COPYRIGHT BY LITTLE,
(Continued from last week).
SYNOPSIS
CHAPTER 1.—Gabriel Warden, Seattle
capitalist, tells his butler he is expecting
a caller, to be admitted without question.
He informs his wife of danger that
threatens him if he pursues a course he
considers the only honorable one. War-
den leaves the house in his car and meets
a man whom he takes into the machine.
When the car returns home, Warden is
found dead, murdered, and alone. The
caller, a young man, has been at War-
den’s house, but leaves unobserved.
CHAPTER I1.—Bob Connery, conductor,
receives orders to hold train for a party.
Five men and a girl board the train
The father of the girl, Mr, Dorne, is the
Person for whom the train was held
hilip D. Eaton, a young man, also
boarded the train. Dorne tells his daugh-
ter and his secretary, Don Avery, to find
out what they can concerning him.
CHAPTER III.—The two make Eaton’s
acquaintance. The train is stopped by
snowdrifts.
He gave the negro the keys, and
himself waited to prevent anyone
from entering the car at his end.
Looking through the glass of the door,
he saw the young man Eaton standing
in the vestibule of the car next ahead.
Connery hesitated; then he opened
the door and beckoned Eaton to him.
“Will you go forward, please,” he
requested, “and see if there isn't a
doctor—"
“You mean the man with red hair
in my car?’ Eaton inquired.
“That's the one.”
Eaton started off without asking
any questions. The porter, having
locked the rear door of the car, re
turned and gave Connery back the
keys. Connery still waited, until Ea-
ton returned with the red-haired man.
He let them in and locked the door
behind them.
“You are a doctor?” Connery ques-
tioned the red-haired man.
“] am a surgeon: yes.”
“That’s what's wanted. Doctor—"
“My name is Sinclair. T am Doug:
las Sinclair of Chicago.”
Connery nodded. “I have heard of
you.” He turned then to Eaton. “Do
you know where the gentleman is who
belongs to Mr. Dorne’s party ?—Avery,
I believe his name is.”
“He is in the observation car,” Ea.
ton answered.
“Will you go and get him? The car-
door is locked. The porter will let
you in and out. Something serious
has happened here—to Mr. Dorne.
Get Mr. Avery, if you can, without
alarming Mr. Dorne's daughter.”
Eaton nodded understanding and
followed the porter, who, taking the
keys again from the conductor, let
him out at the rear door of the car
and reclosed the door behind him.
Raton went on into the observation
car.
Without alarming Harriet Dorne, he
got Avery away and out of the car
“Is it something wrong with Mr.
Dorne?” Donald Avery demanded as
Eaton drew back to let Avery pre
cede him into the open part of the car.
“So the conductor says.”
Avery hurried forward toward the
perth where Connery was standing
beside the surgeon. Connery turned
toward him.
“I sent for you, sir, because you are
the companion of the man who had
this berth.”
Avery pushed past him, and leaped
forward as he looked past the sur
geon. “What has happened to Mr.
Dorne?”’
“You see him as we found him, sir.”
“You See Him as We Found Him,
Sir.”
Connery stared down nervously beside
him.
Avery leaned inside the curtains
and recoiled. “He's been murdered!”
“It looks so, Mr. Avery. Yes; if
%e's dead, he's certainly been mur-
aered,” Connery agreed. ‘You can
tell”’—Connery avoided mention of
President Jarvis’ name—*"tell anyone
who asks you, Mr. Avery, that you
saw him just as he was found.”
BLIND MANS
EYES
BY
WILLIAM MACHARGEDWIN BALMER.
Illustrations by R H.Livingstone
BROWN, AND COMPANY.
He looked down again at the form
in the berth, and Avery's gaze fol-
lowed his; then, abruptly, it turned
away. Avery stood clinging to the
curtain, his eyes darting from one tc
another of the three men.
“Will you start your examination
now, Doctor Sinclair?’ Connery sug-
gested.
The surgeon, before examining the
man in the berth more closely, lifted
the shades from the windows. Every-
thing about the herth was in place
undisturbed ; except for the mark of
the savage blow on the side of the
man’s head. there was no evidence of
anything unusual. It was self-evident
that, whatever had been the motives
of the attack, robbery was not one;
whoever had struck had done no more
than reach in and deliver his mur-
derous blow; then he had gone on.
Sinclair made first an examination
of the head; completing this, he un-
buttoned the pajamas upon the chest,
loosened them at the walst and pre-
pared to make his examination of the
Rody.
“How long has he been dead?” Con-
nery asked.
“He is not dead yet. Life is still
present,” Sinclair answered guardedly.
»Whether he will live or ever regain
consciousness is another question.”
“One you can’t answer?”
“The blow, as you can see’—Sin-
clair touched the man’s face with his
deft finger-tips—“fell mostly on the
cheek and temple. The cheekbone is
fractured. He is in a complete state
of coma; and there may be some frac-
ture of the skull. Of course, there is
some concussion of the brain.”
Any inference to be drawn from this
as to the seriousness of the injuries
was plainly beyond Connery. “How
long ago was he struck?” he asked.
“Some hours. Since midnight, cer-
tainly; and longer ago than five
o'clock this morning.”
“Could he have revived half an hour
ago—say within the hour—enough to
have pressed the button and rung the |
bell from his berth?”
Sinclair straightened and gazed at |
the conductor curiously. “No, cer-
tainly not,” he replied. “That is com-
pletely impossible. Why did you ask?”
Connery aveided answer. But Avery
pushed forward. “What
What's that?’ he demanded.
“Will you go on with your exami-
nation, Doctor?” Connery urged.
“You said the bell from this berth
rang recently!” Avery accused Con-
nery.
“The pointer in the washroom, ip
dicating a signal from this berth, was
turned down a minute ago,” Connery
had to reply. “A few moments ear-
lier all pointers had been set in the
position indicating no call.”
“That was before you found the
body?”
“That was why I went te the berth
—yes,” Connery replied; “that was
pefore 1 found the body.”
“Then you mean you did not find
the body,” Avery charged. “Someone.
passing through this car a minute or
so before you, must have found him!"
Connery attended without replying.
“And evidently that man dared not
report it and coul? not wait longer
to know whether Mr.—Mr. Dorne was
really dead; so h~ rang the bell!”
“Ought we keep Doctor Sinclair any
longer from the ~xamination, sir%”
Connery now seized Avery's arm ir
appeal. “The first thing for us tc
know is whether Mr. Dorne is dying.
Isn’ a
Connery checked himself; he had
won his appeal. Eaton, standing qui-
etly watchful, observed that Avery's
eagerness to accuse now had been
replaced by another interest whicn
the conductor's words had recaliec.
Whether the man in the berth was tu
live or die—evidensly that was inn-
mentously to affect Donald Avery vae
way or the other. :
“Of course, by all means proceea
with your examination, Doctor.”
Avery directed.
As Sinclair again bent over the
body Avery leaned over also; Katon
gazed down, and Connery—a little
paler than before amd with lips tight-
ly set.
CHAPTER VI
“Isn't This Basil Santoine?”
The surgeon, having finished loos-
ening the pajamas, pulled open and
carefully removed the jacket part,
leaving the upper part of the body of
the man in the berth exposed. Con-
ductor Connery turned to Avery.
“You have no objection to my tak-
ing a list of the articles in the berth 7°
Avery seemed to oppose; then, ap-
parently, he recognized that this was
an obvious part of the conductor's
duty. “None at all,” he replied.
Connery gathered up the clothing,
the glasses, the watch and purse, and
laid them on the seat across the aisle.
Sitting down, then, opposite them, he
examined them, and, taking every-
thing from the pockets of the clothes,
he began to catalogue them before
is that?
i
| hold it as I direct—then draw it away
Avery. He counted over the gold and
banknotes in the purse and entered
the amount upon his list.
“You know about what he had with
him?” he asked.
“Very closely. That is correct
Nothing is missing,” Avery answered.
The conductor opened the waten.
“The crystal is missing.”
Avery nodded. “Yes; it always—
that is, it was missing yesterday.”
Connery looked up at him, as
though slightly puzzled by the manner
of the reply; then, having finished his
list, he rejoined the surgeon.
Sinclair was still bending over the
naked torso. It had been a strong.
healthy body; Sinclair guessed its age
at fifty. As a boy, the man might
have been an athlete—a college track-
runner or oarsman—and he had kept
himself in condition through middle
age. There was no mark or bruise
upon the body, except that on the
right side and just below the ribs
there now showed a scar about an
inch and a half long and of peculiar
crescent shape. It was evidently a
surgical scar and had completely
healed.
Sinclair serutinized this carefully
and then looked up to Avery.
was operated on recently?”
“About two years ago.”
“For what?”
“Tt was some operation on the gall
| bladder.”
«performed by Kuno Garrt?”
Avery hesitated. “I believe so.”
He watched Sinclair more closely
as he continued his examination. Con-
nery touched the surgeon on the arm.
“what must be done, Doctor? And
where and when do you want to do
nr
Sinclair. however. it appeared. had
not yet finished his examination.
“will you pull down the window cur-
tains?’ he directed.
As Connery, reaching across the
body, complied, the surgeon took a
“He
1
“He Was Operated On Recently?”
matchbox from his pocket, and glanc-
ing about at the three others as
though to select from them the one
one most likely to be an efficient aid,
he handed it to Eaton. “Will you
help me, please? Strike a light and
slowly.”
He lifted the partly closed eyelld
from one of the eyes of the uncon-
scious man and nodded to Eaton:
“Hold the light in front of the pupil.”
Eaton obeyed, drawing the light
slowly away as Sinclair had directed.
and the surgeon dropped the eyelid
and exposed the other pupil
“What's that for?’ Avery now
asked.
“] was trying to determine the se-
riousness of the injury to the brain.
I was looking to see whether light
could cause the pupil to contract.
There was no reaction.”
Avery started to speak, checked
himself—and then he said: “There
could be no reaction, I believe, Doctor
Sinclair.”
“What do you mean?”
“His optic nerve is destroyed.”
“Ah! He was blind?”
“Yes, he was blind,” Avery admit.
ted.
“Blind!” Sinclair ejaculated. “Blind,
and operated upon within two years
by Kuno Garrt!” Kuno Gartt operat-
ed only upon the all-rich and powerful
or upon the completely powerless wud
poor; the. unconscious man in rhe
berth could belong only to the first
class of Gartt's clientele. The sur-
geon’s guze again searched the fea-
tures in the berth; then it shifted to
the men gathered about him in the
aisle.
“Who did you say this was?” he de-
manded of Avery.
“] said his name
Dorne,” Avery evaded.
“No, no!” Sinclair jerked out Im-
patiently. “Isn't this—" He hesi-
tated, and finished in a voice suddenly
jowered: “Isn't this Basil Santoine?”
Avery, if he still wished to do so,
found it impossible to deny.
“Basil Santoine!” Connery breathed.
To the conductor alone, among the
four men standing by the berth, the
name seemed to have come with the
sharp shock of a surprise; with it had
come an added sense of responsibility
and horror over what had happened
to the passenger who had been con-
fided to his care, which made him
whiten as he once more repeated the
name to himself and stared down at
the man in the berth.
Conductor Connery knew Basil San-
toine only in the way that Santoine
was known to grear numbers of other
people—that is, by name but not by
sight.
Basil Santoine at twenty-two haa
| been graduated from Harvard, though
blind. His connections—the fam~
was Nathan
was of well-to-do southern stock—his
possession of enough money for his
own support, made it possible for him
to live idly if he wished; but Santoine
had not chosen to make his blindness
an excuse for doing this. He hao
at once settled himself to his chosen
profession, which was law. He had
not found it easy to get a start in
this, and he had succeeded only after
great effort in getting a place with a
small and unimportant firm. Within
a short time, well within two years,
men had begun to recognize that in
this struggling law firm there was a
powerful. clear, compelling mind.
Santoine, a youth living in darkness.
unable to see the men with whom he
talked or the documents and books
which must be read to him, was be-
ginning to put the stamp of his per-
sonality on the firm’s affairs. A year
later his name appeared with others
of the firm; at twenty-eight his was
the leading name. He had begun to
specialize long before that time, In
corporation law; he married shortly
after this. At thirty the firm name
represented to those who knew its
particulars only one personality, the
nersonality of Santone: and at thirty-
five—though his indiilerence to money ’
was proverbial—he was many times a
millionaire. But except among the
aly...
small and powerful group of men who |
had learned to consult him, Santoine |
himself at that thme was utterly un-
known.
Consulted continually by men con-
cerned in great projects,
day and night in vast affairs, capable
of living completely us he wished—he
had been, at the age of forty-six, great
but not famous. powerful but not pub-
licly known. At that time an event
had occurred which had forced the
blind man out unwillingly from his
obscurity.
This event had b2en the murder of
the great western financier, Matthew
Latron. There had been nothing in
this affair which had in any
shadowed dishonor upon Santoine. So
much as in his role of a mind without
personality Santoine ever fought, he
had fought against Latron; but his
fight had been not against the man
but against methods. There had come
then a time of uncertainty and un-
rest; public consciousness was in
the process of awakening to the
knowledge that strange things, ap-
proaching close to the likeness of
what men call crime, had been being
done under the unassuming name of
business. Scandal—financial scandal
—brenthed more strongly against La-
tron than perhaps against any of the
other western men. He had been
among their biggest; he had his ene-
mies, of whom impersonally Santoine
might have been counted one, and he
had his friends, both in high places;
he was a world figure.
a sudden, the man had been struck
down—Kkilled, because of some private
quarrel, men whispered, by an obscure
and till then unheard-of man.
The trembling wires and cables,
which should have carried to the wait-
ing world the expected news of La-
tron’s conviction, carried instead the |
news of Latron’s death; and disorder
followed. The
had been, of course, for the stocks and
immersed !
way |
Then, all of
' himself
| befare yon leave this car that you will
a —
“I have my instruments,” Sinclair
said. “I'll get them; but before I de-
cide to do anything, I ought to see |
his daughter. Since she is here, her
consent is necessary before any opera-
tion on him.” .
“Miss Santoine is in the observation
car,” Avery said. “I'll get her.”
The tone was in some way false—
Eaton could not tell exactly how.
Avery started down the aisle,
“One moment, please, Mr. Avery!” |
sald the conductor. “I'l ask you not
to tell Miss Santoine before any
other passenger that there has been
an attack upon her father. Wait un-
til you get her inside the door of this
car.”
“You yourself said nothing, then,
that can have made her suspect it?”
Eaton asked.
Connery shook his head; the con-
ductor, in doubt and anxiety over ex.
actly what action the situation called
for—unable, too, to communicate any
hint of it to his superiors to the west
because of the wires being down
clearly had resolved to Keep the at-}
tack upon Santoine secret for some |
time. “I said nothing definite even
to the trainmen.” Le replied; “and 1
want you gentlemen to promise me
say nothing until I give you leave.”
His eyes shifted from the face of |
one to another. until he had assured
that all agreed. As Avery |
. left the car, Raton found a seat in:
first public concern !
bonds of the great Latron properties; |
and Latron’s bigness had seemed only
further evidenced by the stanchness
with which the Latron banks, the La-
tron railroads and mines and public
utilities stood firm even against the!
shock of their builder's death.
sured of this, public interest had shift-
ed to the trial, conviction and sen-
tence of Latron’s murderer; and It
was during this trial that Santoine’s
name had become
known. Not that the blind man was
suspected of any knowledge—much
less of any complicity—in the crime;
more publicly
the murder had been because of a
purely private matter; but in the ea- |
ger questioning into Latron’s circum- :
stances and surroundings previous to
the crime, Santoine was summoned
into court as a witness.
The blind man, led into the court,
sitting sightless in the witness chair,
revealing himself by his spoken, and
even more by his withheld, replies as
one of the unknown guiders of the
destiny of the Continent and as coun-
selor to the most powerful—himself
till then hardly heard of but plainly
one of the nation’s “uncrowned rulers”
—had caught the public sense. The
fate of the murderer, the crime, even
Latron himself. lost temporarily their |
interest in the public curiosity over
the personality of Santoine.
It had been reported for some days
that Santoine had come to Seattle di-
rectly after Warden's death; but
when this was admitted, his associ-
ates had always been careful to add
that Santoine, having been a close
personal friend of Gabriel Warden,
had come purely in a personal capac-
ity, and the impression was given that
Santoine had returned quietly some
days before. The mere prolonging of
his stay in the West was more than
suggestive that affairs among the
powerful were truly in such state as
Warden had proclaimed; this attack
upon Santoine, so similar to that
which had slain Warten, and deliv-
ered within eleven days of Warden's
death, must be of the gravest signifi-
cance.
Connery stood overwhelmed for the
moment with this fuller recognition
of the seriousness of the disaster |
which had come upon this man in-
trusted to his charge; then he turned
to the surgeon.
“Can you do anything for him here,
Doctor?” he asked.
The surgeon glanced down the car.
“That stateroom—is it occupied?”
“It’s occupied by his daughter.”
“We'll take him in there, then.”
The four men lifted the inert figure
of Basil Santoine, carried it into the
drawing room and laid it on its back
upon the bed.
As- |
i
{
|
{
|
i
1
i 1
| one of the end sections near the draw- |
i
1
ately she appeared. He met har In
the aisle and took her hand.
asked.
swered, and stood holding to the pack
of a seat; then she opened her oyés,
saw Eaton and recognized him and
sat down in the seat where Avery nad
been sitting.
in four or five days,” she replied to
Avery; she turned then directly to
Eaton.
was a clot under the skull, and he
operated to find it and relieve it.
There was one, and we have done all
we can; now we may only wait. Doc-
tor Sinclair has appointed himself
nurse; he says I can help him, but
not just yet.
like to know.”
Baton acknowledged. He moved away
from them, and sat down in one of
the seats further down the car.
ing room. Ie did not know whether
to ask to leave the car, or whether he
ought to remain; and he would have
gone except for recollection of Har- |
riet Santoine. Then the curtain at]
the end of the car was pushed further !
aside, and she came in.
She was very pale, but quite con-
trolled, as Eaton knew she would be.
7/
7, 7)
] 7
727, Al
am
“Can You Do Anything for Him Here,
Doctor?” He Asked.
She looked at Eaton, but did not
speak as she passed; she went di-
rectly to the door of the drawing
room, opened it and went in, followed
by Avery. The door closed, and for
a moment Eaton could hear voices in-
gide the room—Harriet Santoine’s,
Sinclair's, Connery’s. The conductor
then came to the door of the drawing
room and sent the porter for water
and clean linen; Eaton heard the rip
of linen being torn, and the car be-
came filled with the smell of anti-
septies.
Donald Avery came out of the draw-
ing room and dropped into the seat
across from Eaton. He seemed deep-
ly thoughtful—so deeply, indeed, as to
be almost unaware of Eaton's pres
ence. And Eaton, observing him,
again had the sense that Avery's ab-
sorption was completely in conse-
cuences to himself of what was going
on behind the door—in how Basil
Santoine’s death or continued exist-
ence would affect the fortunes of Don-
ald Avery.
A long time passed-—how long, Ka-
ton could not have told; he noted
only that during it the shadows on
the snowbank outside the window ap-
preciably changed their position. Fi
nally the door opened, and Harriet
Santoine came out, paler than before,
and now not quite so steady.
Waton rose as she approached
them: and Avery leaped up, all con
cern nad sympathy for her immedi
“Was it successful, dear?” Avery
She shut her eyes before she an-
“Doctor Sinclair says we will know
“He thought there probably
I thought you would
“Thank you; I did want to know,”
Soon he left for his own car, and
as the door was closing behind him, |
a sound came to his ears from the car |
he just had left—a young girl sud- |
: denly
crying in abandon, Harriet |
i Santoine, he understood, must have
his heart.
broken down for the moment, after
the strain of the operation; and Ha-
ton halted as though to turn back, 'than four years past, distinguished
feeling the blood drive suddenly upon gepvice medals are still being handed
Then, recollecting that he out occasionally.
-
had no right to go to her, he went on.
CHAPTER VII
Suspicion Fastens on Eaton.
faton found his car better filled
than it had been before, for the peonls
shifted from the car behind had been
scattered through the train. Keeping
himself¥%o his section, he watched the
car and outside the windows for
signs of what investigation Connery
and Avery were making. Whoever
had attacked Santoine must still be
upon the train, for no one could have
escaped through the snow. No one
could now escape. Avery and Connery
and whoever else was making investi-
gatioon with them evidently were not
letting anyone know that an investi-
gation was being made. Eaton went
to lunch; on his way back from the
diner, he saw the conductors with pa-
pers in their hands questioning a pas-
senger. They evidently were starting
systematically through the cars, exam-
ining each person; they were making
the plea of necessity of a report to
the railroad offices of names and ad-
dresses of all held up by the stoppage
of the train.
Eaton started on toward the rear
of the train.
“A moment, sir!” Connery called.
Eaton halted. The conductor con-
fronted him.
“Your name, sir?’ Connery asked.
“Philip D. Eaton.”
Connery wrote down the answer.
“Your address?’
“I—have no address. I was going
to a hotel in Chicago—which one 1
hadn’t decided yet.”
“Where are you coming from?”
“From Asia.”
“That’s hardly an address, Mr. Ea-
ton!”
“I can give you no address abroad.
I had no fixed address there. I was
traveling most of the time. I arrived
“Your Name, Sir?” Connery Asked.
in Seattle by the Asiatic steamer and
took this train.” ;
“Ah! you came on the Tamba
Maru.”
Connery made note of this, as he
had made note of all the other ques-
tions and answers. Then he said
something to the Pullman conductor,
who replied in the same low tone;
what they said was not audible to
Taton.
“You can tell us at least where
vour family is, Mr. Eaton,” Connery
suggested.
“I have no family.”
“Friends, then?”
“I—I have no friends.”
“Nowhere?”
“Nowhere.”
Connery pondered for several mo-
ments. “The Mr. Hillward—Law-
rence Hillward, to whom the telegram
was addressed which you claimed
this morning, your associate who was
to have taken thi§ train with you—
will vou give me his address?”
“I don’t know Hillward’s address.”
“yive me the address, then, of the
man who sent the telegram.”
“1 am unable to do that, either.”
Connery spoke again to the Pullman
~onductor, and they conversed !aau-
dibly for a minute. “That is all,
then,” Connery said finally.
He signed his name to the sheet
on which he had written Eaton's an-
swers, and handed it to the Pullman
conductor, who also signed it and re-
turned it to him; then they went on
to the passenger now occupying Sec-
tion Four, without making any fur-
ther comment. ,
Eaton told himself that there should
be no danger to himself from this in-
quiry, directed against no one, but
including comprehensively everyone
on the train. When the conductors
had left the car, he put his magazine
away and went into the men’s com-
partment to smoke and calm his
nerves. His return to America had
passed the bounds of recklessness;
and what a situation he would now be
in if his actions brought even serious
suspicions against him! He finished
his first cigar and was debating
whether to light another, when he
heard voices outside the car, and
opening the window and looking out,
he saw Connery and the brakeman
struggling through the snow and mak-
ing, apparently, some search, Pres-
ently Connery pascod the door of the
compartreent carrying something
loosely wrapped in a mewspaper in
his hands. Eaton finished his cigar
and went back to his seat in the car.
(To be Continued.)
——Although Armistice day is more