BY
WILLIAM MACHARGEDWIN BALMER.
[Mlustrations by R.H.Livingstone
COPYRIGHT BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
A rich but universally respected
western man is murdered in his
automobile. The crime is accom-
plished with such stealth that even
the chauffeur is not aware of it.
Some months previously an eastern
business associate, but not an inti-
mate of the western man, had met
death in an equally mysterious
manner. There is absolutely no
clew to the murder and no apparent
motive for the second crime.
Basil Santoine, a blind lawyer,
with that remarkable inner percep-
tion frequently developed by the
sightless, while traveling on an
eastbound train from Seattle in the
company of his daughter and his
confidential secretary, is murder-
ously assaulted in his berth. Some
features of this assault are more
mysterioug than either of the other
crimes.
There is no superdetective nor
scientific investigator to deduce in-
fallible theories fastening the guilt
upon the right party or parties.
Police efforts are futile and suc-
ceed only in fouling the trail, in-
volving innocent parties and In-
creasing the complications. The
only tangible clews seem to point
to one Philip Eaton, a mysterious
young man, who was aboard the
train. There is also a suspicion
that he may have been connected
with the murder of the rich man
in Seattle.
Apparently against all dictates of
sense and safety, Eaton is made a
guest in the sumptuous home of
Santoine. Here the mystery deep-
ens to an extraordinary degree and
the big queries arise: Who is Phil-
ip Eaton; what is the past of this
strange man; what intuition or rea-
soning draws the blind man to him
in face of the danger of his pres-
ence; in what way is Eaton con-
nected with the sinister events
which afterward occur in the San-
toine home; what explanation is
there for the growing interest of
Harriet Santoine in the man who
is believed to have made an at-
tempt upon her father’s life?
Here are mystery and romance
different from anything you ever
have encountered. The outcome of
events and solution of the mystery
are as unexpected as anything you
possibly can imagine.
CHAPTER |
A Financier Dies.
Gabriel Warden—capitalist, railroad
director, owner of mines and timber
lands, at twenty a cow-puncher, at
forty-eight one of the predominant
men of the Northwest coast—paced
with quick, uneven steps the great
wicker-furnished living room of his
home just above Seattle on Puget
sound. Twice within ten minutes he
had used the telephone in the hall to
receive the same reply—that the train
from Vancouver, for which he had in-
quired, had come in and that the pas-
sengers had left the station.
It was not like Gabriel Warden to
show nervousness of any sort; Kondo,
the Japanese doorman, who therefore
had found something strange in his
telephoning, watched him through the
portieres which shut off the living
room from the hall.
Warden turned suddenly and pressed
the bell to call a servant. Kondo
entered the room; he noticed then
that Warden’s hand, which was still
holding the watch before him, was
shaking.
“A young man who may, or may
not, give a name, will ask for me in
a few moments. He will say he called
by appointment. Take him at once
to my smoking room, and I will see
him there. I am going to Mrs. War-
den’s room now.”
He went up the stairs, Kondo no-
ticed, still absently holding his watch
in his hand.
Warden controlled his nervousness
before entering his wife’s room. She
talked with him casually for a mo-
ment or so before she even sent away
her maid. When they were alone, she
suddenly saw that he had come to her
to discuss some serious subject.
“Cora,” he said, when he had closed
the door after the maid, “I want your
advice on a business question.”
“A business question!” She was
greatly surprised. He was one of
those men who believe all business
matters should be kept from their
wives.
“I mean it came to me through some
business—discoveries.”
“And you cannot decide it for your-
self?”
“I had decided it.” He looked again
at his watch. “I had quite decided
it; but now— It may lead to some
result which I have suddenly felt that
I haven't the right to decide entirely
for myself.”
Warden's wife for the first time felt
alarmed.
“You mean it affects me directly?”
He seized both her hands in his
and held her before him.
“Cora,” he said, “what would you
have me do if you knew I had found
out that a young man—a man who,
four or five years ago, had as much to
live for as any man might—had been
outraged in every right by men who
are my friends? Would you have me
fight the outfit for him? Or would
you have me—lie down?”
She stared at him with only pride
then; she was proud of his strength,
of his ability to fight, of the power
she knew he possessed to force his
way against opposition. “Why, you
would fight them!”
“you want me to fight them?”
“Of course.”
“No matter what it costs?”
She realized then that what he was
facing was very grave,
“Cora,” he said. “I didn’t come to
ask your advice without putting this
squarely to you. If I go into this
fight, T shall be not only an opponent
to some of my present friends; I shall
be a threat to them—something they
may think it necessary to remove.”
She cried out, “You mean someone
might kill you?”
“Should that keep me from going
in?”
She hesitated. He went on: “Would
you have me afraid to do a thing that
ought to be done. Cora?”
“No.” she said; “IT would not.”
“All right. then. That's all I had
to know now. The young man is com-
ing to see me tonight, Cora. Probably
he's downstairs. T'11 tell you all 1
can after I've talked with him.”
He went directly downstairs; as he
passed through the hall, the telephone
hell rang. Warden himself answered
it. Kondo overheard Warden's end of
the conversation. Apparently the
other person wished to see Warden &t
once. Warden finished, “All right; I'll
come and get you. Wait for me there.”
Then he hung up.
Turning to Kondo, he ordered his
car. Kondo transmitted the order and
brought Warden’s coat and cap; then
Kondo opened the house door for him
and the door of the limousine, which
had been brought under the porte-
cochere. The chauffeur was Patrick
Corboy, a young Irishman who had
been in Warden's employ for more
than five years; his faithfulness to
Warden was never questioned. Cor-
boy drove to the place Warden had
directed. As they stopped, a young
As They Stopped, a Young Man of
Less Than Medium Height, Broad-
shouldered, and Wearing a Mackin-
tosh, Came to the Curb and Spoke
to Warden.
man of less than medium height,
broad-shouldered, and wearing a
mackintosh, came to the curb and
spoke to Warden. Corboy did not
hear the name, but Warden immedi-
ately asked the man into the car; he
directed Corboy to return home. The
chauffeur did this, but was obliged on
the way to come to a complete stop
several times, as he met street-cars or
other vehicles on intersecting streets.
Almost immediately after Warden
had left the house, the doorbell rang
and Kondo answered it. A young man
with a quiet and pleasant bearing in-
quired for Mr. Warden and said he
came by appointment. Kondo ushered
him into the smoking room, where the
stranger waited. In about forty min-
utes, Corboy drove the car under the
porte-cochere again and got down and
opened the door. There was no mo-
tion inside the limousine. The chauf-
feur looked in and saw Mr. Warden
lying back quietly against the cush-
ions in the back of the seat; he was
alone.
Corboy noticed that the curtains all
about had been pulled down; he
touched the button and turned on the
light at the top of the car, and then
he saw that Warden was dead; his
cap was off, and the-top of his head
had been smashed by a heavy blow.
The chauffeur drew back, gasping;
Kondo, behind him on the steps, cried
out and ran into the house calling for
help. Two other servants and Mrs.
Warden, who had remained nervously
in her room, ran down. The stranger
who had been waiting, now seen for
the first time by Mrs. Warden, came
| eago.
at from the smoking room ‘o help
them. He aided in taking th: hody
from the ear and helped to carry it
to the living room and lay it on a
couch; he remained until it was cer-
tain that Warden had been killed and
nothing could be done. When this
had been established and further con-
firmed by the doctor who was called,
Kondo and Mrs. Warden looked
around for the young man—but he
was no longer there.
The news of the murder brought ex-
tras out upon the streets of Seattle,
Tacoma and Portland at ten o'clock
that night. Seattle, stirred at once at
the murder of one of its most promi-
nent citizens, stirred still further at
the new proof that Warden had heen
a4 power in business and finance; then,
as the second day’s dispatches from
the larger cities came in, it stirred a
third time at the realization—for so
men said—that this was the second
time such a murder had happened.
Warden had been what was called
among men of business and finance
a member of the “Latron crowd”; he
had heen close, at one time, to the
great western capitalist Matthew La-
tron; the properties in which he had
made his wealth, and whose direction
and administration had brought him
the respect and attention of other men,
had been closely allied with or even
included among those known as the
“Latron properties”; and Latron, five
years before, had been murdered. l.1-
tron’s murderer had been a man who
Warden's murderer. it appeared, had |
been equally known to him, or at least
equally recommended. Of this as
much was made as possible in the sug-
gestion that the same agency was he-
hind the two.
The statements of Kondo and Cor-
boy were verified; it was even
learned at what spot Warden's mur-
derer had left the motor unobserved
by Corboy. Beyond this, no trace was
found of him, and the disappearance
of the young man who had come to
Warden’s house and waited there for
three quarters of an hour to see him
was also complete.
CHAPTER 11
The Express Is Held for a Personage.
Bob Connery, special conductor for
the Coast division of one of the chief
transcontinentals, was having late
breakfast on his day off at his little
cottage on the shore of Puget sound,
when he was treated to the unusual
sight of a large car stopping before
his door. The chauffeur hurried from
the car to the house with an envelope
in his hand. Connery, meeting him at
the door,
found within an order in the hand-
writing of the president of the rail-
road and over his signature.
“Connery :
“No. 3 being held at Seattle termi-
nal until nine o’clock—will run one
hour late. This is your authority to
supersede the regular man as confi¥ic-
tor—prepared to go through to Chi-
You will facilitate every desire
and obey, when possible, any request
‘even as to running of the train, which
may be made by a passenger who will
identify himself by a card from me.
“H. R. JARVIS.”
The conductor, accustomed to take
charge of trains when princes, envoys,
Presidents and great people of any sort
took to travel publicly or privately,
fingered the heavy cream-colored note-
paper upon which the order was writ.
ten and looked up at the chauffeur.
The order was surprising enough
even to Connery.
extraordinary influence, obviously, was
to take the train; not only the hold-,
ing of the transcontinental for an
hour told this, but there was the fur-
ther plain statement that the passen-
ger would be incognito. Astonishing
also was the fact that the order was
written upon private note-paper.
There had been a monogram at the
top of the sheet, but it had been torn
off; that would not have been if Mr.
Jarvis had sent the order from home.
Who could have had the president of
the road call upon him at half past
seven in the morning and have told
Mr. Jarvis to hold the Express for an
hour?
Connery was certain of the distine-
tive characters of the president’s hand-
handwriting. The enigma of the or-
der, however, had piqued him so that
he pretended doubt.
“Where did you get this?” he chal-
lenged the chauffeur.
“From Mr, Jarvis.”
“Of course; but where?”
“You mean you want to know where
he was?”
Connery smiled quietly. If he him-
self was trusted to be cautious and
circumspect, the chauffeur also plain-
ly was accustomed to be in the em-
ploy of one who required reticence.
Connery looked from the note to the
bearer more keenly. There was some-
thing familiar in the chauffeur’s face
—Jjust enough to have made Connery
believe, at first, that probably he had
seeu the man meeting some passenger
at the station.
“You are—"
casually.
“In private employ; yes, sir,” the
man cut off quickly. Then Connery
knew him; it was when Gabriel War-
den traveled on Connery’s train that
the conductor had seen this chauf-
feur; this was Patrick Corboy, who
had driven Warden the night he was
killed. But Connery, having won his
point, knew better than to show it.
“Waiting for a receipt from me?” he
asked as if he had abandoned
Connery ventured
his
curiosity.
The chauffeur nodded. Connery
took a sheet of paper, wrote on it,
sealed it in an envelope and handed it
over; the chauffeur hastened back to
his car and drove off. Connery whis-
tled softly to himself. Evidently his
opened the envelope and !
Some passenger of.
called upon him by appointment. and | by
RR
passenger was to be one or tne great
men in eastern finance who had been
brought west by Warden's death. As
thg car disappeared, Connery gazea
off to the sound.
The March morning was windy ana
wet, with a storm blowing in from tbe
Pacific. From Eliot bay reverberated
the roar of the steam-whistle of some
large ship signaling its intention to
pass another to the left. The incoin-
ing vessel loomed in sight and showed
the graceful lines, the single funnel
and the white and red-barred flag of
the Japanese line, the Nippon Yusen
Kaisha. Connery saw that it was, as
he anticipated, the Tamba Maru, due
two days before, having been delayed
by bad weather over the Pacific. It
would dock, Connery estimated, just
in time to permit a passenger to catch
the Eastern Express if that were held
till nine o'clock. So, as he hastened
to the car line, Connery smiled at him-
self for taking the trouble to make
his earlier surmises.
Old Sammy Seaton, the gateman.
stood in his iron coop twirling a punch
about his finger. Old Sammy’s scheme
of sudden wealth—everyone has a
plan by which at any moment wealth
may arrive—was to recognize and ap-
prehend some wrongdoer, or some lost
or kidnaped person for whom a great
reward would be given. His position
at the gate through which must pass
most of the people arriving at the
great Coast city, or wishing to depart
from it. certainly was excellent; and
constant and careful reading of
the papers, classifying and memoriz-
ing faces. he prepared himself to take
advantage of any opportunity. Sammy
still awaited his great “strike.”
“Any one off on Number Five, Sam-
my?’ Connery questioned carelessly
as he approached.
Old Sammy shook his head. “What
are we holding for?’ he whispered.
“Ah—for them?”
A couple of station-boys, overloaded
with hand-baggage, scurried in from
the street; someone shouted for a
trunk-truck, and baggagemen ran. A
group of people, who evidently had
come to the station in covered cars.
crowded out to the gate and lined up
to pass old Sammy. The gateman
straightened importantly and scruti-
.nized each person presenting a ticket.
Connery inspected with attention the
file at the gate and watched old Sam-
my also as each passed him.
The first in line was a girl—a girl
about twenty-two or three, Connery
guessed. She had the easy, interested
air of a person of assured position.
When Connery first saw her, she
seemed to be accompanying the man
who now was behind her; but she of.
fered her own tickef for perusal at
the gate, and as soon as she was
through, she hurried on ahead alone.
Connery was certain he did not
know her. He noticed that old Sam:
my had held her at the gate as long
as possible, as if hoping to recollect
who she might be; but now that she
was gone, the gateman gave his atten-
tion more closely to the first man—a
tall. strongly built man, neither heavy
nor light, and with a powerful, pa-
trician face. His eyes were hidden
by smoked glasses such as one wears
against a glare of snow.
Connery found his gaze following
‘this man; the conductor did not know
him, nor had old Sammy recognized
him; but both were trying to place
him. He, unquestionably, was a man
to be known, though not more so than
many who traveled in the transconti-
nental trains. :
A trim, self-assured man of thirty—
his open overcoat showed a cutaway
underneath—came past next, proffer-
ing the plain Seattle-Chicago ticket.
An Englishman, with red-veined
cheeks, fumbling, clumsy fingers and
curious, interested eyes, immediately
followed.
The remaining man, carrying his
own grips, set them down in the gate
and felt in his pocket for his transpor-
tation.
This person had appeared suddenly
after the line of four had formed in
front of old Sammy at the gate; he
had taken his place with them only
after scrutiny of them. His ticket
was a strip which originally had held
coupons for the Pacific voyage and
some indefinite journey in Asia be-
fore; unlike the Englishman’s—and
his baggage did not bear the pasters
of the Nippon Yusen 'Kaisha—the
ticket was close to the date when it
would have expired. It bore upon the
line where the purchaser signed, the
name “Philip D. Eaton” in plain, vig-
orous characters without shading or
flourish.
As a sudden eddy of the gale abour
the shed blew the ticket from old
Sammy’s cold fingers, the young man
stooped to recover it. The wind blew
off his cloth cap as he did so, and as
he bent and straightened before old
Sammy, the old man suddenly gasped ;
and while the traveler pulled on his
cap, recovered his ticket and hurried
down the platform to the train, the
cateman stood staring after him as
though trying to recall who the man
presenting himself as Philip D. Eaton
was.
Connery stepped beside the old man.
“Who is it, Sammy?” he demanded.
“Who?” Sammy repeated. His eyes
were still fixed on the retreating fig-
ure. “Who? I don’t know.”
The gateman mumbled, repeating
to himself the names of the famous.
the great, the notorious, in his effort
to fit one to the man who had just
passed. No one else belated and
hound for the Eastern Express was in
sight. The president's order to the
conductor and to the dispatcher sim-
ply bad directed that Number Hive
would run one hour late; it must lezve
in five minutes; and Connery, guided
by the impression the man last
through the gate had made upon him
and old. Sammy both, had no doubt
that the man for whom the tra'n had
been held was now on hoard.
Connery went out to the train. The
passengers who had been parading the
platform had got aboard: the last five
to arrive also had disappeared into the
Pullmans, and their luggage had been
thrown into the baggage car. Connery
Jumped aboard.
The three who had passed the gate
first—the girl, the man with the
glasses and the young man in the cut-
away—it had now become clear were
one party. They had had reservations
made, apparently, in the name of
Dorne; the girl’s address to the spec-
tacled man made plain that he was
her father; her name, apparently, was
Harriet; the young man in the eut-
away coat was “Don” to her and
“Avery” to her father. His relation,
while intimate enough to permit him
to address the girl as “Harry,” was
unfailingly respectful to Mr. Dorne;
and against them both Dorne won his
way; his daughter was to occupy the
drawing room; he and Avery were to
have sections in the open car.
“You have Sections One and Three, |
sir,” the Pullman conductor told him. |
And Dorne directed the porter to put
Avery's luggage in Section One, his
own in Section Three.
The Englishman was sent to Section
Four in Car Three—the next car for-
ward—and departed at the heels of
the porter. Connery watched more
closely, as now it came the turn of the
young {
man whose ticket bore the ;
name of Eaton. Eaton had no resei- |
vation in the sleepers; he appeared,
however, to have some preference as
to where he slept.
“Give me a Three, if you have one,”
he requested of the Pullman conduse- |
tor. His voice, Connery noted, was |
well modulated, rather deep, distipet-
ly pleasant. At sound of it, Dorne, |
who with his daughter's help was ser- |
tling himself in his section, turned sn !
looked that way and said something |
in a low tone to the girl. Harriet |
Dorne also looked, and with her eyes
on Eaton, Connery saw her reply In-
audibly, rapidly and at some length. |
“I can give you Three in Car Three,
opposite the gentleman I just as-
signed,” the Pullinan conductor ott
fered.
“That’ll do very well,” Eaton an-
swered in the same pleasant volce
As the porter now took his begs,
Eaton followed him out of the car.
Connery went after them into the next
car. He expected, rather, that Eaten
would at once identify himself to him
as the passenger to whom President
Jarvis’ short note had referred. Ea-
ton, however, paid no attention to him,
bat was busy taking off his coat and !
settling himself in his section as Con-
nery passed. J
The conductor, willing that Earon
should choose his own time for 1lden-
tifying himself, passed slowly on, look- |
ing over the passengers as he went. |
He stood for a few moments in con- |
versation with the dining-car id
tor; then he retraced his way through !
the train. He again passed Eaton. |
slowing so that the young man could
speak to him if he wished, and even |
|
halting an instant to exchange a word
“Give Me a Three, If You Have One,”
He Requested of the Pullman Cen-
ductor.
with the Englishman; but Eaton al-
lowed him to pass on without speak-
ing to him. Connery’s step quickened
as he entered the next car on his way
back to the smoking compartment of
the observation car, where he expect-
ed to compare sheets with the Pull-
man conductor before taking up the
tickets. As he entered this car, how-
ever, Avery stopped him,
“Mr. Dorne would like to speak to
you,” Avery said.
Connery stopped beside the section,
where the man with the spectacles sat
with his daughter. Dorne looked up
at him.
“You are the train conductor?” he
asked.
“Yes, sir,” Connery replied.
Dorne fumbled in his inner pocket
and brought out a card-case, which
he opened, and produced a card. Con-
nery, glancing at the card while the
other still held it, saw that it was
President Jarvis’ visiting card, with
the president’s name in engraved
block letters; across its top was writ-
ten briefly in Jarvis’ familiar hand,
“This is the passenger”; and below,
it was signed with the same scrawl
of initials which had been on the novte
Connery had received that morning-—
‘HH. R.J.”
Connery’s hand shook as, while try-
ing to recover himself, he took the!
card and looked at it more closely,
and he felt within him the sinking
sensation which follows an escape
from danger. He saw that his too
ready and too assured assnmption
_
tnat Faton was the man to whom Jae-
vis' note had referred, had almost led
hin into the sort of mistake which 1s
nnpardonable in a “trusted” man: he
had come within an ace, he realized,
of speaking to Eaton and so betray-
ing the presence on the train of a
traveler whose journey his superiors
were trying to keep secret.
“You need, of course, hold the train
no longer,” Dorne said to Connery.
“Yes, sir; I received word from Mr.
Jarvis about you, Mr. Dorne. I shali
follow his instructions fully.”
As he went forward again after the
train was under way, Connery tried
to recollect how it was that he had
been led into such a mistake, and de-
fending himself, he laid it all to old
Sammy. But old Sammy was not
often mistaken in his identifications.
If Eaton was not the person for whom
the train was held, might he be some-
one else of importance? Now as he
studied Eaton, he could not imagine
what had made him accept this pas-
senger as a person of great position.
It was only when he passed Eaton a
third time, half an hour later, when
the train had long left Seattle, that
the half-shaped hazards and guesses
about the passenger suddenly sprang
into form. Allowing for a change of
clothes and a different way of brush-
ing his hair, Eaton was exactly the
man whom Warden had expected at
his house and who had come there
and waited while Warden, away in his
car, was killed.
Connery was walking back through
the train, absent-minded in trying to
decide whether he could be at all sure
of this; and trying to decide what he
should do if he felt sure, when Mr.
Dorne stopped him.
“Conductor, do you happen to
know,” he questioned, “who the young
man is who took Section Three in the
car forward?”
Connery gasped; but the question
put to him the impossibility of his
heing sure of any recognition from the
description. “He gave his name on
his ticket as Philip D. Eaton, sir,”
(Connery replied.
“Is that all you know about him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you find out anything about him,
let me know,” Dorne bade.
“Yes, sir.” Connery determined to
let nothing interfere with learning
more of Eaton; Dorne’s request only
gave him added responsibility.
Dorne, however, was not depending
upon Connery alone for further infor-
mation. As soon as the conductor
had gone, he turned back to his
daughter and Avery upon the seat op-
posite.
“Avery,” he said in a tone of direc-
tion, “I wish you to get in conversa-
tion with this Philip Eaton. It will
probably be useful if you let Harriet
talk with him too. She would get im-
pressions helpful to me which you
can’t.”
The girl started with surprise but
recovered at once. “Yes, Father,” she
said.
“What, sir?’ Avery ventured to pro-
test.
CHAPTER 11
Miss Dorne Meets Eaton.
Dorne motioned Avery to the aisle,
where already some of the passengers,
having settled their belongings in
their sections, were beginning to wan-
der through the cars seeking ac-
quaintances or players to make up a
card game. Eaton took from a bag
a handful of cigars with which he
filled a plain, uninitialed cigar case,
and went toward the club and obser-
vation car in the rear. As he passed
through the sleeper next to him—the
last one—Harriet Dorne glanced up
at him and spoke to her father; Dorne
nodded but did not look up.
The observation room was nearly
empty. The only occupants were a
voung woman who was reading a mag-
azine, and an elderly man. Eaton
chose a seat as far from these two as
possible.
He had been there only a few min-
utes, however, when, looking up, he
saw Harriet Dorne and Avery enter
the room. They passed him, engaged
in conversation, and stood by the rear
door looking out in‘o the storm. It
was evident to Eaton, although he did
wot watch them, that they were argu-
ing something; the girl seemed insist-
ent, Avery irritated and unwilling.
Her manner showed that she won her
point finally. She seated herself in
one of the chairs, and Avery left her.
He wandered, as if aimlessly, to the
(Continued on page 7, Col. 2.)
HAMBONE’S MEDITATIONS
{You DoN' HATTER ‘PoLOGIZE
WEN YOu GIBS A MAN
A DRINK 0’ BAD LICKUH-
-- HITLL ‘POLOGIZE FUH
IT-SEF TIME HE GITS
IT Down!
Copyright, 1921 by McClure Newspaper Syndicate.