SYNOPSIS
CHAPTER I.—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
man whom he takes into the machine,
en 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.
ive men and & girl board the train
The father of the girl, Mr. Dorne, is the
rson for whom the train was held
ip 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,
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
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
ncial world as adviser to ‘“‘big inter-
ests.” His recovery is a matter of doubt
CHAPTER VIII.—Eaton {is practically
placed under arrest. He refuses to make
explanations as to his previous move-
ments before boarding the train, bui
admits he was the man who called on
aren the night the financier was mur
CHAPTER IX —Eaton pleads with Har-
t Santoine to withhold judgment, tell-
g her he is in serious danger, though
precent of the crime against her father.
feels the girl believes him.
CHAPTER X.—Santoine recovers suffi-
elently to question Eaton, who refuses
fo reveal his identity. The financier re-
uires Eaton to accompany him to the
ntoine home, where he is in the posi-
tion of a semi-prisoner.
CHAPTER XI1.—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
w 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.
CHAPTER XII.—Harrlet tells Eaton she
and Donald Avery act as ‘eyes’ to San-
toine, reading to him the documents on
which he bases his judgments. While
» walking with her, two men in an auto-
mobile deliberately attempt to run Eaton
down. He escapes with slight injuries.
The girl recognizes one of the men as
having been on the train on which they
came from Seattle.
(Continued from last week),
“Just ten days ago,” he said evenly
and dispassionately, “I was feund un-
conscious in my berth—Section Three
of the rearmost sleeper—on the trans-
continental train, which I had taken
with my daughter and Avery at Se-
attle. I had been attacked—assailed
during my sleep some time in thea.
first night that I spent on the train—
and my condition was serious enough
so that for three days afterward 1
was not allowed to receive any of the
particulars of what had happered to
me. When I did finally learn them.
I naturally attempted to make certain
deductions as to who it was that had
attempted to murder me, and why;
and ever since, I have continued to
occupy myself with those questions.
I am going to tell you a few of my
deductions. If you fancy I am at
fault in my conclusions, wait until you
discover your error.”
Santoine waited an instant; Eaton
thought it was to allow him to speak
if he wanted to, but Eaton merely
waited.
“The first thing I learned,” the blind
man went on, “was the similarity of
the attack on me to the more saceess-
ful attack on Warden, twelve days
previous, which had caused his death.
The method of the two attacks was
the same; the conditions surrounding
them were very similar. The des-
perate nature of the two attacks, and
their almost identical method, made
it practically certain that they origi-
nated at the same source and were
carried out—probably—by the same
hand and for the same purpose.
“Mrs. Warden's statement to me of
her interview with her husband a
half-hour before his murder, made it
certain that the’ object of the attack
on him was to ‘remove’ him. It
seemed almost inevitable, therefore,
that the attack on me must have been
for the same purpose.
“I found that a young man—your-
self—had acted so suspiciously both
before and after the attack on me
that both Avery and the conductor
in charge of the train had become
eonvinced that he was my assailant,
and had segregated him from the rest
of the passengers. Not only this, but
—and this seemed quite conclusive to
them—you admitted that yeu were
the one who had called upon Warden
the evening of his murder. It seemed
likely, too, that you were the only
person on the train aside from my
daughter and Avery who knew who 1
was; for I had had reason to believe
from the time when I first heard you
speak when you boarded the train,
that you were someone with whom 1
had previously, very briefly come in
contact; and I had asked my daugh
®
BLIND
EYES
BY
WILLIAM MACHARGEDWIN BALMER.
[llustrations by R.H.Livingstone
COPYRIGHT BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
MANS
ter to find out who you were, and she
had tried to do so, but without suc-
cess.”
Eaton
“Also,”
wet
the
his lips.
blind man
ly showed that there was some con-
nection, unknown to me, hetween you
and me, as well
rather a previous—suspicious tele-
gram In cipher, which we were able
to translate.”
Eaton leaned forward, impelled to
speak; but as Santoine clearly detect-
ed this Impulse and waited to hear
fr
Mt lh
Gu
Asserted.
it he was going to say, Katon re- |
axidered and kept silent.
“You were going to say something
ut that telegram in cipher?” San-
ae asked,
‘No,"” Eaton denied.
+f A
fewtminutes ago when I said you
vere not surprised by the attempt
made today to run you down, you
were also going to speak of it; for
that attempt makes clear the meaning
of the telegram. ‘Its meaning was not |
understs nd. |
Tt said only that you were known and |
why you |
clear to me before, you
followed.
were followed.
of that; there were several poseilse
reasons wily you might be followed—
even that the ‘one’ who ‘was follow
it did not say
Ing’ might be someone secretly inter- !
ested In preventing you from am »t- |
tack on me. Now. however, T know
that the reason you feared the man
who was following was because you
expected him to attack you. Know-
ing that, Eaton—knowing that, I want
to c&ll your attention te the pecullur-
ity of our mutual positions on the
train. You had asked for and were
occupying Section Three in the third |
sleeper, in order—I assume and, I be-
lieve, correctly—to avoid being put in
the same car with me. In the night.
the second sleeper—the car next in
iront of yours—was cut off from the
train and left behind, That made me
occupy in relation to the forward part
of the train exactly the same position
as you had occupied before the car
ahead of you had been cut out. I
was in Section Three in: the third
sleeper from the front.”
Eaton stared at Santoine, fasci-
nated; what had been only vague,
half felt, half formed with himself,
was becoming definite, tangible, under
the blind man’s reasening. His hands
closed instinctively. in his emotion.
“What do you mean?’ ;
“You understand already,” Santoine
asserted. “The attack made on me
was meant for you. Someone stealing
through the cars from the front to
the rear of the train and carrying in
his mind the location of Section Thiee
in the third car, struck through the
curtains by mistake at me instead of
you. Who was that, Eaton?”
“I den’t know,” Eaton answered.
“You mean you prefer to shield
tm?” :
“Shield him?”
“That is wha! you are doing, is it
aot? For, even if you don’t know the
man directly, you know in whose
«uuse and under whose direction he
murdered Warden—and why and tor
‘whom he is attempting to murder
you.”
Laton remained silent.
In his intensity, Santoine had lift-
ed himself from his pillows. “Who is
that man?” he challenged. “And what
is that connection between you aad
me which, when the attack found and
disabled me instead of you, told him
that—in spite of his mistake—his re-
sult had been accomplished? told him
that, if I was dying, a repetition of
tie attack against you was unneces-
sary?”
Eaton knew that he had grown very |
bale; Harriet must be aware of the
effect Santoine’s words had on him
continued, |
“there was a telezram which definite- | Eaton stooped, and the blind man’s |
as a second—or
Understand Already,” Santoine !
were; and I think that |
I could not be certain i
but he did not dare look at her now
to see how much she was comprehend-
ing. .
“I don’t understard.” He fought to
compose himself,
: “It is perfectly plain,” Santoine said
patiently. “It was believed at first
that I had been fatally hurt; it was
even reported at one time—I under-
stand—that I was dead; only intimate
friends have been informed of my ac-
tual condition. Yesterday, for ‘the
first time, the newspapers announced
the certainty of my recovery: and to-
day an attack is made on you. They
| did not hesitate to attack you in sight
i of my daughter.”
“But—"! >
“You are merely challenging my de-
ductions! Will you reply to my ques-
tions?—tell me the connection he-
tween us?—who you are?”
“No.”
“Come here!”
“What?” said Eaton.
“Come here—close to me, beside the
bed.”
daton hesitated, and then obeyed.
, “Bend over!”
! hands seized him. Instantly Eaton
withdrew,
“Wait!” Santoine warned. “If you
do not stay, I shall call help.”
gaze warningly and nodded to him to
comply. He bent again over the hed
He felt the blind man's sensitive fin. |
gers searching his features, his head.
his throat. Eaton gazed at Santoine's
face while the fingers were examining
him; he could see that Santoine was
merely finding confirmation of an im
pression already gained from what he
had been told him about Eaton. San
toine showed nothing more than this
confirmation ; certainly he did not rer
ognize Eaton. More than this, Eaton
could not tell.
“Now your
dered.
Eaton extended one hand and then
the other; the blind man felt over
them from wrists to the tips of the
fingers; then he let himself sink beck
against the pillows, absorbed in
thought.
“You may go,” Santoine said at last.
“Go?” Eaton asked,
“You may leave the room. Blatch-
ford will meet you downstairs.” :
Santoine reached for the house ¥el-
ephone beside his bed—receiver ana
i transmitter on one light bar—and
gave directions to have Blatchford
await Eaton in the hall below.
Eaton was distinctly frightened by
the revelation he just had had of San-
| toine’s clear, implacable reasoning re
i garding him; for none of the hlino
man’s deductions about him had
been wrong—all had been the exact
though incomplete truth. It was
. “lear to him tMat Santoine was close
—much closer “even than Santoine
himself yet appreciated—to knowing
iiaton’s Identity; ir was even prob-
nhle that one single additional fack—
I the discovery, for imstance. that Miss
Davis was the source of the second
hands,” Santoine or-
telegram received by Eaton on the
train—would reveal everything to
And Eaton was not certain
that Santolne, even without any new
information, would not reach the
So
Eaton knew that he himself must act
i
1
|
|
| Santoine.
truth unaided at any moment.
{ before this happened. But so long as
, “he safe In Santoine’s study was kep:
| locked or was left open omly while
| someone was in’ the room with it, he
| could net act until he had received
, help from omside; and he had not
| yet received that help; be could aot
hurry it or even tell how soon it wus
likely to come.
As his mind reviewed, almest in-
stantaneously, these considerations,
he glanced again at Harriet; her
eves, this time. met his, but she looked
away immediately. As he went
toward the door, she made no move
to accompany him. He went out with-
out speaking and closed the inner and
the outer doors behind him; then he
; went down to Blatchford.
For several minutes after Eaton
had left the room, Santoine thought
in silence.
“Where are you,
asked at last.
She knew it was not necessary to
answer him, but merely to move so
that he could tell her position; she
moved slightly, and his sightless eyes
shifted at once to where she stood.
“How did he act?’ Santoine asked.
She reviewed swiftly the conversa-
tion, supplementing his blind apper-
ceptions of Eaton's manner with what
she herself had seen.
“What have been your impressions
of Eaton’s previous social condition,
Daughter?’ he asked. “You have
talked with him, been with him -both
on the train and here: have yoy been
able to determine what sort. of people
he has been accustomed to mix with?
Have his friends been business men?
Professional men? Society people?”
The deep and unconcealed note of
trouble in her father’s voice startlea
her, in her familiarity with every tone
and every expression. She answerea
his question: “I don’t know, Father.”
“I want you to find out.”
“In what way?”
“You must find a way. I shall tell
Avery to help.” He thought for sev-
eral moments, while she stood walt-
ing. “We must have that motor and
the men in it traced, of course. Har-
riet, there are certain matters—corre-
spondence — which Avery has been
looking after for me; do you know
what correspondence I mean?’
“Yes, Father.”
“I would rather not have Avery
bothered with it just now; I want him
to give his whole attention to this
present inquiry. You yourself will
assume charge of the correspondence
of which I speak, Daughter.”
“Yes, Father. Do you want any-
| thing else now?”
“Not of you; send Avery to me.”
Harriet?” he
One: |
hand went to the bell beside his bed. |
Harriet had risen: she met Eaton's |
CHAPTER XIV
Donald Avery Is Moody.
Harriet went down the stairs into
the study; she pissed through the |
study into the main part of the house
and found Donald and sent him to her
father; then she returned to the study.
She closed and fastened the doors, and
She Romoved the Books in Front of a
Wall S-fe to the Right of the Door.
pfter glancing about the room, she re-
moved the hooks in front of a wall-
safe to the right of the door, slid
back the movable panel, opened the
safe and took out a bundle of corre-
spondence. She closed safe and panel
and put back the boozs; and carrying
the correspondence to her father’s
lesk, she began to look over it.
This correspondence—a consider-
nble bundle of letters held together
with wire clips and the two envelopes
hound with tape which she had put
into the safe the day before—made up
the papers of which her father had
spoken to her. These letters repre-
sented the contentions of willful, pow-
TL
and replaced the books. Then she
went to her father's desk, took from
a drawer a long typewritten report of
which he had asked her to prepare a |
digest, and read it through; conscious- !
ly concentrating, she began her work.
At three she heard Avery's motor, and
went to the study door and looked oi |
as he entered the hall. |
“What have you found, Don?” she ,
inquired. |
“Nothing yet, Harry.”
“You got no trace of them?”
“No; too many motors pass on that ;
road for the car to be recalled par- !
ticularly. I've started what inquiries
are possible and arranged to have the
road watched in case they come back
this way.”
He went past her and up to her fa-
ther. She returned to the study and .
put away her work.
Dinner was served in the great
Jacobean dining room, with walls pan-
eled to the high ceiling, logs blaz-
ing in the big stone fireplace. As they
seated themselves, she noted that
{ Avery seemed moody and uncommu-
. niecative; something, clearly, had irri-
erful and sometimes 1uthless and vio- :
lent men. Ruin of one man by an-
other—ruin financial, social or moral,
or all three together—was the inten.
tion of the principals concerned in
this correspondence; too often, she
knew, one man or one group had car-
ried out a fierce intent upon another;
and sometimes, she was aware, these
bitter feuds had carried certain of
her father's clients further even than
personal or family ruin; fraud, vio-
fence and—twice now-—even murder
were represented by this correspond-
ence; for the papers relating to the
arden and the Latron murders were
fiere. She had felt always the horror
of this violent and ruthless side of
the men with whom her father dealt;
hut new she knew that actual appre-
cittion of the crimes that passed as
business had been far from her, And.
strangely, she now realized that it was
not the attacks on Mr. Warden and
her father—overwhelming with horror
as these had been—which were bring:
ing that appreciation home to her. It
was her understanding now that the
attack was not meant for her father
tut for Haton.
Though Harriet had never believed
that Eaton had been concerned in the
attack upon her father, her denial of
it bad been checked and stifled be-
epuse he wounla nor even defend him-
self,
Ste had not known what to!
think ; she had seemed ro herself to |
be waiting with her tnoughts i» ahey-
ance; until be should be cleared. sne
had tried not to let herself think more
about Eaton than was necessary.
Though he was involved with her fa-
ther in some way. she refused te be-
lieve he was against her father, put
clearly he was not with him. How
could he be involved, then, unless the
injury he had suffered was some such
act of man against man as these let-
ters and statements represented? She
looked carefully through all the cou-
tents of the envelopes, but she conid
not find anything which helped her.
She pushed site letters away, then,
and sat thinking. Mr. Warden, who
appeared to have known more abont
Eaton than anyone else, had taken Ea-
ton’s side; it was because he had been
going to help Eaton that Mr. Warden
had been killed. Would not her father
be ready to help Eaton, then, if he
wnew as much about him as Mr. War-
den had known? But Mr. Warden,
spparently, had kept what ho knew
even from his own wife; and Eaton
was now keeping it from everyone--
her father included. She felt that her
tather had understood and appreci-
ated all this long before herself—that
it was the reason for his attitude
toward Eaton on the train and, in part,
the cause of his considerate treatment
of him all through.
So, instead of being estranged by
aton’s manner to her father, she felt
un impulse of feeling toward him
flooding her, a feeling which she tried
to explain to herself as sympathy. But
it was not just sympathy; she would
not say even to herself what it was.
She got up suddenly and went to
the door and looked into the hall; a
servant came to her.
“Is Mr. Avery still with Mr. San-
toine?’ she asked.
“No, Miss Santoine; he has gone
out.”
“Thank you.”
She went back, and bundling the
correspondence together as it had been
pefore, she removed the books from a
shelf to the left of the door, slid back
another panel and revealed a second
wall-safe corresponding to the one to
the right of the door from which she
had taken the papers. The combina-
tion of this second safe was known
only to her father and herself. She
put the envelopes into it, closed it,
i bolding them, and fhat this link most
tated and disturbed him; and ax the
meal progressed, he vented his irrita-
tion upon Eaton by affronting him
more openly by word and look than
he had ever done before in her pres-
ence. She was the more surprised at
his domg this now, because she knew
that Donald must have received trom
her father the same instructions as
had been given herself to learn what-
ever was possible of Eaton's former
position in life.
Before Eaton’s entrance into her
life she had supposed that some time.
as a matter of course, she was going
to marry Donald. In spite of this, she
had never thought of herself as aparr
from her father; when she thought or
marrying, it had been always with the
idea that her duty to her husband
must be secondary to that to her
father; she knew now that she had
accepted Donald Avery not because
he had become necessary to her but
because he had seemed essential to
her father and her marrying Donald
would permit her life to go on much
as it was.
Donald had social position and a
certain amount of wealth and power;
now suddenly she was feeling that he
nad nothing but these things, that his
own unconscious admission was thar !
to be worth while he must have them,
that to retain and increase them was
his only object in life. She had the
feeling that these were the only things
he would fight for; but that for these
he would fight—fairly, perhaps, if he
could—but, if he must, unfairly, des-
picably.
She had finished dinner, but she hes-
itated to rise and leave the men
alone; after-dinner cigars and the fic- |
tion of the masculine conversation
about the table were insisted on hy
Blatchford. As she delayed, looking
across the table at Baton, his eyes
met hers; reassured. she rose at once:
the three rose with her and stood
while she went out. She went up-
stairs and looked in upon her father:
he wanted nothing, and after a con-
versation with him as short as she
could make it, she came down again.
No further disagreement between the
two men, apparently, had happened
after she left the table. Avery now
was not visible. Eaton and Blatchford
were in the music-room. With a re-
pugnance against ber father’s orders
which she had never felt hefarz, <he
negan to carry out tne instructions
ner father had given ber,
She noticed that Eeten was fuupiliar
with almost everything she had liked
which had been written or was cur-
vent up to five years hetore; all later
music was strange to him. To this
extent he had been of her world.
plainly, up to five years before: then
he had gone out of it.
She realized this only as something
which she was te report to her father;
vet she felt a keener, more personal
interest in it than that. Harriet San-
toine knew enowgh of the world to
know that few men break completely
all social connections without some
link of either fact or memory still
often is a woman.
Toward ten o'clock Jaton excused
himself and went to his rooms. She
sat for a time, idly talking with
Blatchford ; then, as a servant passed
through the hall and she mistook mo-
mentarily his footsteps for those of
Avery, she got up suddenly and went
upstairs. It was only after reaching
her rooms that she appreciated thar
the meaning of this action was that
she shrank from seeing Avery again
that night. But she had heen in her
rooms cnly a few minutes when her
“Will You Come Down for a Few Min-
utes, Please, Harry?”
| the members of the household.
| Santoine, the servant said, had bresk-
house telephone buzzed, and answer-
his frritation, or ut 1east had concealet
i; his concern now seemed to be vuiy
over nis relations with herseif.
“We've not quarreled, Harry?’ ne
isked,
“Quarreied?
*eplied.
She moved toward the door: he foi-
owed ana let her out, and she went
tack to her own rooms.
Not at all, Don,” sue
CHAPTER XV
Santoine’s “Eyes” Fail Him.
Eaton. coming down rather late the
aext morning, found the breakfast
room empty. He chose his breakfast
; from the dishes on the sideboard, and
! while the servant sct them before him
and waited on him. he inquired after
Miss
tasted some time before and was now
with her father; Mr. Avery also hud
creakfasted; Mr. Rlatehford was not
vet down. As Eaton lingered over hs
oreakfast, Miss Davis passed through
thie hall, accompanied by a maid. The
maid admitted her into the study and
closed the door; »fterward, the mad
remained in the hall busy with some
morning duty, and her presence and
that of the servant in the breakrast
room made it impossible for Eaton to
attempt to go to the study or to risk
speaking to Miss Davis. A few mine
utes later, he heard Harriet Santoine
aescending the stairs; rising, he went
oiit into the hall to meet her.
“I don’t ask you to commit yourself
for longer than today, Miss Santoine,”
he said, when they had exchanged
greetings, “but—for today—what are
the limits of my leash?”
“Mr. Avery is going to the country
club for lunch; I believe he Intends to
ask you if you care to go with him.”
She turned away and went into the
study, closing the door behind her. Ea-
ton, although he hada finished his break-
“net, went back into the breakfast
room. He did not know whether he
would refuse or accept Avery's invita-
tion; suddenly he decided. After wait-
Jig for some five minutes there over a
second cup of coffee, he got up and
crossed te the study.
“I beg pardon, Miss Santoine,” he
explained his interruption, “but you
did not tell me what time Mr. Avery is
likely to want me to be ready to go to
the country club.”
“About half-past twelve, I think.”
“And what time shall we be coming
back?”
“Probably about five.”
ing it, she found that it was Donald
speaking to her.
“Will you come down for a few
minutes, please, Harry?”
Some strangeness In his tone per-
plexed her.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“In tle study.”
She went down at once, As he came
to the study door to meet her, she saw
that what had perplexed her in his
tone was apparently only the remnant
of that irritation he had showed at
dinner. He took her hand and drew
her into the study.
“You don't mind my calling you
down, Harry; it is so long since we
had even a few minutes alone to-
gether,” he pleaded.
“What is it you want, Don?” she
asked.
“Only to see you, dear—Harry.” He
took her hand again; she resisted and
withdrew it. *“I can't do any more
work tonight, Harry. I find the cor-
respondence I expected to go over this
evening isn’t here; your father has it,
I suppose.”
“No; I have it, Don.”
“You?”
“Yes; Father didn’t want you both-
ered by that work just now. Didn’t he
tell you?”
“He told me that, of course, Harry,
and that he had asked you to relieve
me as much as you could; he didn't say
he had told you to take charge of the
papers. Did he do that?”
“I thought that was implied. If you
need them, I'll get them for you, Don.
Do you want them?”
She got up and went toward the safe
where she had put them; suddenly she
stopped. What it was that she had
felt under his tone and manner, she
could not tell; it was probably only
irritation at having important work
taken out of his hands. But whatever
it was, he was not openly expressing
it—he was even being careful that it
should not be expressed. And now
suddenly, as he followed and came
close behind her and her mind went
swiftly to her father lying helpless up-
stairs, and her father's trust in her,
she halted.
“We must ask Father,” she said.
“Ask him!” he ejaculated, “Why?”
She faced him uncertainly, not an-
swering.
“That’s rather ridiculous, Harry, es-
pecially as it is too late to ask him
tonight.” His voice was suddenly
rough in his irritation. “I have had
charge of those very things for years;
they concern the matters in which your
father particularly confides in me. Tt
is impossible that he meant you to take
them out of my hands like this. He
must have meant only that you were
to give me what help you could with
them! Harry, don’t you see that ycu
are putting me in a false position—
wronging me? You are acting as
though you did not trust me!”
“I do trust you, Don; at least 1 have
no reason to distrust you. I only say
we must ask Father,”
“They're in your little safe?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“And you'll not give them to me®”
“No.”
He stared angrily; then he shrugged
and laughed and went back to his desk
and began gathering up his scattered
papers. She stood indecisively watch-
ing him. Suddenly he looked up, and
she saw that he had quite comnueced
(To be Continued.)