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The Blind Man’s Eyes
By ,
WILLIAM MacHARG
EDWIN BALMER
Copyright by Little. Brown and Company
CHAPTER XlX—Continued.
—l6
She told him, beginning with her dis
covery of Eaton in the garage and
ending with big leaving her end with
Donald Avery’s finding her In the mo
tor; and now she held back one word
only—his name which he had told her,
Hugh. Her father listened intently.
“You and Mr. Eaton appear to have
become rather well acquainted, Har
riet,” he said. “Has he told you noth
ing about himself which you have not
told me? You have seen nothing con
cerning him, which you have not
told?”
Her mind went quickly back to the
polo game; she felt a flush, which his
blind eyes could not see, dyeing her
cheeks and forehead.
The blind man waited for a mo
ment; he put out ids hand and pressed
the bell whieh called the steward.
Neither spoke until the steward came.
“Fairley,” Santoine said then, qui
etly, “Miss Santoine and I have Just
agreed that for the present all reports
regarding the pursuit of the men who
entered the study last night are to
be made direct to me, not through
Miss Santoine or Mr. Avery."
“Very well, sir.’’
She still sat silent after the steward
bad gone; she thought for an instant
her father had forgotten her presence;
then he moved slightly.
“That is all, dear.” he said quietly.
She got up and left him, and went
to her own rooms; she did not pretend
to herself that she could rest. She
bathed and dressed and went down
stairs. The library had windows fac
ing to the west; she went in there
and stood looking out.
Her mind was upon only one thing—
even of that she could not think con
nectedly. Some years ago, something
—she did not know what —had hap
pened to Hugh; tonight, in some
strange-way unknown to Her, It had
culminated in her father’s study, He
bad fought someone; he had rushed
away to follow someone. Whom?
Had he heard that someone In the
study and gone down? Had lie been
fighting their battle —her father’s and
hers? She knew that was not so.
Hugh had been fully dressed. What
did it mean that he had said to her
that these events would either de
stroy him or would send him hack to
her as—as something different? Her
thought supplied no answer.
Hut whatever he had done, whatever
he might be, she knew his fate was
bers now; for she had given herself
to him utterly. She had told that to
herself as she fled and pursued with
him that night; she had told it to him ;
she later had told it —though she had
not meant to yet—to her father. She
could only pray now that out of the
events of this night might not come
a grief to her too great for her to
bear.
She went to the rooms that had
been Eaton’s. The police, in stripping
them of his possessions, had over
looked his cap; she found the bit of
gray cloth and hugged it to her. She
whispered Lis name to herself—
Hugh—that secret of his name which
she had kept; she gloried that she had
that secret with him which she could
keep from them all. What wouldn’t
they give just to share that with lfer—
bis name, Hugh!
She started suddenly, looking
through the window. The east, above
the lake, was beginning to grow gray.
The dawn was coming! It was be
ginning to be day!
She hurried to the other side of
the house, looking toward the west.
How could she have left him, hurt and
bleeding and alone in the night! She
could net have done that but that his
asking her to go had told that it was
for his safety as well as hers; she
could not help him any more then;
she would only have been in the way.
But now—she started to rush out, but
controlled herself; she had to stay
in the house; that was where the first
word would come if they caught him;
and then he would need her, how
much more! The reporters oo the
lawn below her, seeing her at the win
dow, called up to her to know fur
ther particulars of what had hap
pened and what the murder meant;
she could see them plainly In the In
creasing light. She could see the
lawn and the road before the house.
Day had come.
And with the coming of day, the un
certainty and disorder within and
about the house seemed to Increase.
. . . But in the south wing, with
Its sound-proof doors and its windows
closed against the nol- es from the
lawn, there was silenco; and in this
siier.ee, an exact, compelling, methodic
machine was working; the mind of
Basil Santoine was striving, vainly as
yet, but with growing chances of suc
cess, to fit together into the order in
which they belonged and make clear
the events of the night and all that
had gone before —arranging, ordering,
testing, discarding, picking up again
and reordering all that had happened
since that other murder, of Gabriel
Warden.
CHAPTER XX
What One Can Do Without Eyes.
Three men—at least three men —
had fought In the study in
presence. Eaton, it was certain, had
been the only one from the house pres
ent when the first shots were fired.
Had Eaton been alone against the
other two? Had Eaton been with one
of the other two against the third?
It appeared probable to Santoine that
Eaton had been alone, or had come
nlone, to the study and had met his
enemies there.
Santoine felt that the probabilities
were that Eaton’s enemies hnd opened
the safe and hacl been surprised by
Eaton. But if they had opened the
safe, they were not only Eaton’s ene
mies; they were also Santoine’s; they
were the men who threatened San
toine’s trust.
Those whom Eaton had fought in
the room hnd hnd perfect opportunity
for killing Santoine, if they wished.
But Santoine felt certain no one had
made any attack upon him t any
moment in the room ; he had had no
feeling, at any Instant, that any of
the shots fired had been directed at
him. Blatchford, 100, had been unat
tacked until lie had made it plain that
lie had recognized one of the Intru
ders; then, before Blatchford could
call the mime, lie had been shot down.
It was clear, then, that .hat had
protected Santoine was his blindness;
he had no doubt that, if he had been
able to see and recognize the men In
the room after tl lights were turned
on, lie would have been shot down
also. Rut Santoine recognized that
this did not fully account for his Im
munity. Two weeks before, an at
tack which had been meant for Eaton
had struck down Santoine instead;
and no further attempt against Eaton
had been made until It had become
publicly known that Santoine was not
going to die. If Santoine’s death
Mould have served for Eaton’s death
two weeks before, why was Santoine
immune now? Did possession of the
contents of Santoine’s safe accomplish
the same thing as Sajitoine’s death?
Or more than his death for these men?
For what men?
Eaton’s presence in the study which
had so astounded Blatchford, Wallace
and Eaton had passed days together,
and Blatchford was accustomed to Ea
ton s presence in the house. Someone
whom Blatchford knew and whose
name Santoine also would know and
whose presence in the room was so
strange and astonishing that Blatch
ford had tried to prepare Santoine for
the announcement, had been there.
The man whose name was on Blatch
ford’s tongue, or the companion of
flint man, had shot Blatchford rather
than let Santoine hear the name.
He was beginning to find events fit
themselves together; but they fitted
imperfectly as yet.
Santoine knew that lie lacked the
key. Many men could profit by pos
sessing the contents of Santoine’s safe
and might have shot Blatchford rather
than let Santoine know their presence
there; it was impossible for Santoine
to tell which among these many the
man who had been in the study
might be. Who Eaton’s enemies were
was equally unknown to Santoine.
But there could be but one man—or
at most one small group of men —who
could be at the same time Eaton’s
enemy and Santoine’s. To have
known who Eaton was would have
pointed this man to Santoine.
Gabriel Warden had had an ap
pointment with a young man who had
come from Asia and who —Warden
had told his wife —he had discovered
lately had been greatly wronged.
Eaton, under Conductor Connery’s
questioning, had admitted himself to
he that young man ; Santoine had veri
fied this and had learned that Eaton
was, at least, the young man who had
gone to Warden’s house that night.
But Gabriel Warden had not been al
lowed to help Eaton ; so far from that,
he had not even been allowed to meet
and talk with Eaton; he hnd been
called out, plainly, to prevent his
meeting Eaton, and killed.
Eaton disappeared and concealed
himself at once after Warden’s mur
der. apparently fearing that he would
also be attacked. But Eaton was not
a man whom this personal fear would
have restrained from coming forward
later to tell why Warden had been
killed. He had been urged to come
forward and promised that others
would give him help In Warden’s
place; still, lie had concealed himself.
This must mean that others than War
den coui-J not help Eaton; Eaton evi
dently did not know, or else could not
hope to prove, what Warden had dis
covered.
Santoine held this thought In abey
ance; he would see later how It
checked with the facts.
Eaton had remained in Seattle—or
near Seattle —eleven days ; apparently
HENRY COUNTY WEEKLY, McDONOUGH. GEORGIA.
and io escape attack during that lime,
he had been able to conceal himself
He had been obliged, however, to re
vffi} himself when he took the train;
and as soon as possible a desperate
attempt had been made against him,
which, through mistake, had struck
down Santoine instead of Eaton.
Eaton had taken the train at Se
attle because Santoine was on It; he
had done this at great risk to him
self. The possibilities were that Ea
ton hnd taken the train to inform San
tolue of something or to learn some
thing from him. But Eaton hnd had
ample opportunity since to Inform
Santoine of anything he wished; and
he had not only not Informed him of
anything, hut hnd refused consistently
and determinedly to answer any of
Santoine’s questions. It wns to learn
something from Santoine, then, that
Eaton hnd taken the train.
The blind man turned upon his bed;
he was finding that events fitted to
gether perfectly. He felt certain now
that Eaton hnd gone to Gabriel War
den expecting to get from Warden
some information that he needed, and
that to prevent Warden’s giving him
this, Warden had been killed. Then
Warden’s death had caused Santoine
to go to Seattle nnd take charge of
many of Warden’s affairs; Eaton had
thought that the information which
had been in Warden’s possession
might now be In Snntoine’s; Eaton,
therefore, had followed Santoine onto
the train.
The inference was plain that some
thing which would have given San
toine the information Warden had had
and which Eaton now required had
been brought into Snntoine’s house
and put In Santoine’s safe. It was
to get possession of this “something”
before it had reached Snntoine that
the safe hnd been forced.
Santoine put out his hard nnd
pressed a bell. A servant came to
the door.
“Will you find Miss Santoine,” the
blind man directed, “and ask her to
come here?”
The servant withdrew.
Santoine waited. Presently the door
again opened, and he heard his daugh
ter’s step.
“Have you listed what wns taken
from t lie safe, Harriet?” Santoine
asked.
“Not yet, Father.”
The blind man though’, an Instant.
“Harriet, something has been brought
into the house —or the manner of
keeping something in the house lias
been changed—within a very few days
—since the time, I think, when the
attempt to run Eaton down with the
motor car was made. What was that
‘something’ ?”
Ilis daughter reflected “The draft
of the new agreement about the Pa
tron properties and the lists of stock
holders in the properties which came
through Mr. Warden’s office, ’’ she re
plied.
“Those were in the safe?”
“Yes; you had net given me any In
structions about them, so had put
them In tile other safe; but when I
went to get the correspondence I saw
them there and put them with the
correspondence In tny own safe.”
Santoine lay still.
“Who besides Donald knew that you
did that. Daughter?” he asked.
“No one.”
“Thank yon.”
Harriet recognized this ns dismissal
nnd went out. The blind man felt the
blood beating fiercely in his temples
and at his finger-tips. It amazed, as
tounded him to realize that Warden’s
murder nnd all that had followed it
had sprung from the Patron case. lie
recollected that he had been vaguely
conscious ever since Latron’s murder
of something strained, something not
wholly open, in his relations with
those men whose interests had been
most closely allied with Larron’s. It
had been nothing open, nothing pal
pable; It was only that he had felt
at times In them a knowledge of
some general condition governing
them which was not wholly known to
himself. Whoever Blatchford had seen
was someone well known to him,
whose presence had been so amazing
that speech had failed Blatchford for
the moment and he had feared the
effect of the announcement on San
toine. This could have been only the
principal himself.
Some circumstance which Santoine
comprehended only imperfectly as yet
had forced this man to come out from
behind his ngents and to act even at
the risk of revealing himself. It was
probably he who, finding Blatehford’s
presence made revealment inevitable,
had killed Blatchford. But these cir
cumstances gave Santoine no clew as
to who the man might be. ’Hie blind
man tried vainly to guess. The only
circumstance regarding the aan of
which Santoine now felt sure was
that he was one of the many con
cerned in the Latron case or with the
Patron properties.
“What time is it?” the blind man
suddenly asked the nurse.
“It is nearly noon, Mr. Santoine.”
“Will you leave me alone for a few
moments?” he directed.
He listened till he heard the door
close behind the nurse; then lie seized
the private ’phone beside his bed and
called Ids broker.
“How is the market?” he ’ iquired.
There was something approaching
to a panic on the stock exchange, It
appeared. Some movement, arising
from causes not yet clear, had dropped
the bottom out of a score of important
stocks.
“How Is Pacific Midlands?” San
tofne asked.
“It led the decline.”
Santoine felt the blood In Ills tem
ples. “M. nnd N. Smelters?” he
asked.
“Down seven points.”
“S. F. nnd D?”
“Eight points off.”
Santoine’s hand, holding the tele
phone, shook In Its agitation; his bend
was hot from the blood rushing
through it, his body was chilled. An
idea so strange, so astounding, so in
credible ns it first had come to him
that his feelings refused it though his
reason told him It was the only pos
sible condition which could account
for all the facts, now was being made
all but certain. lie nam stock after
stock; all were down —seriously de
pressed or had been supported only by
a desperate effort of their chief
holders.
Tlie blind man could write ns well
ns any other by following the position
of the lines with the fingers of his left
hand. He wrote a short note swiftly
now, folded, sealed and addressed it
and handed it to the servn c.
He heard the servant's footsteps
going rapidly away, lie was slinking
with anger, horror, resentment; he
was almost—not quite —sure now of
all that had taken place; of why
Warden l.ad been murdered, of what
vague shape had moved behind and
guided all that had happened since.
He lay with clenched hands, slink
ing with rage; then by effort of his
will he put these thoughts away. The
nurse reminded him again of his need
for food.
“I want nothing now,” he said.
“Have it ready when I wake up.
When the doctor comes, tell him I am
going to get up today and dress.”
He turned and stretched himself
upon ills lied; so, finally, he slept.
CHAPTER XXI
The Man Hunt.
The rolling, ravine-gullied mnd
where Harriet lmd left Eaton was
wooded thickly with oaks, maples and
asli; tlie glare from the burning
bridge lighted the ravine for only a
Ijjtle way; Eaton had gained the bot
tom of tlie ravine beyond the point
where this light would have made him
visible and had made the best speed
he could along It away from the lights
and voices on the road. Tills speed
was not very great; his stockinged
feet sank to their ankles in tlie soft
mud of tlie ravine; and when, realiz
ing that he was leaving a trace easily
followed even by lantern light, lie
clambered to tlie steep side nnd tried
to travel along its slope, he found his
progress slower still. In tlie dark
ness lie crashed sometimes full against
the tree-trunks; bushes which lie could
not see seized and held him, ripping
and tearing at his clothes; invisible,
fallen saplings tripped him, and he
stepped into unseen holes which
threw him headlong, so that twice lie
rolled clear to tlie bottom of tlie
ravine with fierce, hot pains which
nearly deprived him of ids senses
shooting through his wounded shouh
der.
When lie had made, as he thought,
fully three-quarters of a mile and
must be, allowing for the winding of
the ravine, at leust «tmlf a mile from
his pursuers, he climbed to tlie brink
of the bank and looked back. He was
not, as he had thought, iiulf a mile
from tlie road; lie was not a quarter
of a mile; lie could still see plainly
tlie lights of tlie three motorcars upon
the road and men moving in the flare
of these lights. lie was certain that
he had recognized the figure of Avery
among these men. Pursuit of him,
however, appeared to have been
checked for tlie moment; lie heard
neither voices nor any movement In
tlie woods. Eaton, panting, threw
himself down to recover breath and
strength to think.
There was no question In Eaton’s
mind wliat ids fate would be if lie
surrendered to, or was captured by,
iiis pursuers. What lie had seen in
Santoine’s study an hour before was
so unbelievable, f>o completely unde
monstrable unless he himself could
prove his story that he felt that ho
would receive no credence. Blatch
ford, who had seen it in the light in
tlie study, was dead; Santoine, who
would have seen It if he had had eyes,
was blind. Eaton, still almost stunned
and yet wildly excited by that sight,
felt only, In the mad confusion of his
senses, the futility of telling what he
had seen unless lie were in a position
to prove it. Those opposed to him
would put his statement aside with
the mere answer that he was lying;
the most charitably inclined would
think only that what he had been
through had driven him insane.
Eaton understood that his possibil
ity of escape was very small, even If
escape had been his only object; but
Eaton’s problem was not one of es
cape—it was to find those he pur
sued and make certain that they were
captured at the same time he was;
and, as he crouched panting on the
(lamp earth, he was thinking only of.
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