.
If the man within the room was not
the one who had attacked him with
the motor, he was closely allied with
that man, and what he was after now
was the same thing Eaton was after.
He drew his pistol, and loosing the
safety, he made it ready to fire; with
his left hand, he clung to the short,
heavy jimmy. He stepped into the
great room through the curtains, and
treading noiselessly in his stocking
feet, he advanced upon the man, mov-
ing forward in each period of dark
ness between the flashes of the elec
tric torch.
Now, at the further side of the
room, another electric torch flashed
out. There were at least two men in
the room, working together—or rather,
one was working, the other super
vising; for Eaton heard now a steady,
almost inaudible grinding noise ns the
second man worked. Eaton halted
again and waited; If there were two,
there might be others.
His pulses were beating faster and
hotter, and he felt the blood rushing
to his head and his hands growing
cold with his excitement; but be was
conscious of no fear. He crouched
and crept forward noiselessly again.
No other light appeared In the room,
and there wns no sound elsewhere
from the darkness; but the man who
supervised had moved closer to the
other. The grinding noise had
stopped; it wns followed by a sharp
click; the men, side by side, were
bending over something; and the light
of the man who had been working,
for a fraction of a second shot into
the face of the other. He muttered
some short, hoarse imprecation, but
before Eaton heard the voice, he Jjad
stopped ns If struck, and his breath
hat! gone from him.
His Instant’s glimpse of that face
astounded, stunned, stupefied him.
He could not have seen that mnn ! The
fact wns Impossible! He must have
been mad; his mind must have become
unreliable to let him even imagine it.
Then came the sound of the voice—
the voice of the mnn whose face he
had seen! It wns he! And, in place
of the paralysis of the first Instant,
now a wild, savage throe of passion
seized Eaton; his pulses leaped so it
seemed they must burst his veins, and
he gulped and choked. He had not
filled in with insane fancy the fea
tures of the me-, whom he had seen;
the voice witnessed too that the ninn
In the dark by the wall ■was he k whom
Eaton —if he could have dreamed such
a fact as now had been disclosed —
would have circled the world to catch
nnd destroy; yet now with the de
struction of that man In his power—
for he had but to aim nnd < mpty his
automatic pistol .t five paces—such
destruction at this moment could not
suffice; mere shooting that mnn would
be petty, ineffectual. Eaton’s fingers
tightened on the handle of his pistol,
but he held it now not as a weapon
to fire but as a dull weight with which
to strike. The grip of his left hand
clnrqped onto the short steel bar, and
with lips parted—breathing once, it
seemed, for each heartbeat nnd yet
choking, suffocating—he leaped for
ward.
At the same instant—so that he
could not have been alarmed by Ea
ton’s leap—the man who had been
working moved his torch, and the
light fell upon Eaton.
“Look out!” the man cried in alarm
to his companion; with the word the
torch vanished.
The man toward whom Eaton rushed
did not have time to switch off his
light; he dropped it Instead; and as
Eaton sprang for him, he crouched.
Eaton, as he struck forward, found
nothing; but below his knees, Eaton
felt a man’s powerful arms tackling
him ; ns he struggled to free himself,
a swift, savage lunge lifted him from
his feet; he was thrown and hurled
backward.
Eaton ducked his head forward and
struggled to turn, as he went down,
so that a shoulder nnd not his bend
or back would strike the floor first.
He succeeded In this, though in his
effort he dropped the jimmy. Ho
clung with his right hand to the pistol,
nnd as he struck the floor, the pistol
shot off; the flash of flame spurted
toward the celling. Instantly the grip
below his knees was loosed: the- man
who had tackled him and hurled him
hack had recoiled in the darkness.
Enton got to his feet but crouched
and crept about behind a table, aim
ing his pistol over it in the direction
In which he supposed the other men
must he. The sound of the shot had
ceased to roar through the room; the
gases from the powder only made the
air heavier. The other two men in
the room also wnited. Invisible and
silent. The only light. In the great
curtained room, came from the single
electric torch lying on the floor. This
lighted the legs of a chair, a corner
of a desk nnd a circle of hooks In the
cases on the wall. As Eaton’s eyes
became more accustomed to the dark
ness. he could see vague shapes of
furniture. If a mnn moved, he might
be made out; hut If he stayed still,
probably he would remain Indistin
guishable.
The other men seemed also to have
recognized this; no one moved In the
room, and there was complete silence.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Combination of Head and Heart.
Friendship Is sentiment, hut it Is
more than that. It Is of the head, but
chiefly of the heart. He who has !n
--tellectuallsm only can have no friends.
He who has a great heart, and little
intellectualism may win the respect
of many, but the deep friendship of
few. This is because both the mind
and the heart enter into the cultivation
of friendship.
The difference between slender and
bony girls Is a matter of income.
J After Every Meat
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Chew your food
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WHIG LEY’S to
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It also keeps
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Forceful men who cannot have their
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Baby Woke Up
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Mrs. Lightner’s experience empha
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Her baby would not have suffered so
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Don’t call a man a fool —he may be
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