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.