SEMA - A ————— i ——— i EE SYNOPSIS CHAPTER I.—Gabriel Warden, Seattle . capitalist, tells his butler he is expecting & caller, to be admitted without question. He informs his wife of danger that threatens hith 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 IL.—Bob Connery, covductor, 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 Posen for whom the train was held hilip D. Eaton, a young man, also boarded the train. Dorne tells his dauglh- ter and his secretary, Don Avery, to find out what they can concerning him. CHAPTER IIl.—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 outsidef the berth. He ascertains Dorne’s has recently rung. Perturbed, he vestigates and finds Dorne with his skull crushed. He calls a surgeon, Dr 8inclair, on the train. CHAPTER VI.—Sinclair recognizes the injured man as Basil Santolne, who, al- ough blind, is a peculiar power in the ancial world as adviser to “big inter- ests.” His recovery is a matter of doubt CHAPTER VIIIL.—Eaton is practically placed under arrest. He refuses to make explanations as to his previous move- ments before boarding the train, but @dmits he was the. man who called on arden the night the financier was mur- ed, CHAPTER IX.—Eaton pleads with Har- Flor Santoine to withhold judgment, tell- g her he is in serious danger, t ough Front 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- obese aton to accompany him to the ntoine home, where he is in the posi- tion of a semi-prisoner. CHAPTER XI.—Eaton meets a resident of the house, Wallace Blatchford, and a young girl, Mildred Davis, with whom apparently he is acquainted, though they <onceal the fact. KEaton’s mission is to @ecure 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. CHAPTER XIIl.—Santoine questions Eaton closely, but the latter is reticent. The blind man tells him he is convinced the attack made on him on the train was the result of an error, the attacker hav- ing planned to kill Eaton. Santoine tells Harriet she is to take charge of certain papers connected with the *“Latron prop- erties,” which had hitherto been in Avery's charge. CHAPTER XIV.—Avery seeks to influ- ence Harriet, as his wife to be, to give the papers to him. She refuses. Harriet is beginning to feel that her love belongs to Eaton. (Continued from last week). He thanked her and withdrew. He did not look back as Miss Davis closed the door behind him; their eyes had not met; but he understood that she had comprehended him fully. Today he would be away from the Santoine house, and away from the guards who watched him, for at least four hours, under no closer espionage than that of Avery; this offered opportunity—the first opportunity he had had—for com- munication between him and his friends outside the house. He went to his room and made some slight changes in his dress; he came down then to the library, found a book and settled himself to read. Toward noon Avery looked in on him there and rather constrainedly prof- fered his invitation. Eaton accepted, and after Avery had gone to get ready, Eaton put away his book. Fifteen minutes later, hearing Avery's motor purring outside, Eaton went into the hall; a servant brought his coat and: hat, and taking them, he went out to the motor. Avery sppeared a moment later, with Harriet Santoine. She stood lookirg after them as they spun down the curving drive and onto the pike outside the grounds; then she went back to the study. She dismissed Miss Davis for the day, and taking the typewritten sheets and some other papers her father had asked to have read to him, she went up to him, Basil Santoine was alone and awake. “What have you, Harriet?’ he asked. She sat down and glancing through the papers in her hand, gave him the subject of each; then at his direction she began to read them aloud. As she finished the third page, he inter. rupted her. “Has Avery taken Eaton to the country club as I ordered?” “Yes.” “I shall want you to go out there In the afternoon; I would trust your observation more than Avery's to de- termine whether Erton has been used *9 such surroundings.” ©he read another page, then broke off suddenly. “Has Donald asked you anything today, Father?” “In regard to what?” “I thought last night he seemed dige The BLIND MAN'S, EYES WILLIAM MACHARGEDWIN BALMER. [Mustrations by R.H.Livingstone COPYRIGHT BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. turbed about my relieving him of part of his work.” “Disturbed? In what way?” She hesitated. unable to define even to herself the impression Avery's man- ner had made on her. “I understood he was going to ask you to leave it still in. his hands.” “He has not done so yet." “Then probably I was mistaken.” She read again for half an hour after luncheon, finishing the pages she had brought. “Now. you'd better go to the club,” the blind man directed. She put the reports and letters away in the safe in the room below, and going to her own apartments, she i dressed carefully for the afternoon. As she drove down the road. she passed the scene of the attempt hy the men in the motor to run Eaton down. The iIndefiniteness of ler knowledge by whom or why the attack nad been made only made it seem more terrible to hei. Unquestionahiy he was in constant danger of its repe- tition, and especialy when—as to- day—he was outside her father's grounds. Instinctivelv she hurried her horse. She stopped at the clun- house only to make certain that Mr. avery and Lis guest were not there; -hien she drove on to the polo field. As she approached, she recogn'.:d ! avery's lithe, alert figure on one of the ponies; with .a deft, quick stuyg.e As She Approached She Recognized Avery's Lithe, Alert Figure on One of the Ponies. f he cleared the ball from before rhe feet of an opponent's pony, then he looked up and nodded to her. Harriet drove up and stopped beside the bar rier; people hailed her from all sines. and for a moment the practice wis stopped as the players trotted over to speak to her. Then play began again. and she had the opportunity to look : for Eaton. Her father, she knew, had instructed Avery that Eaton was to be introduced as his guest; but Avery evidently had either carried out these instructions in a purely mechanical manner or had not wished Eaton tc be with others unless he himself was by; for Harriet discovered Eaton standing off by himself. She waited till he looked toward her, then sig naled him to come over. She got down, and they stood together follow- ing the play. ! “You know polo?’ she questioned him, as she saw the expression of appreciation in his face as a player daringly “rode-off” an antagonist and saved a “cross.” She put the ques tion without thought before she rec ognized that she was obeying her fa ther’s instructions. “T understand the game somewhat,” Eaton replied. “Have you ever played?” “It seems to deserve its reputation as the summit of sport,” he replied. He answered so easily that she could not decide whether he was evad ing or not; and somehow, just then she found it impossible to pug the simple question direct again. “Good! Good, Don!” she cried en thusiastically and clapped her hands as Avery suddenly raced before them caught the ball with a swinging, back. handed stroke and drove it directly toward his opponent’s goal. Instantly whirling his mount, Avery raced away after the ball, and with another clean stroke scored a goal. Everyone about cried out in approbation. “He's very quick and clever, isn’t he?” Harriet said to Eaton. Eaton nodded. “Yes; he's by all odds the most skillful man on the field, I should say.” The generosity of the praise im- welled the girl, somehow, to qualify it, : reaiily have played much—that man and that.” “Yes, I picked them as the experi. enced ones,” Eaton said quietly. “The others—two of them, at least— are out for the first time, T think.” AslL kia Lav Olle ! not upon the ball or the play; in-: They watched the rapid course of the ball up and down the field, the scurry and scamper of the ponies after it, then the clash of a melee, Two ponies went down, and their riders were flung. When they arose, one of the least experienced boys limped apologetically from the field. Avery rode to the barrier. “I say, any of you fellows, don’t you want to try it? We're just getting warnied up.” Avery looked over to Eaton and gave the challenge direct, ~ “Care to take a chance?” Harriet Santoine watched her m- panion: a sudden flush had come to his face, which vanished, as she turned, and left him almost pale; hut his eyes glowed. Avery's manner in challenging him, as though he mus? refuse from fear of such a fall as he Just had witnessed, was not enough to explain Eaton's start. “How can I?” he returned. “If you want to play. You can.” Avery dared him. “Furden—rhat was the boy whe had just been hurt— “will lend you some things; his jus: about fit you; and you can have his mounts.” Harriet continued to watch Eaton: the challenge had been put so as to give him no groand for refusal timidity. hpi “You don’t care to?’ Avery taunte:! | him deftly, “Why. don’t’ vou try 1?” found herself saying to him, He hesitated. She reaiized it wav not timidity he was feeling; it was something deeper and stronzer than that. Tt was fear; but so plainly i was not fear of bodily hurt that she moved instinctively toward him in sympathy, He looked swiftly gt Avery, then at her. then away, He seemed to fear alike accepting or re- fusing to play: sudden: he made 3 decision. “I'I} play.” He started instanucly away to the Harvie dressing rooms: a few minutes later, when ne rode onto che aele. Harriet was conscious tbat. in some way, ki ton was playing a parr as he listened to Avery's directions, Avery appointed himself to oppose Eaton wherever possibie, besting nun in every contest for the bail; but she saw that Donald, though he took it upon himself to show alli the other players where they made their mis- takes, did not offer any instruction to Eaton. One of the players drove the ball close to the barrier directly be- fore Harriet; Eaton and Avery raced for it, neck by neck. Eaton by better riding gained a Mttle; as they came up, she saw Donald's attention was : stead, he was watching Eaton closely. And she realized suddenly that Don- ald had appreciated as fully as her- | pretense. self that Eaton's clumsiness was a It was no longer merely polo the two were playing; Donald. suspecting or perhaps even certain that Eaton knew the game, was try- ing to make him show it, and Eatdn was watchfully avoiding ¢,,s. Just in front of her, Donald, leaning forward, swept the ball fom in front of Ka- ton’s pony's feet. For 4 few moments the play was ali at the further edge of the field; then the ball crossed with a long curving shot and came hopping and rolling along the ground close to where she stood. Donald and Eaton raced for it. “Stedman!” Avery called to a team- mate to prepare to receive the ball after he had struck it; and he lifted his mallet to drive the ball away from in front of Eaton. But as Avery's club was coming down, Eaton, like a flash and apparently without lifting his mallet at all, caught the ball a sharp, smacking stroke, It leaped like a bullet, straight and true, toward the goal, and before Avery could turn, Eu- ton was after it and upon it, but he did not have to strike again; it bound- ed on and en between the goal-posts, while together with the applause for the stranger arose a laugh at the ex- pense of Avery. But as Donald halted before her, Harriet saw that he was not angry or discomfited, but was smiling triumphantly to himself; and as she called in praise to Eaton when he came close again, she discovered In him only dismay at what he had done. The practice ended, and the players rode away. She waited in the club- house till Avery and Eaton came up from the dressing rooms. Donald's triumphant satisfaction seemed to have increased; Eaton was silent and preoccupied. Avery, hailed by a group of men, started away; as he did S0, he saluted Eaton almost derisively. Eaton's return of the salute was open- ly hostile. She looked up at him keenly, trying unavailingly to deter- mine whether more had taken place between the two men than she herself had witnessed. “You had played polo before—and played it well,” she charged. “Why did you want to pretend you hadn't?” He made no reply. As she began to talk of other things, she discovered with surprise that his manner toward her had taken on even greater formal- ity and constraint than it had had since his talk with her father the day before, The afternoon was not warm enough to sit outside; in the club house were gathered groups of men and girls who had come in from the golf course or from watching the polo practice, | She found herself now facing one of these groups composed of some of her edn friends, who were taking tea and wafers in the recess before some win- dows. They motioned to her to Join them, and she could not well refuse, especially as this had been a part of her father’s instructions. The men rose, as she moved toward them, Ea- ton with her; she introduced Eaton; a chair was pushed forward for her, and two of the girls made a place for Eaton on the window seat between them, As they seated themselves and were | served, Katon’s participation in the polo practice was the subject of con- versation. general conversation which Eaton had Joined. had accepted him as one of their own sort to the point of jesting with him She found, as she tried to | talk with her nearer neighbors, that she was listening instead to this more | She saw that these people | about his “lucky” polo stroke for a | beginner; his manner toward them | was very different from what it bad | heen just now to herself; he seemad at ease and unembarrassed with them. One or two of the girls appeared to have been eager—even anxious—to meet him; and she found herself od Ny resenting the attitude of these girls. Her feeling was indefinite, vague: it | made her flush and. grow uncomfort- ; able; to recognize dimly that there | was in it some sense of a proprietor- ! ship of her own in him which took alarm at seeing other girls attracted] hy him: but underneath it was her un- easiness at his new manner to herself, which hurt because she could not GX- pinin it. As the party finished their tea, she looked across to him. “Are you ready to go, Mr. Bat:n®” she asked, “Whenever Mr. Avery is ready.” “You needn't wait for him upiess vou wish; I'tl drive you hack” she offered. “Of course I'd preter that, Miss Sap. roine.” They went out to her trap, feavino Donald te motor back alone. As soon she had driven out of the club grounds. she ot the horse take its own gait, and she turned and faecard him. “Will you tell me.” she demanded. “what have I done this afternoon to make vou class me among those wha oppose you?” “What huve you done? Miss Santoine.” as Nothwg, “But you are clagsing wae 0 now” “Oh, no.” he dexied so unconvine Ingly that she felt he was only put- fing her off, Harriet Santoinz knew that what had attracted her friends to Blatep SN = a Sg ee “Jou Needn’t Wait for Him Unless You Wish; I'll Drive You Back,” She Offered. was their recognition of his likeness to themselves; but what had im- vressed her in seeing him with them was his difference. Was it some mem- ery of his former life that seeing these people had recalled to him, which had affected his manner toward her? Again she looked at him. “Were you sorry to leave the club?’ she asked. “I was quite ready to leave,” he answered inattentively. “It must have been pleasant to you, | ' of the day. which had all but placed her hand on his. “Will you tell me something, Miss Santoine?” he asked suddenly, “What?” “I suppose, when I was with Mr, | Avery this afternoon, that if I had | attempted to escape, he and the chauf- feur would have combined to detain me. Dut on the way back here—aid you assume that when you took me in charge you had my parole not to | try to depart?” She was silent thoughtful. for a the possibilities of escape?” “It would be only natural tor me to do that would it not?’ he parried *No.”’ “Wny noc?” “T don’t mean that you unght not wy | to exceed the limits Father has set for you; you might try that, and of course you would be prevented. But you will not” (she hesitated, and when sha went on she was quoting her father) “—sacrifice your position here.” “Why not?” “Because you tried to gain it—op— it not exactly that, at least you ha some object in wanting to be Father which you have not yet gained.” She hesitated once more, not looking What it was that had hap. ! pened during the afternoon she conld | at him. not make out; instinctively, however, she felt that it had so altered Eaton's velations with them that now he might attempt to escape, They had reached the front of the house, and a groom sprang to take the horse. She let Eaton help her down: as they entered the house, Avery--- who had reached the house only a fou woments before them—was still ip the hall. And again she was startle n the meeting of the two men hy Avery's triumph and the swift flare of defiance op Eaton's face. She changed from uer afrernou. arass slowly. As she Aid so. she orought swiftly in review the events Chiefly it was to the polo practice and to Eaton's dismay sat + his one remarkable stroke that her mind went. Had Donald recognized in Eaton something more than merely a good player trying to pretend igno- rauce of the game? The thought sud- denly checked and startled her. For how many great polo players were : there in America? Were there a hun- dred? Fifty? Twenty-five? She did not know ; but she did know that there were so few of them that their names and many of the particulars of their | lives were known to every follower of the sport. She halted suddenly in her dressing, perplexed and troubled. Her father had sent Eaton to the country club with Avery; there Avery, plainly, had forced Eaton into the polo game. By ner father's instructions? Clearly , there seemed to have been purpose in ‘what had ben done, and purpose which had not been confided to her- self either by her father or Avery. For how could they have suspected Eaton would betray himself in the © game unless they had also suspected that he had played polo before? To suspect that, they must at least have some theory as to who Eaton was. But her father had no such theory; he had been expending unavailingly, so | far, every effort to ascertain Eaton's though, to—to be among the sort of people again that you—you used to know. Miss Furden”—she mentioned one of the girls who had seemed most Interested in him, the sister of the boy whose place he had taken in the polo practice—“is considered a very attractive person, Mr. Eaton. heard it said that a man—any man— not to be attracted by her must be forearmed against her by thought—or memory of some other woman whom he holds dear.” I have “I'm afraid I don’t quite under- stand.” The mechanicalness of his answer reassured her. “I mean, Mr. Eaton”— she forced her tone to be light—*“Miss Furden was not as attractive to you as she might have been, because there has been some other woman in your life—whose 'memory—or—or the ex- pectation of seeing whom again—pro- tected you.” “Has been? Oh, you mean before.” “Yes, of course,” she answered has- tily. : “No—none,” he replied simply, “It’s rather ungallant, Miss Santoine, but Im afraid I wasn't thinking much about Miss Furden.” She felt that his denial was the truth, for his words confirmed the im- pression she had had of him the night before. She drove on—or rather let the horse take them on—for a few moments during which neither spoke. They had come about a bend in the road, and the great house of her fa- ther loomed ahead. A motor whizzed past them, coming from behind. It was only Avery's car on the way home; but Harriet had jumped a little tn memory of the day before, and her companion’s head had turned quickly toward the car. She looked ap at him swiftly; his lips were set | and his eyes gazed steadily ahead after Avery, and he drew a little away from her. A catch in her breath— almost an audible gasp—surprised her, and she fought a warm impulse connections. So her thoughts led her only into deeper and greater perplex- ity, but with them came sudden—and unaccountable — resentment against Avery. At seven Harriet went in to dinner with her father. The blind man was alone; he had been awaiting her, and they were served at once. All through the dinner she was nervous and moody; for she knew she was going to do something she had never done before: she was going to conceal something from her father. She told of Eaton’s reception at the country club, and of his taking part in the polo practice and playing badly: but of her own impression that Eaton knew the game and her present con- viction that Donald Avery had seen even more than that, she said noth- | ing. She watched her father’s face, but she could see there no conscious- ness that she was omitting anything in her account. An hour later, when after reading aloud to him for a time, he dismissed her, she hesitated before going. “You've seen Donald?’ she asked. “Yes.” “What did he tell you?” “The same as you have told, though not quite so fully.” She was outside the door and in the hall before realization came to her that her father’s reply could mean only that Donald, like herself, had concealed his discovery of Eaton's ability to play polo. Why Donald had not told, she could not imagine; the only conclusion she could reach was that Donald's silence in some way menaced Eaton; for—suddenly now— it came to her what this must mean to Eaton. All that he had been so careful to hide regarding himself and his connections must be obtainable by Avery now, and Avery, for some purpose of his own, was withholding betrayal to make use of it as he might see fit. She moved once more to return to her father; again she stopped; then, swiftly, she turned and went down- stairs. She looked hurriedly about for Avery. She did not find him, nor at first did she find Eaton either. She discovered him presently in the music room with Blatchford. Blatchford at ~nce excused himself, tired evidently of his task of watching over Eaton. Harriet caught herself together and controlled herself to her usual man- ner. “What shall it be this evening, Mr. Katon?’ she asked. “Music, billiards?” “Billiards, if you like,” he respond- ed. moinent, | “Do you mean that you . have heen considering this afternoon ' near | They went up to the billiard room, . and for an hour played steadily; but , her mind was not upon the game—nor, : she saw, was his. Finally, as they ¢ ended a game, he put his cue back in the rack and faced her. “Miss Santoine,” he said, “I want to ask a favor® “What is jt?’ “I want to go out—unaccompanied.” “Why ?” “I wish to speak to a friend who . will be waiting for me.” “How do you know?” “He got word to me at the coun- try club today. Excuse me—I did not mean to inform on Mr. Avery; he was really most vigilant. I believe he only made one slip.” “He was not the only one observing | you.” | “I suppose not. In fac,, I was cer- | min of it. However, I received a mes- sage which was undoubtedly authen- tie and had not been overseen.” “But you were not able to make reply.” “I was able to receive all that was necessary.” She considered for a moment do you want me to do?” i “Either because of my presence or , because of what has happened—or perhaps normally—you have at least four men about the grounds. two of whom seem to be constantly on duty “What | to observe anyone who may approach. ! T wish you to order them to let mé | pass and go to a place perhaps ten rainutes’ walk from here. If you do so, T will return at the latest within ualf an hour” (he glanced at his waich) “—rto be definite, before a quar- ter of eleven.” “Why should { do this?” He came close to her and faced her. “what do you think of me now, Miss Bantoine¥” “Why—"" “You ure certain now, are you not, that T had nothing to do with the at- tack on your father—that is, in any other connection than that the attack might be meant for me. I denied yes- terday that the men in the automobile meant to run me dewn; you did not ac- cept that denial. I may as well admit to you that I know perfectly well they meant to kill me. They are likely to try again to kill me.” “We recognize that too,” she an- swered. “The men on watch about the house are warned to protect you as well as watch you.” “l appreciate that.” “But are they all you have to fear, Mr. Eaton?’ She was thinking of Donald Avery. He seemed to recognize what was in her mind; his eyes, as he gazed in- tently at her, clouded, then darkened still more with some succeeding thought. “No, not all.” “And it will aid you to—to protect yourself if you see your friend to- night?’ “Yes.” “But why should not one of Fa- ther’'s men be with you?” “Unless 1 were alone, would net appear.” “1 see.” He moved away from her, then came back; the importance to him of what he was asking was very plain to her—he was shaking nervously with it. “Miss Santolne,” he said intently, “you do not think badly of me now. 1} do not have to doubt that; I can see it; you have wanted me to see it. I ask you to trust me for a few minutes tonight. I cannot tell you whom I wish to see or why, except that the man (vmes to do me a service and to . endanger no one—except those trying to injure me.” She herself was trembling with her desire to help him, but recollection of her father held her back; then swiftly there came to her the thought of Ga- briel Warden; because Warden had tried to help him—in some way and for some reason which she did not know—Warden had been killed. And feeling that in helping him there might be danger to herself, she suddenly and eagerly welcomed that danger, and made her decision. “You'll promise, Mr. Eaton, not to try to—leave?” “yes.” “Let us go out,” she said. a (To be Continued.) mr ps m—— ff ———— Warm Your Blood. A poet has said “the owl for all his feathers was a-cold.” Some people for all their wraps are a-cold whenever they are out-of-doors even in normal winter weather. It is plair that they need the warmth there is in pure, rich, red blood, which reaches through artery and vein, from head to foot, all over thie body. They could be told by many people, from exper- ience, that to have this good blood they should take Hood's Sarsaparilla. This great medicine has really made it possible for many men and women, boys and girls, to enjoy cold weather and resist the at- tacks of disease. It gives the right kind . of warmth, stimulates and strengthens at the same time, and its benefits are as last- ing as those of any tonic possibly cain be, If there is biliousness or constip tien, which often oceurs as a result of the tor- pifying effect of cold, Hood's Pills ray be taken. They are perfectly compat¥,le with Hood's Sarsaparilla, and are gentle and thorough. 685-6 my friend What This Country Needs. What this country needs isn’t more liberty, but less people who take libex- ties with our liberty. What this country needs is not a job for every man, but a real man for every job. What this country needs isn’t more young men making speed, but more young men planting spuds. Waat this counliy nceds isn't a lower rate of interest on money, but a higher interest in work. What this country needs is to fol- low the footsteps of the fathers in- ; stead of the footsteps of the dancing master.—S. Paul Crescent.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers