The BLIN MAN'S EYES By Willem MacHarg Edwin Balmer £ ILLUSTRATIONS BY SYNOPSIS CHAPTER 1.—Gabriel Warden, Seattle capitalist, tells his butler he is expecting § calle}, to be admitted without question. « informs his wife of danger that threatens him if he pursues a course he gonsiders the only honorable one. War- den leaves the house in his car and meets man whom he takes into the machine. Yrhen the car returns home, Warden is ound 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 hip 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 II1.—The two make Eaton’s aoquaintance. The train is stopped by snowdrifts. CHAPTER IV.—Eaton receives a tele- gram addressed to Lawrence Hillwara, which he claims. being followed. CHAPTER V.—Passing through the car, Connery notices Dorne’'s hand hanging outside the berth. He ascertains Dorne'’s Pell has recently rung. Perturbed, he investigates and finds Dorne with his 11 crushed. He calls a surgeon, Dr. clair, on the train. CHAPTER VI.—Sinclair recognizes the tnjured man as Basil Santolne, who, al- Fouzh blind, is a peculiar power in the cial 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 its he was the man who called on arden the night the financier was mur- It warns him he is CHAPTER IX.—Eaton pleads with Har- t Santoine to withhold judgment, tell- g her he is in serious danger, though nocent of the crime against her father. feels the girl believes him, CHAPTER X.—Santoine recovers suffi- efently to question Eaton, who refuses. to reveal his identity. The financier re- Lives Eaton to accompany him to the toine home, where he is in the posi- tion of a semi-prisoner. CHAPTER XIl1.—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. Eaton's mission is to @ecure certain documents which are vital w his interests, and his being admitted the house is a remarkable stroke of ck. The girl agrees to aid him. He omes deeply interested in Harriet San- ine, 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 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 XIII.—Santoine questions Baton 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 arriet 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 n. CHAPTER XV.—At the country club Faton reveals a remarkable proficiency at polo, seemingly to Avery's gratifica- tion. Eaton induces Harriet to allow him to leave the grounds for a few minutes that night CHAPTER XVI—That night Eaton in- vadeg Santoine’s library, seeking the pa- rs 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 XVIIL.—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 en, CHAPTER XVIIl.—Harriet finds Eaton, badly wounded. She helps him and ac- companies him in an auto in pursuit of the invaders of the house. He satisfies her of his innocence, which she has never doubted. Avery and a hastily summoned posse pursue Eaton Satisfied he has wounded the man he recognized in San- toine’s study, Eaton leaves Harriet and takes up the trail through the woods. CHAPTER XIX.—Harriet reveals her , actions to her father. She is confident he has a clue to the mystery. (Continued from last week). She got up and left him, and went to her own rooms; she did not pretend to herself that she could rest. She bathed and dressed and went down- stairs. The library had windows fac- ing to the west; she went in there and stood looking out. Her mind was upon only one thing— even of that she could not think con- nectedly. Some years ago, something —she did not know what—had hap- pened to Hugh; tonight, in some strange way unknown to her, it had culminated in her father’s study. He had fought someone; he had rushed away to follow someone. Whom? Had he heard that someone in the study and gone down? Had he been fighting their battle—her father's and hers? She knew that was not so, Hugh had been fully dressed. What did i mean that he had said to her that these events would either .de- stroy him or would send him back to her as—as something different? Her thought supplied no answer. But whatever he had done, whatever he might be, she knew his fate was hers now; for she had given herself to him utterly. She had told that to herself as she fled and pursyed with him that night; she had told it to him; she later had told it—though she had i an 0 ‘the st Eato I i at ree Der | and no further attempt against Eaton not meant to yet—to her father. She could only pray now that out of the events of this night might not come | a grief to her too great for her to bear. She went to the rooms that had been Eaton’s. The police, in stripping them of his possessions, had over- looked his cap; she found the bit of gray cloth and hugged it to her. She whispered his name to herself— Hugh—that secret of his name which she had kept; she gloried that she had that secret with him which she could keep from them all. What wouldn't they give just to share that with her— his name, Hugh! She started suddenly, looking through the window. The east, above the lake, was beginning to grow gray. The dawn was coming! It was be- ginning to be day! She hurried to the other side of the house, looking toward the west. How could she have left him, hurt and bleeding and alone in the night! She could not have done that but that his asking her to go had told that it was for his safety as well as hers; she could not help him any more then: she would only have been In the way. But now—she started to rush out, but controlled herself; she had to stay fn the house; that was where the first word would come if they caught him: and then he would need her, how much more! The reporters on the lawn below her, seeing her at the win- dow, called up to her to know fur- ther particulars of what had hap- pened and what the murder meant; she could see them plainly in the in- creasing light. She could see the lawn and the road before the house. Day had come. And with the coming of day, the un- certainty and disorder within and about the house seemed. to increase. ’ . But in the south wing, with its sound-proof doors and its windows closed against the noises from the lawn, there was silence; and in this silence, an exact, compelling, methodic machine was working; the mind of Basil Santoine was striving, vainly as yet, but with growing chances of suc- cess, to fit together into the order in which they belonged and make clear the events of the night and all that had gone before—arranging, ordering, testing, discarding, picking up again and reordering all that had happened since that other murder, of Gabriel Warden. CHAPTER XX What One Can Do Without Eyes. Three men—at least three men— had fought in the study in Santoine’s presence. Eaton, it was certain, had been the only one from the house pres- ent when the first shots were fired. Had Eaton heen alone against the other two?. Had Eaton heen with one of the other two against the third? It appeared probable to Santoine that | Eaton had been alone, or had come alone, to=the study and had met his enemied there.” = : j Santoine felt that the probabilities were that Eaton's enemies had opened the safe and had been surprised by Eaton. But if they had opened the safe, they were not only Eaton's ene- mies; they were also Santoine's; they were the men who threatened San- toine’s trust. Those whom Eaton had fought in the room had had perfect opportunity for killing Santoine, if they wished. But Santoine felt certain no one had made any attack upon him at any moment in the room; he had had no feeling, at any instant, that any of the shots fired had been directed at him. Blatchford, too. had been unat- tacked until he had made it plain that he had recognized one of the intru- ders: then, before Blatchford could call the name, he had heen shot down. It was clear, then, that what had protected Santoine was his blindness; he had no doubt that, if he had been able to se¢ and recognize the men in the room after the lights were turned on, he would have been shot down also. But Santoine recognized that this did not fully account for his im- munity. Two weeks before, an at- tack which had been meant for Eaton had struck down Santoine instead; had been made until it had become publicly known that Santoine was not going to die. If Santoine’s death would have served for Eaton's death two weeks before, why was Santoine immune now? Did possession of the contents of Santoine’s safe accomplish the same: thing as Santoine's death? Or more than his death for these men? For what men? Ie It ‘was not, Santoine was certain, Eaton’s presence in the study which had so astounded Blatchford, Wallace and Eaton had passed days together, and Blatchferd was accustomed to Ea- ton’s presence ‘in the house. Someone whom Blatchford knew and whose name Santoine alsp would know and whose presence in the room was so strange and astonishing that Blatch- ford had tried to prepare Santoine for the announcement, had been there. The man whose name was on Blatch- ford’s tongue, or the companion of that man, had shot Blatchford rather than let Santoine hear the name. He was beginning to find events fit themselves together; but they. fitted imperfectly as yet. Santoine knew that he lacked the key. Many men -could profit by pos- sessing the contents of Santoine's safe and might have shot Blatchford rather than let Santoine know thelr presence there; it was impossible for Santoine to tell which. among -these many the man’ who had been in the study might be. Who Eaton's enemies were was equally unknown to. Santoine. But there could be but one man-or at most one small group of men—who could be at the same time Eaton's enemy and Santoine’s. - To have known who. EatofA was would have pointed this man to Santoine, ~ Gabriel Warden had had an ap- pointment with a young man who had come from Asia and who—Warden had told his wife—he had discovered lately had been greatly wronged. Baton, under Conductor Connery’s questioning, had admitted himself to be that young man; Santoine had veri- fied this and had learned that Eaton was, at least, the young man who had gone to Warden's house that night, But Gabriel Warden had not been gl- lowed to help Eaton; so far from that, he had not even been allowed to meet and talk with Eaton; he had been called out, plainly, to prevent lis meeting Eaton, and killed. Eaton disappeared and concealed himself at once after Warden's mur- der, apperently fearing that he would also be attacked. But Eaton was not a man whom this personal fear wouid have restrained from coming forward later to tell why Warden had been killed. He had been urged to come forward and promised "that others would give him help in Warden's place: still, he had concealed himself. This must mean that others than War den could not help Eaton; Eaton evi- dently did not knvw, or else could not hope to prove, what Warden had dis- covered. : Santoine held. this thought in abey- ance; he would see later how fit checked with the facts. Eaton had remained in Seattle—or near Seattle—eleven days; apparently he had been able to conceal himself and to escape attack during that time. He had been obliged, however, to re- veal himself when he took the train; and as soon as possible a desperate attempt had been made against him, which, through mistake, had struck down Santoine instead of Eaton. Eaton had taken the train at Se- attle because Santoine was on it; he had done this at great risk to him- self. The possibilities were that Ea- ton had taken the train to inform San- toine of something or to learn Some- thing from him. But Eaton had had ample opportunity since to inform Santoine of anything he wished; and he had not only not informed him of anything, but had refused consistently and determinedly to answer any of Santoine’s questions. It was to learn something from Santoine, then, that Eaton had taken the train. The blind man turned upon his bed; he was finding that events fitted to- gether perfectly. He felt certain now that Eaton had gone to Gabriel War- den expecting to get from Warden : some information that he needed, and that to prevent Warden's giving him this, Warden had been killed. Then Warden's death had caused Santoine to go to Seattle and take charge of many of Warden's affairs; Eaton had thought that the information which had been in Warden's possession might now be in Santoine’'s; Eaton, therefore, had followed Santoine onto the train. The inference was plain that some- thing which’ would have given San- toine the information Warden had had and which Eaton now required had been brought into Santoine’s house and put in Santoine’s safe. It was to get possession of this “something” before it had reached Santoine that the safe had been forced. Santoine put out his pressed a bell. the door. “Will you find Miss Santoine,” the blind man directed, “and ask her to come here?” The servant withdrew. Santoine waited. Presently the door again opened, and he heard his daugh- ter’'s step. “Have you listed what was taken from" the safe, Harriet?” Santoine asked, erro 4 “Not yet, Father.” The blind man thought an instant. “Harriet, something has been brought into the house—or the manner of hand and A servant came to “Have You Listed What Was Taken From the Safe, Harriet?” Santoine Asked. keeping something in the house has been changed—within a very few days —since the time, I think, when the attempt to run Eaton down with the motor car was made. What was that ‘something’? i His daughter reflected. “The draft of the new agreement about the La- tron properties and the lists of stock- holders in the properties which came through Mr. Warden's office,” she re plied. “Those were in the safe?” “Yes; you had not given me any in- structions about them, so ‘I had put them In the other safe; but when I went to get the correspondence I saw them there and put them with the correspondence in my own safe.” Santoine lay still, “Who besides Donald knew that you did that, Daughter?" he asked. ~ “No one.” “Thank you.” Harriet recognized this as dismissal and went out. The blind man felt the blood beating fiercely in his temples and at his finger-tips. It amazed, as- tounded him to realize that Warden's murder and all that had followed it had sprung from the Latron case. He recollected that he had been vaguely conscious ever since Latron’s murder of something strained, something not wholly open, in his relations with tihiose men whose interests had been most closely allied with Latron’s. It had been nothing open, nothing pal- pable; it was only that he had felt at times in them a knowledge of some general condition governing them which was rot wholly known to himself. Whoever Blatchford had seen was someone well known to him, whose presence had been so amazing that speech had faiied Blatchford foe the. moment and he had feared the effect of the announcement on San- tone. This could have heen only the nrincipal himself. Some circumstance which Santoine comprehended only Daperfectly as vel had forced this man to come out from behind his agents and to act even at the risk of revealing himself, It was probably Le who. finding Blatchford’s presence made revealment inevituble, tad killed Blatchiord., But these ¢ir- cumstances gave Suntoine no clew as to who the man might be. man tried vainly to guess. circumstance regarding the man of which Siantoine now falt sure was that he was one of the many con- cerned in the Latron case or with the Latron properties. “What time is it?” the blind man suddenly asked the nurse. “Tt is nearly noon, Mr. Santoine.” “Will you leave me alone for a few moments?” he directed. He listened till he heard the door close behind the nurse; then he seized the private ’phone beside his bed and called his broker. “How is the market?” he inquired. There was something approaching to a panic on the stock exchange, it appeared. Some movement, arising from causes not yet clear, had dropped the bottom out of a score of important stocks. “How is Pacific Midlands?” toine asked. “It led the decline.” Santoine felt the blood in his tem- San- ples. “M. and N. Smelters?” he asked, “Down seven points.” “S, F. and D?” “Right points off.” Santoine’s hand, holding the tele- phone, shook in its agitation; his head was hot from the blood rushing through it, his body was chilled. An idea so strange, so astounding, so in- credible as it first had come to him that his feelings refused it though his reason told him it was the only pos- sible condition which could account ifor all the facts, now was being made all but certain. He named stock after stock; all were down-—seriously de- The blind The only | TI RD 45 eS » must be, allowing for the winding of the ravine, at least half a mile from his pursuers, he climbed to the brink of the bank and looked back. He was not, as he had thought, half a mile from the road; he was not a quarter of a mile; he could still see plainly the lights of the three motorcars upon the road and men moving in the flare of these lights. He was certain that he had recognized the figure of Avery among these men. Pursuit of him, however, appeared to have been checked for the moment; he heard neither voices nor any movement in the woods. Eaton, panting, threw himself down to recover breath and strength to think. There was no question in Eaton's mind what his fate would be if he surrendered to, or was captured by, his pursuers. What he had seen in Santeine’s study an hour before was so unbelievable, so completely unde monstrable unless he himself coul§ prove his story that he felt that he would receive no credence. Blatch- ford, who had seen it in the light in the study, was dead; Santoine, who would have seen it if he had had eyes, was blind. Eaton, still almost stunned and yet wildly excited by that sight, felt only, in the mad confusion of his senses, the futility of telling what he had seen unless he were in a position to prove it. Those opposed to him would put his statement aside with the mere answer that he was lying; the most charitably inclined would think only that what he had been through had driven him insane. Eaton understood that his possibil- ity of escape was very small, even if escape had been his only object; but | Eaton's problem was not one of es- pressed or had been supported only by | a desperate effort holders. The blind man could write as well as any other by following the position of the lines with the fingers of his left of their hand. He wrote a short note swiftly | now, folded, sealed and addressed it and handed it to the servant. “Have that delivered by a messen- | ger at once,” he directed. “There will be no written answer, I think; only something sent back—a photo- graph. See that it is brought to me at once.” He heard the servant's footsteps going rapidly away. He was shaking with * anger, - horror, resentment; he was almost—not quite—sure now of all that had taken place; of why Warden had been murdered, of what vague shape had moved behind and guided all that had happened since. He recalled Eaton’s voice as he had heard it first on the train at Seattle; and now he was almost sure—not quite—that he could place that voice, that he knew where he had heard it before, He lay with clenched hands, shak- ing with rage; then by effort of his will he put these thoughts away. The nurse reminded him again of his need for food. “I want nothing now,” he sald. “Have it ready when I wake up. When the doctor comes, tell him I am going te get up today and dress.” He turned and stretched himself upon his bed; so, finally, he slept, CHAPTER XXI The Man Hunt. The rolling, ravine-gullied land where Harriet had left Eaton was wooded thickly with oaks, maples and ash; the glare from the burning bridge: lighted the ravine for only a little way; Eaton had gained the bot- torn of the ravine beyond the point where this light would have made him visible and had made the best speed he could along it away from the lights and voices on the road. This speed was not very great; his stockinged feet sank to their ankles in the soft mud of the ravine; and when, realiz- ing that he was leaving a trace easily followed even by .lantern-light, he clambered to the steep side and tried to travel along its slope, he found his progress slower still. . In the dark- ness he crashed sometimes full against the tree-trunks; bushes which he could not see seized and held him, ripping and tearing at his clothes; invisible, fallen saplings tripped him, and he stepped into unseen holes which threw him headlong, so that twice he rolled clear to the bottom of the ravine with fierce, hot pains which nearly deprived him of his senses shooting through his wounded shoul- der. When he had made, as he thought, fully three-quarters of a mile and chief | cape—it was to find those he pur- sued and make certain that they were captured at the same time he was: and, as he crouched panting on the damp earth, he was thinking only of that. As he struggled forward, impatient at these delays, he came several times upon narrow, unguarded roads and crossed them; at other times the little wilderness which protected him changed suddenly to a well-kept lawn where some great house with its garages and outbuildings loomed ahead, and afraid to cross these open places, he was obliged to retrace his steps and find a, way round. The dis- tance from the bridge to the.place where the men he was following had got out of their motor, he had thought to be about two miles; but when he had been traveling more than an hour, he had not yet reached it. Then. suddenly he came upon the road for which he was looking; somewhere to the east along it was the place he RN Then Suddenly He Came Upon the Road for Which He Was Looking. sought. He crouched as near to the road as he dared and where he could look up and down it. This being a main road, was guarded. A motor- car with armed men in it passed him and presently repassed, evidently pa. troling the road; its lights showed him a man with a gun standing at the first bend of the road to the east Eaton drew further back and moves parallel to the road but far enough away from it to be hiklen. A quarter of a mile further he found a second man. The motorcar, evidently, was patroling only to this point; another car was on duty beyond this. As Eaton halted, this second car ap proached, and was halted, backed and turned. Its headlights swept through the woods and revealed Eaton. The man standing in the road cried out the alarm and fired at Eaton point blank; he fired a second and third time. Eaton fled madly back into the shad ow; as he did so, he heard the men crying to one another and leaping from the car and following him. He retreated to the woeds, went further along and came back to the road, ly ing flat upon his face again and wait ing till some other car in passing should give him light to see. Baton, weak and dizzy from his wounds and confused by darkness and his struggle through the woods, had no exact idea how long it haq taken him to get to this place; but he knew that it could have been hardly less than two hours since he had left Har: riet. The men he was following, therefore, had that much start of him, and this made him wild with im- patience but did not discourage him. His own wounds, Eaton understood, made his escape practically impossi- ble, because any one who saw him would at once challenge and detain him; and the other man was still more seriously wounded. It was not his es- cape that Eaton feared; it was cen. cealment of him. The man had been taken from the car because his condi tion was so serious that there was no! | Lope of hiding it; Eaton thought he | must be dead. He expected to find | the body conceaied under dead leaves, hurriedly hidden. The night had cleared a little; to the north, Eaton could see stars. Sud- denly the road and the leafless bushes at its sides flashed out in the bright light of a motorcar passing. Eaton strained forward. He had found the place he sought; there was no doubt a car had turned off the road some time before and stopped there. The passing of many cars had so tracked the road that none of the men in the motors seemed to have noticed any- thing of significance there; but Eaton saw plainly in the soft ground at the edge of the woods the footmarks of two men waiking one behind the other. When the car had passed, he crept forward in the dark and fingered the distinct heel and toe marks ia the soft soil. For a little distance he could follow them by feeling; then as they led him into the edge of the woods the ground grew harder and he could no longer follow them in that way. It was plain to him what had oc- curred; two men had got out of the car here and had lifted out and caur- ried away a third. He knelt where he could feel the last footsteps he could detect and looked around. The wound in his shoulder no long- er bled, but the pain of it twinged him through and through; his head throbbed with the hurt there; his feet were raw and bleeding where sharp roots and branches had cut through nis socks and torn the flesh; his skin was hot and dry with fever, and his Lead swam. There was not yet light enough to see any distance, but Eaton, accus- tomed to the darkness and bending close to the ground, could discern the footmarks even on the harder soil. They led away from the road into the woods. On the rotted leaves and twigs was a dark stain; a few steps beyond there was another. Eaton picking up a leaf and fingering it, knew that they were blood. So the man was not dead when he had been lifted from the car. But he had been hurt desperately, was unable to help himself, was probably dying;*if there had been any hope for him, his com- panions would not be carrying him in this way away from any chance of surgical attention. Eaton followed, as the tracks led through the woods. The men had gone very slowly, carrying this heavy weight. They had stopped frequently to rest and had laid their burden down. Then suddenly he came to a place where plainly a longer halt had been made. The ground was trampled around this spot; when the tracks went on they were changed in character. The two men were still carrying the third —a heavy man whose weight strained them and made their feet sink in deeply ‘where the ground was soft. But now they were not careful how they carried him, but went forward merely as though bearing a aqead weight. Now, too, no more stains ap- peared on the brown leaves where they had passed; their burden no longer bled. Eaton, realizing what this meant, felt neither exultation nor surprise. He had known that the man they carried, though evidently alive when taken from the car, was dying. But now he watched the tracks more closely even than before, look- ing for them to show him where the men had got rid of their burden. It was quite plain what had oc- curred ; the wet sand below was tram- pled by the feet of three or four men and cut by a boat’s bow. They had taken the body away with them in the boat. To sink it somewhere weighted with heavy stones in the deep water? Paton’s search was hopeless now. But it could not be so; it must not be so! Eaton’s eyes searched fever- ishly the shore and the lake. But there was nothing in sight upon either. He crept back from the edge of the bluff, hiding beside a fallen log banked with dead leaves. What was it he had said to Harriet? “I will come back to you—as you have never known me before!” He rehearsed the words in mockery. How would he re- turn to her now? As he moved, a fierce, hot pain from the clotted wound in his shoulder shot him through and through with agony and the silence and darkness of unconsciousness over- whelmed him, : > (To be Continued.) rpms — A ree PLANS IKVASION OF EUROPE American Oil Company Likely to Es- tablish Distributing Stations Throughout Czechoslovakia. Czechoslovakian motorists will no longer have to carry cans of gasoline with them when making extended trips, on account of lack of distributing ges- oline stations. Up to the present time, according to the New York Times, sup- ply. stations for the distribution of gas- oline to passing automobilists have been unknown in this republic. An American oil company, through its representative at Prague, 1s plan- ning to establish distributing stations at principal business crossings and in certain of the city parks during the coming summer, These stations will relieve automobile owners from the present necessity of carrying a can or two of gasoline on their trips and of keeping supplies of gasoline and other essentials In reserve in their garages. In addition to fur- nishing supplies the stations are to be equipped with material for making minor repairs. ——A hen is the only living critter that can set still and produce divi- dends.—Exchange.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers