BLIND
SYNOPSIS
CHAPTER I.—Gabriel Warden, Seattle
eapitalist, tells his butler he is expecting
§, Salen, to be admitted without question.
informs his wife of danger that
threatens him if he pursues a course he
oonsiders the only honorable one. War-
den leaves the house in his car and meets
man whom he takes into the machine.
Shen the car returns home, Warden fis
found dead, murdered, and alone. The
ealler, a young man, has been at War-
den’s house, but leaves unobserved
CHAPTER I1.—Bob Connery, conductor,
eives orders to hold train for a party.
e men and a girl board the train
e father of the girl, Mr. Dorne, is the
rson for whom the train was held
Wp 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
soquaintance. The train is stopped by
emowdrifts.,
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
Jv) crushed. He calls a surgeon, Dr.
clair, on the train.
CHAPTER VI.—Sinclair recognizes the
red man as Basil Santolne, who, al-
ough blind, is a peculiar power in the
cial world as adviser to “big inter:
” Hig 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
its he was the man who called on
aiden 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
ocent of the crime against her father.
feels the girl believes him,
CHAPTER X.—Santoine recovers suffi-
eélently to question Eaton, who refuses
to reveal his identity. The financier re-
Soires Eaton to accompany him to the
ntoine home, where he is in the posi-
tion of a semi-prisoner.
CHAPTER Xl1.—Eaton meets a resident
of the house, Wallace Blatchford, and a
young girl, Mildred Davis, with whom
apparently he is acquainted, though they
oonceal the fact. KEaton’s mission is to
@ecure certain documents which are vital
w his interests, and his being admitted
the house is a remarkable stroke of
The girl agrees to aid him. He
Jocoines deeply interested in Harriet San-
ine, and she in him.
CHAPTER XII1.—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.
CHAPTER XV.—At the country club
Eaton reveals a remarkable proficiency
at polo, seemingly to Avery's tifica-
tion. Eaton induces Harriet to allow him
to leave the grounds for a few minutes
that night r
CHAPTER XVI.—That night Eaton in-
vadeg Santoine’s library, seeking the pa-
Jers he is determined to possess. There
e finds two men, one of whom he recog-
nizes with bewildered surprise, on the
same errand. The three men engage in
a pistol duel.
CHAPTER XVII.—Aroused by the shoot-
ing, Santoine descends to the library. The
combatants are there, but silent. Wallace
Blatchford arrives and is on the point of
informing Santoine of the identity of one
of the intruders when he is shot and
instantly killed. The fighters escape. The
sate has been rifled and important papers
en,
(Continued from last week).
“He is dead,” Santoine said. “They
shot him! They were three, at least.
One was not with the others. They
fired at each other, I believe, after
one shot him.” Santoine’s hand was
still in Blatchford’s. “I heard them
below.” He told shortly how he had
gone down, how Blatchford had en-
tered and been shot.
The blind man, still kneeling, heard
the ordering and organizing of others
for the pursuit; now women servarts
from the other part of ‘the house
were taking charge of affairs in the
room. There had been no signal
heard, Santoine was told, upon any
of the bells which he had tried to ring
from his room. ILaton was the only
person from the house who was miss-
ing.
“They came, at least some of them
came”—Santoine had risen, fighting
down his grief over his cousin’s death
—*for what was in your safe, Har-
riet.”
“I know; I saw it open.”
“What is gone?” Santoine
manded.
He heard her picking up the con-
tents of the safe from the floor and
carrying them to the table and ex-
amining them,
“Why-—nearly all the formal papers
seem to be gone; lists and agreements
relating to a dozen different things.”
“None of the correspondence?’
“No; that all seems to be here.”
Santoine was breathing quickly; the
trust for which he had been ready to
die—for which Blatchford had died—:
seemed safe.
“We don't know whether he got it,
then, or not!” It was Avery's volce
de-
EYES
BY
WILLIAM MACHARGEDWIN BALMER.
Mustrations by R.H.Livingstone
COPYRIGHT BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
which broke in upon him; Santoine
merely listened.
“He? Who?”
ter’s challenge. 3
“Why, Eaton. It is plain enough
what happened here, isn’t it?” Avery
answered. “He came here to this
room for what he was after—for what
he has been after from the first—
whatever that may have been! He
came prepared to force the safe and
vet it! But he was surprised—"
“By whom?’ the blind man asked.
“By whoever it is that has been fol-
lowing him. I don’t attempt to ex-
plain who they were, Mr. Santoine:
for I don’t know. But—whoever they
were—in doing this, he laid himself
open to attack by them. They were
watching—saw him enter here. They
attacked him here. Wallace switched
on the !ight and recognized him: so
ne shot Wallace and ran with what
ever he could grab up of the contenrs
of the safe, hoping that by luck he'd
get what he was after.”
“It isn’t so—it isn't so!” Harriet de
nied. 3 -
Her father checked her; he stood
an instant thoughtful. “Who is di-
recting the pursuit, Donald?” he
asked. :
Avery went out at once. The blind
man turned to his daughter.
“Now, Harriet,” he ' commanded.
She understood that her father would
not move till she had seen the room
for him.
“There was some sort of a struggle
near my safe,” she said. “Chairs—
everything there is knocked about.”
“Yes.” y
“There is also blood there—a big
spot of it on the floor.” :
“I found that,” said Santoine.
“There are bullet marks every-
where—above ‘the mantel. all about.”
“How was the safe opened?” ]
“The combination has been cut c¢om-
pletely away; there is an—an instru-
ment connected with = the electric-
iight fixture which seems to have done
the cutting. There is a hand-drill,
too—I think it is a hand-drill. The
inner, door has been drilled through.
and the catches drawn back.”
“Who is this?”
The valet, who had been sent to Ea-
ton’s room, had returned with his re-
port. “Mr. Eaton went from his room
fully dressed, sir,” he said to San-
toine, “except for his shoes. I found
all his shoes in his room.”
During the report the blind man felt
his daughter's grasp on his arm be-
come tense and relax and tighten
again. Then, as though she realized
she was adding to his comprehension
of what she had already betrayed, she
suddenly took her hand from her fa-
ther’s arm. Santoine let the servants,
at his daughter's direction, help him
to his room. His daughter stood bhe-
side him while the nurse washed the
blood-splotches from his hands and
feet. When the nurse had finished
he still felt his daughter’s presence;
she drew nearer to him.
“Father?” she questioned.
“Yes.” 3
“You don't agree with Donald, do
You?—that Mr. Eaton went to the
study to—to get something, and that
whoever has been following him found
him there and—and interrupted him
and he killed Cousin Wallace?”
Santoine was silent an instant.
“That seems the correct explanation,
Harriet,” he evaded. “It does not
fully explain; but it seems correct as
far as it goes. If Donald asks you
what my opinion is, tell him it is
that.” :
He felt his daughter shrink away
from: him,
The blind man made no move to
draw her back to him; he lay perfectly
still ; kis head rested flat upon the pil-
lows; his hands were clasped tightly
together above the coverlet. He had
accused himself, in the room below,
because, by the manner he had chosen
to treat Eaton, he had slain the man
he loved best and had forced a friend-
ship with Eaton on his daughter
which, he saw, had gone further than
mere friendship; it had gone, he knew
now, even to the irretrievable between
man and woman—had brought her.
that is, to the state where, no matter
what Eaton was or did, she must suf-
fer with him! But Santoine was not
accusing himself now; he was feeling
only the fulfillment of that threat
against those who had trusted him
with their secrets, which he had felt
vaguely after the murder of Gabriel
Warden and, more plainly with the
events of each succeeding day, ever
since, For that threat, just now, had
culminated in his presence in pur
poseful, violent action; but Santoine
in his blindness had been unable—and
was still unable—to tell what that
action meant.
CHAPTER XVII
Pursuit, .
| Harriet. Santolne, clad only in a
heavy robe over ‘her .nightdress and
In slippers, wenf from her father's
bedroom swiftly down into the study
He heard his daugh-
‘against her breast; she stood strain-
again; what she was going to do there
she did not definitely know. She
heard, as she descended the stairs, the
steward in the hall outside the study
calling up the police stations of the
neighboring villages and giving news
of what had happened and instruc-
tions to watch the roads; but as she
reached the foot of the stairs, a serv-
ant closed the study doors. The great,
curtained room In its terrifying dis-
order was brightly lighted, empty, ab-
solutely still. She had given direc-
tions that, except for the removal of
Blatchford’s body, all must be left as
it was in the room till the arrival of
the police. She stood an instant with
hands pressed against her breast, star-
ing down at the spots upon the floor,
Was one of them Eaton's?
Something within her told her that
it was, and the fierce desire to go to
him, to help him, was all she felt just
now. It was Ponald Avery's and her
father’s accusation of Eaton that haq
made her feel like this. She had been
feeling, the moment before Donald
had spoken, that Philip Eaton had
played upon her that evening in mak-
ing her take him to his confederate
in the ravine in order to plan and con-
summate something here. Above her
grief and horror at the killing of her:
cousin and the danger to her father
had risen the an-uish of her guilt
with Eaton, the ag ny of her betraval.
But their accusation that Eaton had
killed Wallace Blatchford, seeing him
knowing him—in the light—had swept
ali that away; all there was of her
seemed to have risen in denial of that.
Before her eyes, half shut, she saw
again the body of her cousin Wallace
lying in its blood on the floor. with her
father kneeling heside it, his tlind
eyes raised in helplessness to the
light ; but she saw now another body
too—Eaton’s—not here-—lying some:
where in the bure, wind-swept woods,
shot down by those pursuing him.
She looked at tne face of the clock
and then down to the pendulum to see
whether it had stopped; but the pen-
dulum was swinging. The hands stood
at half past one o'clock; now she re-
called that, in her first wild gaze about
the room when she rushed in with
the others, she had seen the hands
showing a minute or so short of
twenty minutes past one. Not quite
a quarter of an hour had passed since
the alarm! The pursuit could not
have moved far away. She reopened
the window through which the pur-
suers had passed and stepped out onto
the dark lawn. A half mile down the
beach she heard shouts and a shot;
she saw dimly through the night in
that direction a boat without lights
moving swiftly out upon the lake,
Her hands clenched and. pressed
ing at the sounds of the man-hunt. Tt
had turned west, it seemed; it wus
coming back her way, but to the west
of the house. She crossed the lawn
toward the garage. A light suddenly
shone out there, and she went on. .
The wide door at the car arivens
was pushed open, and someone was
within working over a car. His back
was toward her, and he was bent over
the engine, but, at the glance, she
knew him and recoiled, gasping. It
was Eaton. He turned at the same
instant and saw her. :
“Oh; it’s you!” he cried to her.
Her heart, which almost had ceased
to beat, raced her pulses again. At
the sound she had made on the drive-
way, he had turned to her as a hunted
thing, cornered, desperate, certain that
whoever came must be against him.
His ery to her had recognized her as
the only one who could come and not
he against him; it had hailed her with
relief as bringing him help. He could
not have cried out so at that instant
at sight of her if he had been guilty
of what they had accused. Now she
saw too, as he faced her, blood flow-
ing over his face; blood soaked a
shoulder of his coat, and his left arm
dangling at his side; but now, as he
threw back his head and straightened
in his relief at finding it was she who
had surprised him, she saw in him
an exultation and cxcitement she had
never seen before—something which
her presence alone could not have
caused. Toright, she sensed vaguely,
something had happened to him which
had changed his attitude toward her
and everything else.
“Yes; it's I!” she cried quickly and
rushed to him. “It’s I! It’s I,” wildly
“You're Hurt!” Touched His
She
Shoulder.
“You're hurt!”
she reassured him.
She touched his shoulder.
hurt! I knew you were!” hi
He pushed her back with his right
hand and held her away from him,
“Did they hurt your father?”
“Hurt Father? No.”
“But Mr. Blatchford—"
“Dead,” she answered dully.
“You're
glare i
yards ahead to the gates. Beyond the
“They killed him, then!” !
“Yes; they—" She iterated. He |
was telling her now—unnecessarily—
that he had had nothing to do with it;
it was the others who had done that.
He released her and wiped the blood
from his eyes with the heel of his
hand. “The poor old man,” he said, |
“—the poor old man!”
She drew toward him in the realiza-
tion that he could find sympathy for |
others even in such a time as this.
“Where's the key for the battery
and magneto—the key you start the
car with?”
She ran to a shelf and brought it
to him; he used it and pressed the
starting lever. The engine started
and he sprang to the seat. His left
arm still hanging useless at his side,
he tried to throw in the gears with
his right hand; but the mechanism of
the car was strange to him. She
leaped up beside him.
“Move over!” she commanded. *It's
this way!”
He slipped to the side and she rook
the driving seat, threw in the gears
expertly, and the car shot from the
garage. She switched on the electric
headlights as they dashed down the
driveway and threw a bright white
upon the roadway a hundred
gates ‘the publie pike ran north and
south.
“Which way?” she demanded of kim,
slowing the car.
“Stop!” he cried to her. “Stop and
get out! You mustn't do this!”
“You could not pass alone,” she
sald. *“IFather’s men would close the
gates upon vou.”
“The men? There are no men
there now—they went to the beach—
hefore! They must have heard some-
thing there! 1t was their being there
that turned bhim—the others back.
They tried for the lake and were
turned back and got away in a ma- |
chine; 1 followed—back up here!” !
Harriet Santoine glanced at the face
of the man beside her. She could see
his features only vaguely; she could
see no expression; only the position
of his head. But now she knew that
she wa'. not help'ng him to run away;
he was no longer hunted—at least he
was not only hunted; he was hunting
others too. As the car rolled down
upon the open gates and he strained
forward in the seat beside her, she;
knew that what he was feeling was
a wild eagerness in this pursuit.
“Right or left—quick!” she de-
manded of him. “I'll take one or the
other.”
“Right,” he shot out. “There are
their tracks!” He pointed for her.
“How do you know those are their
tracks?” she asked him.
“I told you, I followed them to
where they got their machine.”
“Who are they?”
“The men who shot Mr. Blatchford.”
“Who are they?” she put to him
directly again.
~ He waited, and she knew ‘that. he
was not going to answer her directly.
Suddenly he caught her arm. The
road had forked, and he pointed to
the left; she swung the car that way
again seeing as they made the turn.
the tire-tracks they were following.
The car raced up a little hill and
now again was descending; the head-
lights showed a bridge over a ravine.
* “Slow! Stop!” her companion com-
manded.
She raced the car on; he put his
hand on the wheel and with his foot
tried to push hers from the accelera- |
tor; but she fought him; the car!
swayed and all but ran away as they
approached the bridge. “Give it to:
me!” she screamed to him and
wrenched the car about. It was upon,
the bridge and across it; they they
skidded upon the mud of the road
again, they could hear the bridge
cracking behind.
“Harriet !” he pleaded with her.
She steered the car on, recklessly, |
her heart thumping with more than |
the thrill of the chase. “They're the |
men who tried to kill you, aren't
they?” she rejoined. The speed at!
which they were going did not permit
her to look about; she had to keep .
her eyes on the road at that moment
when she knew within herself and
was telling the man beside her that |
she from that moment must be at one |
with him. For already she had said
it; as she risked herself in the pur-,
suit, she thought of the men they were |
after not chiefly as those who had!
killed her cousin but as those who had |
threatened Eaton. |
“What do 1 care what happens to!
me, if we catch them?” she cried i
“Harriet!” he repeated her name
again.
“Philip I”
She felt him shrink and change as
she called the name. It had been clear
to her, of course, that, since she had
known him, the name he had been
using was not his own. Often she had
wondered what his name was; now
she had to know, “What should I call
you?’ she demanded of him. i
“My name,” he said, “is Hugh.” |
“Hugh!” she called it.
“Yes.” ¥ !
“Hugh—" She waited for the rest;
but he told no more. “Hugh!” she
whispered to herself again his name
now. “Hugh!”
Her eyes, which had watched the
road for the guiding of the car, had
followed his gesture from time to time
pointing out the tracks made by the
machine they were pursuing. These
tracks still ran on ahead; as she
gazed down the road, a red glow be-
yond the bare trees was lighting the
sky. A glance at Hugh told that he
also had seen it,
“A fire?" she referred to him.
“Looks like it."
They said no more as they rushed
on; but the red glow was spreading,
and. yellow. flames soon were in sight
shooting higher and higher; these
were clouded off for an instant culy
to appear flaring higher again, and
the breeze brought the smell of sea-
soned wood burning. :
“It’s right across the road!” Hugh
announced as they neared it.
“It's the bridge over the next ra-
vine,” Harriet said. Her foot already
was bearing upon tke brake, and the
power was shut off; the car coasted
on slowly. ¥or both could see now
that the wooden span was blazing
from end to end; it was old wood,
swift to burn and going like tinder.
There was no possible chance for the
ear to cross it. The girl brought the
machine to a stop fifty feet from the
edge of the ravine; the fire was so
hot that the gasoline tank would not
he safe nearer. She gazed down at
the tire-marks on the road.
“They crossed with their machine.”
she said to Hugh.
“And fired the bridge behind. The;
must have poured gasoline over it
and lighted it at botly ends.”
She sat with one hand still strain
Ing at the driving wheel, the othe:
playing with the gear lever.
“There's no other way across that
ravine, 1 suppose.” Hugh questioned
her.
“The other road’s back more than
a mile, and two miles about.” She
threw in the reverse and started to
tur, Hugh shook his bead. “That's
no use.”
“No.” she agreec. and stopped the
car again. Hugh stepped down oc
the ground.
Tne double giare from tne head
lights of a motor snone through the
trec-frunks as tie cur topped and
cane swiftly down a rise three guar
‘ters of a mile away and around the
ast turn back on the road; another
pair of blinding lights followed. There
was no doubt that this must he the
pursuit from Santoine’s hbuse. Eaton
stood beside Harriet. who had stayed
in the driviug-seat of the car.
“I'm going just beside the read
here,” he said te her. quietly. “I'm
armed, of course. If these are your
people, you'd better go back with
them. I'm sure they are; but I'll wait
and see.”
She caught his hand. “No; no!” she
cried. “You must get as far away
as you cen before they come! I'm
going back to meet and hold them.”
She threw the car into. the reverse.
backed and turned it and brought it
again. onto the road. He came beside
her again, putting out his hand; she
seized it. Her hands for an instant
clung to it, his to hers.:
“You must go—quick!” she urged;
“but how am I to know what becomes
of you—where you are? Shall I hear
from, you—shall I ever see you?”
“No news will be good news,” he
said. *“‘until—"
“Until what?”
*“Until—" And again that unknown
something which a thousand times—
it seemed to her—had checked his
word and action toward her made him
RST
wn In 41 “z
Ai
my _
= =
Re
—
“Until | Come to You As—As You
Have Never Known Me Yet!”
pause; but nothing could completely
bar them from one another now. “Un-
til they catch and destroy me, or—
until I come to you as—as you have
never known me yet!”
An instant more she clung to him.
The double headlights flared into
sight again upon the road, much
nearer now and coming fast. She re-
leased him; he plunged into the
i bushes beside the road, and the damp,
bare twigs lashed against one another
at his passage; then she shot her car
forward. But she had made only a
few hundred yards when the first of
the two cars met her. It turned to
its right to pass, she turned the same
way; the approaching car twisted to
the left, she swung hers to oppose it.
The two cars did not strike; they
stopped, radiator to radiator, with
rear wheel locked. The second car
drew up behind the first. The glare
i of her headlights showed her both
were full of armed men. Their head:
lights, revealing Ler to them, hushed
suddenly their angry ejaculations.
She recognized Avery in the first car;
he leaped out and ran up to her.
“Harriet! In God's name, what are
you doing here?’
She sat unmoved in her seat, gazing
at him. Men leaping .from the cars
ran past her down the road toward
the ravine and the burning bridge.
Avery, galning no satisfaction from
her, let go her arm; his hand dropped
to the back of the seat and he drew it
up quickly.
“Harriet, there's blood here!”
She did not reply. He stared at her
and seemed to comprehend. or
He jumped from the car and ran to
the assembled men. They called
in ansver to his shout, and she could
see 8 man pointing out to them the
way; Eaton had gone. The men, scat-
tering themselves at intervals along
the edge of the wood and, under
Avery's direction, posting others in
each direction to watch the road, be-
gan to beat through the bushes after
Eaton. She sat watching; she put her
cold hands to her face; then, recalling
how just now Eaton’s hand had clung
to hers, she pressed them to her lips.
Avery came running back to her.
“You drove him out here, Harriet!”
he charged.
“Him? Who?) she asked coolly.
“Eaton. He was hurt!” The tri-
umph in the ejaculation made her re-
coil. “He was hurt and could not
drive, and you drove him out.”
He left her, running after the men
into the woods. She sat in the car,
listening to the sounds of the hunt.
She had no immediate fear that they
would find Eaton; her present anxiety
was over his condition from his hurts
and what might happen if he encoun-
tered those he had been pursuing. In
that neighborhood, with its woods and
bushes and ravines to furnish cover,
the darkness made discovery of him
hy Avery and his men impossible if
Eaton wished to hide himself. Avery
appeared to have realized this; for
now the voices in the woods ceased
and the men began to struggle back
roward the cars. A party was sent on
foot across the ravine, evidently to
guard the road beyond. The rest be-
gan to clamber into the cars. She
nacked her car away from the one in
front of it and started home,
She had gone only a short distance
when the cars again passed her, trav-
etinz at a high speed. She began then
to pass individual men left by those
in tke cars to watch the road. At the
first large house she saw one of the
cars again, standing empty. She
passed it without stopping. A mile
further, a little group of men carry-
ing guns stopped her, recognized her
and let her pass. They had been
called out, they told her, by Mr. Avery
over the telephone to watch the
roads for Eaton; they had Eaton’s de-
scription ; members of the local police
were to take charge of them and di-
rect them. She comprehended that
Avery was surrounding the vacant
acreage where Eaton had taken refuge
to be certain that Eaton did not get
away until.daylight came and a search
for him was possible.
Lights gleamed. at her across the
broad lawns of the houses.near her
father’s great house as she approached
it; at the sound of her car, people
came running to the windows and
looked out. She understood that news
of the murder at Basil Santoine’s had
aroused the neighbors and brought
them from their beds.
As she left her motor on the drive
beside ‘the house—for tonight no one
came from the garages to take it—
the little clock upon its dash marked
half past two.
stan
ma i,
CHAPTER XIX
Waiting.
Harriet went into the. house and
toward her own rooms; a maid met
and stopped her on the stairs.
“Mr. Santoine sent word that he
wishes to see you as soon as you came
in, Miss Santoine.”
Harriet went on toward her father’s
room, without stopping at her own—
wet with the drive through the damp
night and shivering now with its chill.
Her father’s voice answered her knock
with a summons to come in. :
“Where have you been, Daughter?”
he asked.
“I have been driving with Mr, Ea-
ton in a motor,” she said.
“Helping him to escape?’ A spasm
crossed the blind man’s face. :
“He said not; he—he was following
the men who shot Cousin Wallace.”
The blind man lay for an instant
still. “Tell me,” he commanded finally.
She told him, beginning with her dis-
covery of Eaton in the garage and
ending with his leaving her and with
Donald Avery’s finding her in the mo-
tor; and now she held back one word
only—his name which he had told her,
Hugh. Her father listened intently.
“You and Mr. Eaton appear to have
become rather well acquainted, Har-
riet,” he said. “Has he told you noth-
ing about himself which you have not
told me? You have seen nothing con-
cerning him, which you have not
told?”
Her mind went quickly back to the
polo game; she felt a flush, which his
blind eyes could not see, dyeing her
cheeks and forehead.
The blind man waited for a mo-
ment ; he put out his hand and pressed
the bell which called the steward.
Neither spoke until the steward came.
“Fairley,” Santoine said then, qui-
etly, “Miss Santoine and I have just
agreed that for the present all reports
regarding the pursuit of the men who
entered the study last night are to
be made direct to me, not through
Miss Santoine or Mr, Avery.”
“Very well, sir.”
She still sat silent after the steward
had gone; she thought for an instant
“her father had forgotten her presence;
then he moved slightly.
“That is all, dear,” he sald quietly.
(To be Continued.)
Natural Inquiry.
Miss Yvonne, a clever English ac-
tress, tells a story of an actress friend
of hers whose little four year old
daughter one day inquired of her:
“Why do you go to the theatre,
mummy?”
“Oh; to get bread and butter,” she
was told.
Next day the child had .tea with the
landlady.
“So you’ve been to the theatre, have
you?” she inquired in her knowing
| little way.
“No. Why?” asked the woman.
“Then how did you get this bread
and butter?”
For Sale.—A three piece bed-room
suite of bird’s eye maple; in very good
condition. Inquire at this office.