The Blind Man’s Eyes
By i
WILLIAM MacHARG
EDWIN BALMER
Copyright by Little. Brown and Company
CHAPTER XVl—Continued.
—l4
Eaton knelt on one knee behind his
table; now he was wildly, exultantly
excited; his blood leaped hotly to his
hand pointing his pistol; he panted,
almost audibly, for breath, but though
his pulse throbbed through his head
too, his mind was clear and cool as
he reckoned his situation and his
chances. He had crossed the Pacific,
the continent, he had schemed and
risked verything with the mere hope
of getting into this room to discover
which to demand from
the world righting of the wrong
which had driven him as a fugitive for
five years; and here he found the man
who was the cause of it all, before
him in the same room a few paces
away in the dark!
For it was Impossible that this was
not that man; and Eaton knew now
Ithat this was he who must have been
behind and arranging and directing
the attacks upon him. Eaton had not
only seen him and heard his voice, but
be had felt his grasp; that sudden, in
stinctive crouch before a charge, and
(the savage lunge and tackle were the
instant, natural acts of an old lines
man on a championship team in the
game of football as it was played
ftwenty years before. That lift of the
opponent off his feet and the heavy
lunge hurling him back to fall on his
head was what one man —in the
rougher, more cruel days of the col
lege game—had been famous for. On
the football field that throw sufficed
to knock a helmeted opponent uncon
scious ; here it was meant, beyond
doubt, to do more.
Upon so much, at least, Eaton’s
mind at once was clear; here was his
enemy whom lie must destroy if he
himself were not first destroyed.
Other thoughts, recasting of other re
lations altered or overturned in their
bearing by the discovery of this man
here —everything else could and must
wait upon the mighty demand of that
moment upon Eaton to destroy this
enemy now or be himself destroyed.
Eaton shook in his passion; yet
coolly he now realized that his left
shoulder, which had taken the shock
of his fall, was numb, lie shifted his
pistol over to cover a vague form
which had seemed to move; but, if it
bad stirred, it was still again now.
Eaton strained to listen.
It seemed certain that the noise of
the shot, if not the sound of the
struggle which preceded it, must have
raised an alarm. Basil Santolue, as
Eaton knew r , slept above; a nurse
must be waiting on duty somewhere
near. Eaton had seen the row r of but
tons which the blind man had within
arm’s length with which he must be
able to summon every servant in the
house. So It could not last much
longer now —this deadlock in the dark.
And one of the two, at least, seemed
to have recognized that.
Eaton had moved, warily and care
fully, but he had moved; a revolver
flashed before him. Instantly and
without consciousness that his finger
pulled the trigger, Eaton’s pistol
flashed back. In front of him, the
flame flashed again, and another spurt
of fire spat at one side.
Eaton fired back at this—he was
prostrate on the floor now, and
whether he had been hit or not he
did not yet know’, or whether the
blood flowing down his face was only
from a splinter sprayed from the table
behind which he Lad hid. He flred
again, holding his pistol far out to one
side to confuse the aim of the others;
he thought that they too were doing
the same and allowed for it In his aim.
He pulled his trigger a ninth time —
he had not counted his shots, but he
knew’ he had had seven cartridges In
the magazine and one in the barrel —
anu the pistol clicked without dis
charging. He rolled over farther
away from the spot w’here he had last
fired and pulled an extra clip of car
tridges from his pocket.
The blood was flowing hot over his
face. He made no effort to staunch
it or even to feel with his fingers to
find exactly where or how badly he
had been hit. He jerked the empty
cartridge clip from his pistol butt and
snapped In the other. He swept his
sleeve over his face to clear the blood
from his brows and eyes and stared
through the dark with pistol at arm’s
length loaded and ready. Blood
spurted over his face again; another
sweep of his sleeve cleared It; and
he moved his pistol-point back and
forth in the dark.
Surely now the sound of firing in
that room must have reached the man
in the room above; surely be must be
summoning his servants.
'Eaton listened; there was still no
sound from the rest of the house. But
overhead now, he heard an almost lm
perceptilfle pattering—the sound of a
barefooted man crossing the floor;
and he knew that the blind man In
the bedroom above was getting up. j
CHAPTER XVII
Under Cover of Darkness.
Basil Santoine was oversensitive to
sound, as are most of the blind; In
tfie world of darkness in which he
lived, sounds were by far the most
significant—and almost the only—
means he had of telling what w’ent on
around him; he passed hfi life listen
ing for or determining the nature of
sounds. So the struggle which ended
in Eaton’s crash to the floor would
have waked him without the pistol
shots Immediately following. That
roused him wide-awake immediately
and'brought him sitting up in bed. for
getful of his own condition.
His hand went at once to the bell
board, and lie rang at the same time
for the nurse outside his door and
for the steward.
Santoine did not consider the pos
sibility of robbery of plate or jewelry
long enough to have been said to con
sider It at all; what he felt was that
the threat which had been hanging
vaguely over himself ever since War
den’s murder was being fulfilled. But
it was not Santoine himself that was
being attacked; it was something Snn
toine possessed. The:e was only one N
sort of valuable article for which one
might enter that room below. And
those articles—
Santoine pressed all the bells again
and then got up. He had heard abso
lutely no sound outside, as must be
made by anyone escaping from the
room below; but the battle seemed
over. One side must have destroyed
the other.
The blind man stood barefooted on
the floor, his hands clasping in one of
the bitterest moments of Ids rebellion
against, and defiance of, his helpless
ness of blindness. Below him —as lie
believed —his servants had been sacri
ficing life for him; there in that room
he held in trust that which affected
the security, the faith, the honor of
others; his guarding that trust in
volved his honor no less. And partic
ularly, now, he knew he was bound,
at whatever cost, to act; for he did
not doubt now but that his half-pris
oned guest, whom Santoine had not
sufficiently guarded, was at the bot
tom of the attack. ~The blind man be
lieved, therefore, that It was because
of his own retention here of Eaton
that the attack had been made, his
servants had been killed, the private
secrets of his associates were In dan
ger. Undoubtedly there was danger
below; but that was why he did not
call again at the other door for some
one else to run a risk for him. -
He put his hand on the rail nnd
started to descend the stairs. He was
almost steady In step and he had firm
grasp on the rail; he noticed that now
to wonder at it. When he had aroused
at the sound of firing, his dindness,
as always when something was hap
pening about him, was obtruded upon
him. He felt helpless because he was
blind, not because he had been in
jured. He had forgotten entirely
that for almost two weeks he had not
stirred from bed; he Bad risen and
stood and walked, without staggering,
to the door and to the top of the
stairs before, now, he remembered. So
what he already had done showed him
that he Bad merely again to put his
injury from his mind and he could
go on. He went down the stairs al
most steadily.
The blind count stairs, and he had
gone down twenty-one—nnd realized
fully-his futility; but now he would
not retreat or merely call for help.
“Who is here?” he asked distinctly.
“Is anyone here? Who Is here?”
No one answered. And now San
toine knew by the sense which let him
feel whether it was night or day, that
the room was really dark —dark for
others as well as for himself; the
lights were not burning. So an exal
tation, a sense of physical capability,
came to Santoine; in the dark he was
as fit, as capable as any other man.
He stepped down on the floor, and
In his uncertainty as to the position
of the furniture, felt along the wall.
There were bookcases there, but he
felt nnd passed along them swiftly,
until he came to the case which
concealed the safe at the left side of
the doors. The books were gone from
that case; his hare toes struck against
them where they had been thrown
down on the floor. Tne blind man, his
pulse heating tumultuously, put bis
hand through the case and felt the
panel behind. That was slid back,
exposing the safe; and the door of
the safe stood open. Santoine’s
hands felt within the safe swiftly. The
safe was empty.
He recoiled from It, choking back
an ejaculation. The entry to this
room had been made for the purpose
which he supposed; and the thieves
must hove succeeded in their errand.
The blind man, In his uselessness for
pursuit, could delay calling others to
act for him no longer. He started
toward the bell, when some scrape on
the floor—not of the sort to he ac
counted for by an object moved by
the wind —sounded behind him. .San
toine swung toward the sound and
HENRY COUNTY WEEKLY, McDONOUGH, GEORGIA.
stood listening again; and then, grop
ing with Ms hands stretched out be
fore him, he left the wall nnd stepped
toward the center of the room. He
took two steps—three, four—with u<>
resuit; then his foot trod Into some
fluid, thick nnd sticky nnd not cold.
Santoine stooped nnd put a finger
tip into the fluid and brought it near
his nose. It was what he supposed
must be —blood. He could hear now
someone breathing—more than one
person. From the house, still shut
off by its double, sound-proof doors,
he could hear nothing; but someone
outside the house was hurrying up to
the open window ut the south end of
the room.
That one came to, or just Inside the
window, parting the curtains. He vns
breathing hard from exertion or from
excitement.
“Who Is It?” Santoine challenged
clearly.
“Basil!” Blntchford’s voice ex
claimed his recognition In amazement.
“Bnsll; that is you! What are you
doing down here?” Blatchford started
forward,
“Whnt brought you here?” Santoine
demanded instead of reply. “You were
running outside; why? What was out
there? Whnt did you see?”
“See? I didn’t see anything—excer
the window here open when I came
up. But I heard shots, Basil. What
has happened here?”
Santoine felt again the stickiness nt
liis feet. “Three or four persons
fought in this room, Wallace. Some—
or one was hurt. There’s blood on the
floor. There are two here I can hear
breathing; I suppose they’re hurt.
Probably the rest are gone. Get help.
I think those who aren’t hurt are
gone. They must be gone. But —get
help first, Wallace.”
“And leave you here?" Blatchford
rejoined. He had not halted again;
the blind man heard his cousin still
moving along the wall. The electric
, switch clicked, and Santoine knew
that the room was flooded with light.
Santoine straightened, strained, turn
ing his head a little better to listen.
With the flashing on of the light, he
had heard the sharp, involuntary start
of Blatchford as he saw the room;
and, besides that, Santoine heard
movement now elsewhere in the room.
Then the blind man heard his friend’s
cry. “Good God!”
“What is it?” Santoine cried.
“Good God! Basil!”
“Who is it, Wallace?” the blind
man knew now that his friend’s inco
herence came from recognition of
someone, not alone from some sight
of horror.
“Basil 1 It Is —it must be —I know
him! It Is—”
A shot roared In front of Santoine.
The blind man, starting hack at the
shock of it, drew in the powder-gas
with his breath; but the bullet was
not for him. Instead, lie heard his
friend scream and choke and half call,
half cough.
“Wullace!” Santoine cried out; but
his voice was lost in the roar of an
other shot. TBis was not flred by the
same one who had Just flred; nt least,
it was not from the same part of the
room; and instantly, from mother
side, a third shot came. Then, in the
midst of rush and confusion, another
shot roared; tlie light was out again ;
then all was gone; the nois. was out
side; the room was still except for a
cough nnd choke as Blatchford—
somewhere on tße floor in front of the
blind man—tried again to speak.
Basil Santoine, groping with his
hands, found him. He was still con
scious. Santoine knew that lie was
trying ids best to speak, to say Just
one word -a name —to tell whom he
had seen and who had shot him; hut
he cculd not.
Santoine put his hand over n hand
of his cousin. Blatchford’s fingers
closed tightly on Santoine’s; they did
not relax hut now remained closed,
though without strength. The Blind
man bowed nnd then lifted ills head.
His friend was dead, and others were
rushing Into the room—the butler, one
of the chauffeurs, Avery, more men
servants; the light was on again, nnd
amid the tumult and alarms of the
discoveries shown by the light, some
rushed to the windows to the south
in pursuit of those who had escaped
from the room. Avery and one or
two others rushed up to Santoine;
now the blind man heard, above their
cries and alarms, the voice of Bis
daughter. She was beside him, where
he knelt next the body of Blatchford,
and she put back others who crowded
about.
“Father! AVhat has happened? Why
are you here? Oh, Father, Cousin
Wallace!”
“He Is dead,” Santoine said. “They
shot him! They were three, nt least.
One was not with the others. They
fired nt each other I believe, after
one shot him.” Santoine’s hand was
still In Blatchford’s. “I heard them
below." He told shortly how he had
gone down, how Blatchford had en
tered and been shot.
The blind man, still kneeling, heard
tne ordering and organizing of others
for the pursuit; n w women servants
from the other part of the house
were taking charge of affairs in the
room. There had been no signal
heard, Santoine was told, upon any
of the bells which he had tried to ring
from his room, Eaton was the only
person from the house who was miss
ing.
“They came, at least some of them
came” —Santoine had risen, fighting
down Ills grief over Bis cousin’s dcnMi
—“for what was in your safe, Har
riet.”
“I know; I saw it open.”
hat Is gone?” Santoine de
manded.
“Why— nearly all the formal papers
sc-em to be gone; lists and agreements
relating to a dozen different things.”
“None of (lu correspondence?”
“No; that all seems to be here.”
“We don’t know whether he got It,
then, or uoi I” It was Avery’s voice
which broke In upon him; Santoine
merely listened.
“He? .Vho?” n. l heard ills daugh
ter’s challenge.
“Why, Eaton. It Is plnln enough
what happened here, isn’t it?" Avery
answered. “He ..nine here to this
room for whnt he was after—for whnt
he has been after from the first—
whatever that may have been! He
came prepared to force the safe and
get It! But he was surprised—”
“By whom?” the blind man nsked,
"By whoever it is that has been fol
lowing him. I don’t attempt t > ex
plain who they were, Mr. Santoine;
for I don’t know. But —whoever they
were —in doing this, lie laid himself
open to attack by them. They were
watching—saw him enter here. They
attached him here. Wallace switched
on the light and recognized him; so
he shot Wallace and. ran with what
ever he could grab up of the contents
of tho safe, hoping that by luck he’d
get what he was after."
“It Isn’t so—it isn’t sof” Harriet de
nied.
Her jfather checked her; he stood
an instant thoughtful. “Who is di
recting the pursuit, Donald?”
Avery went out at once.
“Now, Harriet," he commanded.
She understood that her father would
not move til! she had seen the room
for him.
“There was some sort of a struggle
near my safe,” she said. “Chairs —
everything there is knocked about.”
“Yes.”
“There is also blood there —a big
spot of it on the floor."
“I found that,” said Santoine.
“There are bullet marks every
where —above tlie mantel, all about.”
“How was the safe opened?”
"The combination lias been cut com
pletely away; there is an —an instru
ment connected with tho electric
light fixture which seems to have done
the cutting. There is a hand-drill,
too—l think It is a hand-drill. The
inner door lias been drilled through,
and the catches drawn back.”
“Who is this?”
The valet, who had been sent to Ea
ton’s room, had returned with Ids re
port. “Mr. Eaton went from ills room
fully diessed, sir,” he said to San
toine, “except for his shoes. I found
all his shoes in Ills room.”
During the report the blind man felt
his daughter’s grasp on Ids arm be
come tense nnd relax nnd igliten
again. Then, as though she realized
she was adding to his coiaj rehenslon
of what she had already betrayed, she
suddenly took her hand from her fa
ther’s arm. Santoine let the servants,
at his daughter’s direction, help him
to Ids room. liis daughter stood be
side him while the nurse washed the
blood-splotches from ids hands and
feet.
“Father?” she questioned.
“Yes ”
"You don’t agree with Donald, do
you?—that Mr. Eaton went to tho
study to —to get something, and that
whoever has been following him found
him there and —and interrupted him
and he killed Cousin Wallace?"
Santoine was silent an Instant.
“That seems the correct explanation,
! Harriet,” he evaded. It does not
fully explain; but It seems correct as
far as It goes. If Donald asks you
whnt my oflnlon Is, tell 'lra It is
that.”
He felt his daughter shrink away
from him.
The blind man made no move to
draw her back to Idm; he lay perfectly
still; his head rested flat upon the pil
lows; his hands were clasped tightly !
1 together above the coverlet. He had
accused himself, In the room below,
because, by tlie manner he had chosen
to treat Eaton, he had slain Tie
he loved best and had forced a friend
ship with Eaton on his daughter
which, he saw, had gone further than
! mere friendship; It had gone, he knew
| now, even to the Irretrievable between
man and woman —had brought her,
that Is, to the state where, no matter
what Eaton was or did, she must suf- !
fer with him! But Santoine was not j
i accusing himself now; he was feeling
only the fulfillment of that threat
i against those who had trusted him
with their secrets, which he had felt
vaguely after the murder of Gabriel
Warden and, more plainly with the
events of each succeeding day, ever
| since. For that threat, just now, had
culminated in his presence in pur
poseful. violent action; but Santoine
in his blindness had been unable —and
was still unable —to tell what that
action meant.
(TO RE CONTINUED.)
Economy on your part would he
stinginess on tlie part of your ncluN
bor.
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TELLS OF GAIN
Declares Tanlac Overcame
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j "My mother had been helped won
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Tanlac Is sold, by all good druggists.
Over .’io mill lon bottles sold. —Adver-
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Mentioned It to Morpheus.
From a Story—“To bis considerable
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Mother Didn't
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Teethina acts almost like magic in
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She would ory for hours and draw
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Teethina is sold by all druggists,
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Ancient Whipping Post.
Delaware’s whipping post dates
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When you feel blue turn to tbe obitu
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147 W4Vtrly Placa Haw Tork
