©
BLIND
Mlustrations by
SYNOPSIS
CHAPTER 1.—Gabriel Warden, Seattle
capitalist, tells his butler he is expecting
& 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
& 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 IIL.—Bob Connery, conductor,
receives orders to hold train for a party.
Five men and az girl board the train
The father of the girl, Mr. Dorne, is the
rson 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 IIl.—The two make Eaton's
agquaintance. The train is stopped by
snowdrifts.
CHAPTER IV.—Eaton receives a tele-
gram addressed to Lawrence Hillwara,
which he claims. It warns him he is
being followed.
CHAPTER V.—Passing through the car,
Connery notices Dorne’s hand hanging
outside the berth. He ascertains Dorne'’s
bell has recently rung. Perturbed, he
investigates and finds Dorne with his
skull crushed. He calls a surgeon, Dr.
Binclair, on the train.
CHAPTER VI.—Sinclair recognizes the
injured man as Basil Santolne, who, al-
though blind, is a peculiar power in the
financial world as adviser to “big inter-
ests.” His recovery is a matter of doubt
CHAPTER VIIL.—Eaton is practically
placed under arrest. He refuses to make
explanations as to his previous move-
ments before boarding the train, but
admits he was the man who called on
arden the night the financier was mur-
ed.
CHAPTER IX.—Eaton pleads with Har-
riet Santoine to withhold judgment, tell-
ing her he is in serious danger, though
jitocent of the crime against her father.
feels the girl believes him.’
CHAPTER X.—Santoine recovers suffi-
elently to question Eaton, who refuses
to reveal his identity. The financier re-
Qujres Eaton to accompany him to the
ntoine home, where he is in the posi-
tion of a semi-prisoner.
CHAPTER XIl.—Eaton meets a resident
of the house, Wallace Blatchford, and a
young girl, Mildred Davis, with whom
apparently he is acquainted, though they
conceal the fact. Eaton's mission is to
secure certain documents which are vital
ww his interests, and his being admitted
to the house is a remarkable stroke of
luck. The girl agrees to aid him. He
becomes deeply interested in Harriet San-
toine, and she in him.
(Continued from last week).
She halted suddenly as she saw
him and grew very pale, and her
gloved hands went swiftly to her
‘breast and pressed against it; she
caught herself tozether and looked
swiftly and fearfully about her and
out into the hall. Seeing no one hut
himself, she came a step nearer.
“Hugh!” she breathed. Her sur-
prise was plainly greater than his
own had been at sight of her; but she
checked herself again quickly and
looked warningiy back at the hall;
‘then she fixed on him her blue eyes—
‘which were very like Eaton's, theagh
‘she did not resemble him closely in
any other particular—as though
‘waiting bis instructions.
, “Stay where you are, Edith,” he
‘whispered. “If we hear anyone com-
ing, we ‘are just passing each other
in the hall.”
“I understand; of course, Hugh!
But you—you're here! In his house!”
“Even lower, Edith; remember In
Eaton—Philip Eaton.”
“Of course; I know; and I'm Miss
Davis here—Mildred Davis.”
“They let you come in and out like
this—as you want, with no one watch-
ing you?”
“No, no; I do stenography for Mr.
Avery sometimes, as I wrote you. That
is all. When he works here, I do his
typing; and some even for Mr. San-
toine himself. But I am not con-
fidential yet; they send for me when
they want me.”
“Then they “cnt for you today?”
“No; but they have just got back,
and I thought I would come to see
if anything was wanted. But never
mind about me; you—how did you
get here? What &ne you doing here?”
Eaton drew further back into the
alcove as some one passed through
the hall above. The footsteps ceased
overhead; Eaton, assured no one was
coming down the stairs, spoke swiftly
to tell her as much as he might in
their moment. “He—Santoine—wasn’t
taken ill on the train, Edith; he was
attacked.”
“Attacked!” Her lips barely moved.
“He was almost killed; but they
concealed it, Edith—pretended he was
only ill. I was on the train—you
know, of course; I got your wire—and
they suspected nie of the attack.”
“You? But they didn’t find out
about you, Hugh?”
“No; they are investigating. San-
toine would not let them make any-
thing public. He brought me here
while he is trying to find out about
me. So I'm here, Edith—here! Is it
here too?” !
Again steps sounded in the hall
above. The girl swiftly busied her-
self with gloves and hat; Eaton stood
stark in suspense. The servant above
—it was a servant they had heard
pefore, he recognized now—merely
crossed from one "room to another
overhead. Now the girl's lips moved
again.
EYES
BY
WILLIAM MAcCHARGEDWIN BALMER.
COPYRIGHT BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
MAN'S
R.H.Livingstone
“It?
noiselessly.
“The draft of the new agreement.”
“It either has been sent to him,
or it will be sent to him very soon—
here.”
“Where will it be when it is here®"
She formed the question
“Where? Oh!” The girl's eve.
went to the wall close to where Eaton
stood; she seemed to measure with
them a definite distance from the door
and a point shoulder high,
resist the impulse to come over and
put her hand upon the spot. As Ea-
ton followed her look, he heard a
slight and muffied click as if from the
study ; but no sound could reach them
through the study doors and what he
heard came from the wall itself.
“A safe?” he whispered.
“Yes; Miss Santoine—she’s in there,
isn’t she?—closed it just now. There
are two of them hidden behind the
books, one on cach side of the door.”
Eaton tapped genfly on the wall;
the wall was brick; the safe undoubt-
edly was backed with steel.
“The best way is from inside the
room,” he conciuded.
She nodded. “Yes.
“Look out!”
Someone now was coming down:
stairs. The girl had time only to
whisper swiftly, “If we don’t get a
chance to speak again, watch that
If you—"
vase.” She pointed to a bronze an-
tique which stood on a table nenr
then. “When I'm sure the agreement
Is in the house, I'll drop a glove but-
ton in that—a black one, if I think
it'll be in the safe on the right, white
on the left. Now go,”
Eaton moved quietly on and inte
the drawing room. Avery’s voice im-
mediately afterward was heard; he
was speaking to Miss Davis, whom he
had found in the hallway. Eaton was
certain there was no suspicion that
he had talked with her there; indeed,
Avery seemed to suppose that Eaton
and to!
was still in the study with Harriet
Santoine. Tt was her lapse.
which had let him out and had given
him that chance; hut it was a lapse,
he discovered, which was not likely
to favér him again. From that time,
while never held strictly in restraint,
he found himself always in the sight !
of someone,
Faton let himseli think, idly, about
Harriet—how strange her life had
been—that part of it at least which
was spent, as he had gathered most
of her waking hours of recent years
had been spent. with her father.
Strange, almost, as his own life! And
what a wonderful girl it had made
of her—clever, sweet, lovable, with
more than a woman's ordinary ca-
pacity for devotion and self-sacrifice.
But, if her service to her father
was not only on his personal side but
if also she was intimate in his busi-
ness affairs, must she not therefore
have shared the cruel code which had
terrorized Eaton for the last four
vears and kept him an exile in Asla
and which, at any hour yet, threat-
ened to take his life? A grim set
came to Eaton's lips; his mind went
again to his own affairs.
CHAPTER XII
The Man From the Train.
In the supposition that he was to
have less liberty, Eaton proved cor-
rect. Harriet Santoine, to whose im-
pulses had been due his first priv:
leges, showed toward him a more con-
strained attitude the following morn-
ing. She did not suggest hostility, us
Avery constantly did; nor, indeed.
was there any evidence of retrogres-
slon in her attitude toward him; she
seemed merely to be maintaining the
same position; and since this seemed
difficult if they were often together.
she avoided him. Eaton understong
that Santoine, steadily improving but
not yet able to leave his bed, haa
taken up his work again, propped up
by pillows; one of the nurses had
been dismissed; the other was only
upon day duty. But Eaton did not
see Santoine at ail; and though ne
iearned that Miss Davis or another
stenographer, whose name was West,
came daily to the house, he never was
in a position again to encounter any
outsider either coming or going.
There was no longer room for Ea-
ton to doubt that Harriet had the con-
fidence of her father to almost a com-
plete extent. Now that Santoine was
fl, she worked with him daily for
hours; and Eaton learned that she
did the same when he was well. But
Avery worked with the bdnd man too;
he, too, was certainiy in a confidential
capacity. Was it not probable then
that Avery, and not Harriet, was en-
trusted with the secrets of dangerous
and ugly matters; or was it possible
that this girl, worshiping her father
as she did, could know and be sure
that, because her father approved
these matters, they were right?
A hundred times a day, as Eaton
saw or spoke with the girl or thought
of her presence near by, this obsessed
him. A score of times during their
then, |
- five years ago.
casual talk upon meeting at meals or
elsewhere, he found himself turned
toward some question which would
aid him in determining what must be
the fact; but each time he checked
himself, until one morning—Iit was
the fifth after his arrival at Sax
toine’s house—Harriet was taking
him for his walk in the garden before
the house. She had just told him,
at his inquiry, that her father was
very much stronger that morning, and
her manner mecre than ever evidenced
her pride in him.
They walked on slowly. “I wish
you could tell me more about your-
self, Mr. Eaton.”
“I wish so too,” he said.
“Then why can you not?’ She
turned to him frankly; he gazed at
her a moment and then looked away
and. shook his head. Did she know
all of what was known even under
her father’s roof; and if she knew all,
would she then loathe or defend it?
A motor sped near, halted and then
speeded on again; Eaton, looking up,
saw it was a runabout with Avery
alone in it; evidently, seeing them in
the road, Avery had halted to pro- |
and |
test, then thought better of it
gone on. But other motors passed
now with people who spoke to Har-
riet and who stopped to inquire for
her father and wish him well.
“Your father does not seem to be
one of the great men without honor
in his own neighborhood,” Eaton said
“Every One Who Knows Father Likes
and Admires Him!” She Rejoiced.
to her after one of these had halted
and gone on.
- “Everyone who knows Father likes
and admires him!” she rejoiced.
“I don’t mean exactly that,” Eaton
went on. “They must trust him too,
in an extraordinary way. His asso-
ciates must place most complete con-
fidence in him when they leave to him,
the adjustment of matters such as T
understand they do. He tells them
what is just, and they abide by his
decision.” 7
Harriet shook her head.
isn’t quite that,” she said.
“What, then?”
“You are correct in saying that men
of the most opposite sorts—and most
irreconcilable to each other — con-
stantly place their fate in Father's
hand; and when he tells them what
they must do, they abide by his de-
cision. But he doesn’t decide for
them what is just.”
“I don’t understand. What does he
tell them, then?”
“He tells them what would be the
outcome if they fought, who would
win and who would lose and by how
much. And they believe him and
abide by his decision without fight-
ing; for he knows: and they know
that he knows and
honest.”
Eaton was silent for a moment as
they walked along. “How can he
come to his decision?” he asked at
last. ‘
“How ?”
“I mean, much of the material pre-
sented to him must be documentary.”
“Much of it is.”
“Then someone must read it to
him.”
“Of course.”
Eaton started to speak—then re-
frained.
“What were you going to say?’ she
questioned,
“That the person—or persons—who
reads the documents to him must oc-
eupy an extremely delicate position.”
“He does. In fact, I think that po-
sition Is Father's one nightmare.”
“Nightmare?” sn
The person he trusts must not
on’y be absolutely discreet but ab-
solutely honest.”
“I should think so. If anyone in
that position wanted to use the in-
formation brought to your father, he
could make himself millions over-
night, undoubtedly, and ruin other
men.”
“And kill Father too,” the girl
added quietly. “Yes,” she said as
Eaton looked at her. “Father puis
nothing above his trust. If that trust
were betrayed-—whether or not Father
were in any way to blame for it—
I think it would kill him.”
“So you are the one who is jn that
position.”
“Yes; that is, I have been.”
“You mean there is another now;
that is, of course, Mr. Avery?”
“Yes; here at this house Mr. Avery
and I, and Mr. Avery at the oflice.
Before Mr. Avery came, I was the
only one who helped here at tlie
house.”
“When was that?”
“When Mr. Aver,
“No; it
came? About
Father had an im-
mense amount of ‘work at that time.
Business conditicns were very mucn
is absolutely
unsettled. There was trouble at that
time between some of the big eastern
and big western men, and at the same
time the government was prosecuting |
Nobody knew what the!
outcome of it all would be; many of |
the trusts.
the biggest men who consulted Father
were like men groping in the dark.
I don’t suppose you would remembz-
the time by what I say; but you
would remember it, as nearly every-
body else does by this: it was the
time of the murder of Mr. Latron.”
“Yes; I remember that,” said La-
ton; “and Mr. Avery came to you aut
that time?”
“Yes; just at that time I was
thrown from my horse, and could not
do as much as I had been doing, so
Mr. Avery was sent to Father.”
“Then Mr. Avery was reading to
him at the time you spoke of—the
time of the Latron murder?”
“No; Mr. Avery came just after-
ward. I was reading to him at that
time.”
“The papers must have been a good
deal for a girl of eizhteen.”
“At that time, you mean?
were; but Pather dared trust no one
else.”
“Mr. Avery handles those matters
now for your father?”
“The continuation of what was go-
ing on then? he took them up
at the time I was hurt and so has
kept on looking after them; for there
has been plenty for me to do without
that; and those things have all been
more or less settled now. They have
worked themselves out as things do,
though they seemed almost unsolvable
at the time. One thing that helped
in their solution was that Father was
able, that time, to urge what was just,
as well as what was advisable.”
“You mean that in the final settle-
ment of them no one suffered?”
“No one, I think—except, of course,
poor Mr. Latron; and that was a pri-
vate matter not connected in any di-
rect way with the question at issue.
Why do you ask all this, Mr. Eaton?’
“I was merely interested in you—
in what your work has been with your
Father, and what it is,” he answered
quietly.
They had been following the edge
of the road, she along a path worn
in the turf, he on the edge of the road
tself and nearer to the tracks of the
motors. Suddenly she cried out and
clutched at him. As they had stopped,
she had heard the sound of a motor
approaching them rapidly from be-
hind. Except that this car seemed
speeding faster than the others, she
had paid no attention and had not
turned. Instantaneously, as she had
cried and pulled upon him, she had
realized that this car was not pass-
ing; it was directly behind and almost
upon him. She felt him spring to the
side as quickly as he could; but her
cry and pull upon him were almost too
late; as he leaped, the car struck. The
blow was glancing, not direct, and he
vas off his feet and in motion when
the wheel struck; but the car hurled
‘him aside and rolled him over and
over,
As she rushed to Eaton, the two
men in- the rear seat of the car
turned their heads and looked back,
Yes:
but without checking its speed or |
swerving, the car dashed on and dis- |
appeared down the roadway.
She bent over Eaton and took hold
of him. He struggled to his feet and.
dazed, tottered so that she support-
ed him. As she realized that he was
not greatly hurt, she stared with hor-
ror at the turn in the road where the
car had disappeared.
“Why, he tried to run you down!
He meant to!
she cried.
“No,” Eaton denied.
don’t think so.
ap accident. He
when he saw what he had done.”
“It wasn’t at all like an accident!”
she persisted. “It couldn’t have heen
an accident there and coming up from
behind the way he did! No; he meant
to do it! Did you see who was in the
car—who was driving?”
He turned to her quickly.
ue demanded.
“One of the people who was on the
train! The morning Father was hurt.
Don't you remember—a little man,
nervous, but very strong; a man al-
most like an ape?”
“Oh, no,
“Who?”
He shuddered and then controlled
pimself. “Yes, I remember a fellow
the conductor tried to seat me oppo-
site.”
“This was the same man!”
Eaton shook his head. “That could
nardly be; I think you must be mis
raken.”
“I am not mistaken; it was that
man!”
“Still, IT think you must be” h2
again denied.
She stared, studying him. “Perhaps
I was,” she agreed; but she knew she
had not been. “I am glad, whoever
it was, he didn’t injure you. You are
all right, aren't you?”
“Quite,” he assured. “Please don’t
trouble about it, Miss Santoine.”
They walked back rather silently,
she appreciating how passionately
she had expressed herself for him,
and he quiet because of this and
other thoughts too.
They found Donald Avery in front
of the house locking for them as they
came up. Eaton succeeded in walk-
ing without limping; but he could not
conceal the marks on his clothes.
“Harriet, I've just come from your
father; he wants you to go to him
at once,” Avery “Good
morning Eaton. Wha 's happened?”
“Carelessness,” Eaton deprecated.
“Got rather in the way of a motor
and was knocked over for it.”
Harriet did not correct this to
Avery. She went up to her father;
she was still trembling, still sick
with horror at what she had seen—
an attempt to kill one walking at her
side. She stopped outside her fa-
They
He tried to hurt you!” |
7
It must have been— |
was—frightened |
a —_—
ther’s door to compose herself; then
she went in.
The blind man was propped up on
his bed with pillows into almost a
sitting position; the nurse was with
him.
riet asked.
He had recognized her step and
had been about to speak to her; but
at the sound of her voice he stopped
the words on his lips and changed
them into a direction for the nurse
to leave the room.
He waited until the nurse had lett
and closed the door behind her. Har-
riet saw that, in his familiarity with
her tones and every inflection of Ler
voice, he had sensed already that
something unusual had occurred; she
repeated, however. her question as
to what he wanted.
“That does not matter now, Har-
riet. Where have you been?"
“I have been walking with
Eaton.”
“What happened?”
She hesitated. “Mr. Eaton was ai-
most run down by a motorcar.”
Mr.
“Ah! An accident?”
She hesitated again. “Mr. Eaton
said it was an accident,” she aw-
swered.
“But you?”
“It did not look like an accident,
Father. It—it showed intention.”
“You mean it was an attack?’
“Yes; it was an attack. The man
in the car meant to run Mr. Eaton
down; he meant to kill him or to
hurt him terribly. Mr. Eaton wasn’t
hurt. I called to him and pulled
him—he jumped away in time.”
“To kill him, Harriet? How do you
know?”
She caught herself. “I—I don’t
know, Father. He certainly meant te
injure Mr.) Eaton. When I said kil’
him, I was telling only what 1
thought.”
“That is better. I think so too.”
“That he meant to kill Mr. Eaton?"
“Yes.”
She watched her father's face:
often when relating things to him,
she was aware from his expression
that she was telling him only some-
thing he already had figured out and
expected or even knew; she felt that
now.
“Father, did you expect Mr. Eaton
to be attacked?”
“Expect? Not that exactly; it was
possible; I suspected something like
this might occur.”
“And you did not warn him?”
The blind man’s hands sought each
other on the coverlet and clasped to.
gether. “It was not necessary to warn
him, Harriet; Mr. Eaton already
knew. Who was in the car?’
“Three men.”
“Had you seen any of them before?"
“Yes, one—the man who drove.”
“Where?”
“On the train.”
The color on Santoine’s face grew
brighter. “Describe him, dear.”
He waited while she called together
her recollections of the man.
“I can’t describe him very fully,
Father,” she said. “He was one of
the people who had berths in the for-
ward sleeping car. I can recall see-
ing him only when I passed through
the car—I recall him only twice in
that car and once in the diner.”
j “That is interesting,” said San-
| tolne.
| “What, Father?”
{ “That in five days upon the train
| you saw the man only three times.”
| “You mean he must have kept out
© of sight as much as possible?”
“Have you forgotten that I asked
| you to describe him, Harriet?”
She checked herself. “Height about
five feet five,” she said, “broad:
shouldered, very heavily set; I re-
member he impressed me as being un-
usually muscular. His hair was black;
I can’t recall the color of his eyes:
bls cheeks were blue with a heavy
beard closely shaved. I remember his
face was prognathous, and his clothes
were spotted with dropped food. I—
ft seems hard for me to recall him
and I can’t describe him very well.”
“But you are sure it was the same
man in the motor?”
“Yes. He spemed an animal sort
ef person, small, strong, and not par
ticularly intelligent. It seems hard
Zor me to remember more about him
than that.”
“That is interesting.”
“What?!
“That it is hard for you to remem
her him very well.”
“Why, Father?”
Her father did not answer. “The
other men in the motor?” he asked
“TI can’t describe them F==I wa:
excited about Mr. Eaton
“Thank you, dear. Bring
me."
“He has gone to his room to Ox
timself up.”
“I'll send for him, then.” Santoine
pressed one of the buttons beside his
bed to call a servant; but before the
bell could be answered, Harriet got
up.
“I'll go myself,” she said.
She went out into the hall and
closed the door behind her; she wait-
ed until she heard the approaching
steps of the man summoned by San-
toine’s bell; then, going to meet him,
she sent him to call Eaton in his
rooms, and she still waited until the
man came back and told her Eaton
had already left his rooms and gone
downstairs. She dismissed the man
and went to the head of the stairs,
hut her steps slowed there and
stopped. She knew that the blind
man’s thought in regard to Katon bana
taken some immense stride; but she
Aid not know what that stride bad
or what wns ~~minz
ner father saw Eaton.
She went on slowly down the staris,
| and when halfway down, she saw Ea-
ton in the hall’ below her. He was
standing beside the table which held
LZaton ro
hoon, tw When
“What did you want, Father?" Har- |
the bronze antique vase; he seemed
to have taken something from the
| vase and to be examining it. She
| halted again to watch him; then she
went on, and he turned at the sound
of her footsteps. She could see, as
| she approached him, what he had
taken from the vase, but she attacked
no importance to it; it was only a
black button from a woman’s glove—
one of her own, perhaps, which zhe
nad dropped without noticing. He
tossed it indifferently toward the open
fireplace as he came toward her.
“Father wants to see you.
Eaton,” she said.
He looked at her intently for an
instant and seemed to detect some
strangeness in her manner and to
draw himself together; then he fol-
lowed her up the stairs,
Mr.
CHAPTER XIII
It Grows Plainer.
Basil Santoine’s bedroom was so
nearly sound-proof that anything
going on in the room could not be
heard in the hall outside it, even close
to the double doors. Eaton, as they
approached these doors, listened
vainly, trying to determine whether
anyone was in the room with San-
toine; then he quickened his step tc
bring him beside Harriet.
“One moment, please, Miss San-
toine,” he urged.
She stopped. “What is it you
want?”
“Your father has received some an-
. swer to the inquiries he has been hav-
!' ing made about me?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Eaton.”
“Is he alone?”
“Yes.”
Eaton thought a minute. ‘“That is
all I wanted to know, then,” he said.
Harriet opened the outer door and
knocked on the inner one. Eaton
heard Santoine’s voice at once calling
them to come in, and as Harriet
opened the second door, he followed
her into the room.
“Am I to remain,
asked.
“Yes,” Santoine commanded.
Eaton waited while she went to a
chair at the foot of the bed,and seat-
ed herself—her clasped hands resting
on the footboard and her chin upon
her hands—in a position to watch
both Eaton and her father while they
talked; then Eaton sat down.
“Good morning. Eaton,” the blind
man greeted him.
“Good morning, Mr. Santoine,” Fa-
ton answered.
Santoine was lying quietly upon
his back. his head raised on the pil-
lows, his arms above the bed-covers,
his finger-tips touching with the fin-
gers spread.
“You recall, of course. Eaton, our
conversation on the train,” Santoine
said evenly.
“Yes.”
“I want to call your attention in a
certain order to some of the details of
what happened on the train. You had
rather a close call this morning, did
you not?”
“Rather, I was careless.”
“You were careless?’ Santoine
smiled derisively. “Perhaps you
were—in one sense. In another, how-
ever, you have been very careful, Fa-
ton. You have been careful to act
as though the attempt to run you
down could not have been a delib-
erate attack; you were careful to call
it an accident; you were careful not
to recognize any of the three men in
the motor.”
“Tl had no chance to recognize any
of them, Mr. Santoine,” Eaton re-
plied easily. “I did not see the car
coming; 1 was thrown from my feet;
when I got up, it was too far away
for me to recognize anyone.”
“Perhaps so; bnt were you sur-
prised when my daughter recognized
one of them as having been on the
train with us?”
Eaton hesitated, but answered al-
most immediately :
“Your question doesn’t exactly fit
the case. 1 thought Miss Santoine
had made a mistake.”
“But you were not surprised; no.
What would have heen a surprise tc
you, Eaton, would have been—if you
had had a chance tc observe the men—
to have found that none of them—
none of them had been on the train!”
Eaton started and felt that he had
colored. How much did Santoine
know? Had the blind man received,
as Eaton feared, some answer to his
inquiries, which had revealed, or
nearly revealed, Eaton's identity? Or
was it merely that the attack made
on Eaton that morning had given San.
toine new light on the events that
bad happened on the train and par
ticularly—Eaton guessed—on the cl-
pher telegram which Santoine claimed
to have translated.
“You assume that, Mr. Santoine,”
he asserted, “because—" He checked
himself and altered his sentence.
“Will you tell me why you assume
that?”
“That that would have surprised
you? Yes; that is what I called you
in here to tell you.”
As Santoine waited a moment be-
fore going on, Eaton watched him
anxiously. The blind man turned
himself on his pillows so as to face
Eaton more directly.
(To be Continued.)
Father?” she
Bound to Qualify.
The rules were strict at the college.
Accordingly when Mr. Foster arrived
to take Miss Joy out in his car, it was
with very mixed feelings that she
mentioned the matter to the principal.
“You know, Miss Joy,” said that
personage, “I only allow the students
to go out with their fiances. Are you
engaged to Mr. Foster?”
“No-no,” was the reply; “but if you
| will let me go, I shall be by the time
| we get back!”—London Answers.
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