The BLIND {
MAN'S
EYES
By William MacHarg
Edwin Balmer
2
(Continued from last week).
CHAPTER XXII
Not Eaton—Overton.
Santoine awoke at five o'clock. The
blind man felt strong and steady; he
had food brought him; while he was
eating it, his messenger returned.
Santoine saw the man alone and,
when he had dismissed him, he sent
for his daughter.
Harriet went up to him fearfully.
The blind man seemed calm and quiet;
a thin, square packet lay on the bed
beside him; he held it out to her
without speaking.
She snatched it in dread; the shape
of the packet and the manner in
which it was fastened told her it
must be a photograph. “Open it,” her
father directed.
“What is it you want to know, Fa-
ther?” she asked.
“That is the picture of Eaton?”
“Yes.”
“T thought so.”
She tried to assure herself of the
shade of the meaning in her father’s
tone; but she could not. She under-
stood that her recognition of the pic-
ture had satisfied him in regard to
something over which he had seen In
doubt; but whether this was to work
in favor of Hugh and herself—she
thought of herself now inseparably
with Hugh—or whether it threatened
them, she could not tell.
“Father, what does this mean?” she
cried to him.
“What, dear?”
“Your having the picture.
did you get it?”
“I knew where it might be. I sent
for it.”
“But—but, Father—” It came to
her now that her father must know
who Hugh was. “Who—"
“Tl know who he is now,” her fa-
ther said calmly. “I will tell you when
I can.”
“When you can?”
“Yes,” he sald. “Where is Avery?”
as though his mind had gone to an-
other subject instantly.
“He has not been in, I believe, gince
noon.”
“He is everseeing the search for
Eaton?”
“Yes."
“Send for him.
Where
Tell him I wish to
see him here at the house; he Is to
remain within the house until I have
seen him.”
Something
startled and
tone
she
father’s
her;
in her
perplexed
thought of Donald now only as the :
of | Sider hard for me to hear, tell it to
Was her father |
removing Donald from among those |
Was he sending for .
bim because what he had just learned |
make |
most eager and most vindictive
Raton’s pursuers.
seeking Eaton?
was something which would
more rigorous and desperate the
search? The blind man's look and
manner told her nothing.
“You mean Donald is to wait here
until you send for him, Father?”
“That Is it.”
It was the blind man’s tone of dis-
missal. He seemed to have forgotten
the picture; at least, as his daughter
raoved toward the door, he gave no |
direction concerning it.
looking back at him. She would not
carry the picture away, secretly, like
this. She was not ashamed of her
love for-Eaton ; whatever might be said
She halted.
or thought of him, she trusted him; !
she was proud of her love for him.
“May I take the picture?’ she asked
steadily.
“Do whatever you want with it,”
her father answered quietly.
And so she took it with her, She
found a servant of whom she inquired
for Avery; he had not returned so
she sent for him. She went down to
the deserted library and waited there
with the picture of Hugh in her hand.
The day had drawn to dusk. She
could no longer see the picture in the
fading light; she could only recall it;
and now, as she recalled it, the pic-
ture itself—not her memory of her
father’s manner in relation to it—
gave her vague discomfort. She got
up suddenly, switched on the light
and, holding the picture close to it,
studied it. What it was in the pic-
ture that gave her this strange un-
easiness quite separate and distinct
from all that she had felt when she
first looked at it, she could not tell;
but the more she studied it, the more
troubled and frightened she grew.
The picture was a plain, unre-
touched print pasted upon common
square cardboard without photogra-
pher’'s emboss or signature; and
printed with the picture, were four
plain, distinct numerals—8253. She
did not know what they meant or if
they had any real significance, but
somehow now she was more afraid
for Hugh than she had been. She
trembled as she held the picture again
to her cheek and then to her lips.
She turned; some one had come in
from the hall; it was Donald. She
saw at her first glance at him that his
search had not yet succeeded and she
threw her Lead back in relief. See-
ing the light, he had looked into the
library idly; but when he saw her,
he approached her quickly.
“What have you there?’ he demand-
ed of her.
She flushed at the tone. “What
right have you to ask?’ Her instant
impulse had been to conceal the pic-
ture, but that would make it seem she
was ashamed of it; she held it so Don-
ald could see it if he looked. He did
look and suddenly seized the picture
from her. “Where did you get this,
Harriet?”
“Don!”
“Where did you get it?” he repeat-
ed. “Are you ashamed to say?”
“Ashamed? Father gave it to me!”
“Your father:” Avery started; but
if anything had caused him apprehen-
sion, it instantly disappeared. “Then
didn’t he tell you who this man Eaton
is? What did he say to you?”
“What do you mean, Don?”
He put the picture down on the
table beside him and, as she rushed
for it, he seized both her hands and
held her before him. “Harry, dear!”
he said to her. “Harry, dear—"
“Don’t call me that! Don’t speak
to me that way!” She struggled to
free herself from &im.
“I know, of course,” he said. “It's
because of him.” He jerked his head
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Him,
toward the picture on the table; the
manner made her furious.
“Let me go, Don!”
“I'm: sorry, dear.” He drew her to
him, held her only closer.
“Don; Father wants to see you! He
wanted to know when he came in; he
will let you know when you e¢an go
to him.”
“When did he tell you that? When
he gave you the picture?’
“Yes.”
Avery had almost let her go; new
ho held her hard sgain. “Then he
wanted me to teil you
Eaton.”
about this |
“Why should he have you tell me |
about—Mr. Eaton?’
“You know!” he said to her.
“What have you to say about him,
Donald?”
“You must never think of him again,
dear; you must forget him forever!”
“Donald, I am not a child. If you
have something to say which you con-
me at once.”
“Very well. Perhaps that is best.
Dear, either this man whom you have
known as Eaton will never be found
or, if he is found, he cannot be let to
live. Harry, have you never secu a
picture with the numbers printed in
below like that? Can’t you guess yet
where your father must have sent for
that picture? Don't you know what
those numbers mean?”
“What do they mean?’
“They are the figures of his num-
ber in what is called ‘The Rogues’
Gallery.” And they mean he has com-
mitted a crime and been tried and
convicted of it; they mean in this case
that he has committed a murder!"
“A murder!”
“For which he was convicted and
sentenced.”
“Sentenced !”
“Yes; and is alive now only because
before the sentence could be carried
out, he escaped. That man, Philip
Eaton, is Hugh—"
“Hugh!”
“Hugh Overton, Harry!”
“Hugh Overton!”
“Yes; I found it out today. The
police have just learned it, too. I was
coming to tell your father. He's
Hugh Overton, the murderer of Mat-
thew Latron!”
“No; no!”
“Yes, Harry; for thiss man is cer-
tainly Hugh Overton.”
“It isn’t so! I know it isn’t so!”
“You mean he told you he was—
some one else, Harry?”
“No; I mean—" She faced him de-
fiantly. “Father let me keep the pho-
tograph. I asked him, and he said,
‘Do whatever you wish with it.’ He
knew I meant to keep it! He knows
who Hugh is, so he would not have
said that, if—if—"
She heard a sound behind her aud
turned. Her father had come into
the room. And as she saw his man-
ner and his face she knew that what
Avery had just told her was the truth,
She shrank away from them. Fer
hands went to her face and hid it.
She knew now why it was that her
father, on hearing Hugh's voice, had be-
come curious about him, had tried to
place the voice in his recollection—
the voice of a prisoner on trial for his
life, ‘heard only for ‘an instant but
fixed upon his mind by the ‘circum-
stances attending it, though those cir
cumstances afterward had been for-
gotten. She knew why she, when she
had gazed at the picture a few minutes
before, had been disturbed and fright-
ened at feeling it to be a kind of pic-
ture unfamiliar to her and threatening
‘her with something unknown and ter-
rible. She knew the reason now for a
score of things Hugh had said to her,
for the way he had looked many times
when she hed spoken to him. It ex-
plained all that! It seemed to her, in
the moment, to explain everything—
except one thing. It did not explain
Hugh himself; the kind of man he
was, the kind of man she knew him
to be—the man she loved—he could
not be a murderer!
Her hands dropped from her face;
she threw her head back proudly and
triumphantly, as she faced now both
Avery and her father.
“He, the murderer of Mr. Latren!”
she cried quietly. “It isn’t so!”
The blind man was very pale; he
was fully dressed. A servant had sup-
ported him and helped him down the
stairs and still stood beside him sus-
taining him. But the will which had
conquered his disability of blindness
was holding him firmly now against
the disability of his hurts; he seemed
composed and steady. She saw com-
passion for her in his look; and com-
passion—under the present circum-
stances—terrified her. Stronger, far
more in control of him than his com-
passion for her, she saw purpose. She
recognized that her father had come
to a decision upon which he now was
going to act; she knew that nothing
she or anyone else could say would
alter that decision and that he would
employ his every power in acting
upon fit.
The blind man seemed to check him-
self an instant in the carrying out of
his purpose; he turned his sightless
eyes toward her. There was emotion
in his look ; but, except that this emo-
tion was in part pity for her, she
could not tell exactly what his look
expressed.
“Will you wait for me outside, Har-
riet?” he said to her. “I shall not be
long.”
She hesitated; then she felt sud-
denly the futflity of opposing him and
she passed him and went out into the
hall. The servant followed her, clos-
ing the door behind him. She stood
just outside the door listening. She
heard her father—she could catch the
tone; she could not make out the
words—asking a question; she heard
the sound of Avery's response. She
started back nearer the door and put
her hand on it to open it; inside they
were still talking. She caught Avery's
tone more clearly now, and it sudden-
ly terrified her. She drew back from
the door and shrank away. There had
been no opposition to Avery in her
father’s tone; she was certain now
that he was only discussing with
Avery what they were to do.
She had waited nearly half an hour,
but the library door had not been
opened again. The closeness of the
hall seemed choking her; she went to
the front door and threw it open. Ths
evening was clear and’ cool; hit It,
was not from the chill of the air that
she shivered as she gazed out at the |
roods through which she had driven
with Hugh the night before. There
the hunt for him had been going on
ull day: there she pictured him now,
lin darkness, in suffering, alone. hur,
hunted and with all the world but ner
against him! 5
She ran down the steps and stood
on the lawn. The vague noises of the
house now no longer were audibie
She stood in the silence of the eve-
ning strained and fearfully listening.
At first there seemed to he no sound
: outdoors other than the gentle rush
of the waves on the beach at the foo!
of the bluff behind her; then, in the
opposite direction, she defined the un-
dertone of some far-away confusion.
Sometimes it seemed to be shouting.
next only a murmur of movement and
noise. She ran up the road a hundred
yards in its direction and halted
again. The noise was nearer and
clearer—a confusion of motor explo-
sions and voices; and now one sound
clattered louder and louder and
leaped nearer rapidly and rose above
the rest, the roar of a powerful mo-
tor-car racing with “cut-out” open.
The rising racket of it terrified Har-
riet with its recklessness and triumph.
Yes; that was it; triumph! The far-
off tumult was the noise of shouts and
cries of triumph; the racing car, blar-
ing its way through the night, was the
bearer of news of success of the
search,
Harriet went colder as she knew
this; then she ran up the road to meet
the car coming. She saw the glare
of its headlights through the trees
past a bend in the road; she ran on
and the beams of the car’s headlight
straightened and glared down the road
directly upon her, The car leaped at
her; she ran on towara it, arms in
the air. The clatter of the car be-
came deafening and the machine was
nearly upon her when the driver rec-
ognized that the girl in the road was
heedless and might throw herself be-
fore him unless he stopped. He
brought his car up short and skidding.
“What is it?” he cried, as he muffled
the engine.
“What is it? What is it?” she cried
in return,
The man recognized her, “Miss San-
toine!”
“What is it?”
“We've got him!” the man cried.
“We've got him!”
“Him?”
“Him! Hugh Overton! Eaton,
Miss Santoine. He's Hugh Overton;
hadn’t you heard? And we've got
him!”
“Got him!”
“Wherg is Mr. Avery?” he demand-
ed. “I've got to tell Mr. Avery.”
She made no response but threw
herself in front of the car and clasped
a wheel as the man started to throw
in his gear. He cried to her and
tried to get her off; but she was deaf
to him. He looked in the direction of |
the house, shut off his power and
leaped down. He left the machine
and ran on the road toward the house,
Harriet started the car and turned it
pack in the direction from which fit
had come. She speeded and soon
other headlights flared at hers—a num-
ber of them; four or five cars, at
least, were in file up the road and
men were crowding and horsemen
were riding beside them.
She rushed on so close that she saw
she alarmed them; they cried a warn-
ing; the horsemen and the men on
foot jumped from beside the road and
the leading car swung to one side; but
Harriet caught her car on the brakes
and swung it straight across the road
and stopped it; she closed the throttle
and pulled the key from the starting
“You Have Been Hurt Again, Hugh?”
She Managed Steadily.
mechanism and flung it into the woods.
So she sat in the car, waiting for the
captors of Hugh to come up.
“Where is he?’ she asked them.
“Where is he?”
They did not tell her; but reply
was unnecessary. Others’ eyes point-
ed hers to Hugh. He was in the back
géat of the second machine with two
men, one on each side of him. She
stopped at the side of the car where
he was and she put her hand on the
edge of the tonneau.
“You have been hurt again, Hugh?"
she managed steadily.
“Hurt? No,” he said as constrain-
edly. “No.”
The car started, and she sat silent,
with her hand still upon his, as they
went on to her father’s house.
CHAPTER XXII!
The Flaw in the Left Eye.
Santoine, after Harriet had left the
library, stood waiting until he heard
the servant go out and close the door.
‘When did you learn that Eaton was
Hugh Overton, Avery?’ he asked.
“Today.”
“How did you discover it?"
“It was plain from the first there
was something wrong with the man,”
Avery replied; “but I had. of course,
do way of placing him until he ga.e
himself away at polo the other day.
I saw that he was pretending not to |
know a game which he did know;
when he put over one particular str ke |
1 was sure he knew the game very
well. The number of men in
country who've played polo at all isn’t
very large, and those who can play
great polo are very few. So I sent for
the polo annuals for a few years back;
the ones I wanted came to the club
today. His picture is in the group of
the Spring Meadows club; he played
‘back’ for them five years ago. His
name was under the picture, of
course.”
“I understand. I am glad to know
how it was. One less certain of your
fidelity than I am might have put
another construction on your silence;
one less certain, Avery, might have
thought that, already knowing Eaton's
identity, you preferred instead of tell-
ing it to me to have me discover it
for myself and so, for that reason, you
trapped him into a polo game in Har-
riet's presence.”
For a moment Santoine paused; the
man across from him did not speak,
but—Santoine’s intuition told him—
drew himself together for some shock,
“Of course,” said Santoine, “know-
ing who Eaton is gives us no aid in
determining who the men were that
fought in my study last night?”
“It gives none to me, Myr. Santoine,”
Avery said steadily.
“It gives none to you,” Santoine re-
peated; “and the very peculiar be-
navior of the stock exchange today, I
suppose that gives you no help either.
All day they have been going down,
Avery—the securities, the stocks and
bonds of the properties still known
as the Latron properties. Without
apparent reason, they have been going
down and that gives you no help
either, Avery?
‘Yet you are a very clever man;
there is no question about that. I
have even found it worth while at
times to talk over with you matters
~—problems—which were troubling me;
to consult with you. Have I not?”
“Yes.”
“Very well; I am going to consult
with you now. I have an infirmity,
as you know, Avery; I am blind. I
nave just found out that for several
years—for about five years, to be ex-
act; that is, for about the same length
of time that you have been with me—
my blindness has been used by a cer-
tain group of men to make me the
agent of a monstrous and terrible in-
justice to an innocent man. Except
for my blindness—except for that,
Avery, this injustice never could have
wR Ze
this |
“Very Well; | Am Going to Consult
With You Now. | Have an Infirmity,
! As You Know, Avery; | Am Blind”
{ been carriea on. If you find a certain
| amount of bitterness in my tone, it is
| due to that; a man who has an (n-
' firmity, Avery, cannot well help being
a little sensitive in regard to it. You
' are willing I should consult with you
in regard to this?”
“Of course I am at your service, Mr.
Santoine.” Avery’s vooice was harsh
i and dry.
The blind man was silent for an in-
stant. He could feel the uneasiness
and anxiety of the man across from
him mounting swiftly, and he gave it
every opportunity to increase, He
had told Eaton once that he did not
use “cat and mouse” methods; he was
using them now because that was
the only way his purpose could be
achieved.
“We must go back to the quite seri-
ous emergency to which I am indebted
for your faithful service. Five years
ago the American people appeared per-
fectly convinced that the only way to
win true happiness and perpetuate
prosperity was to accuse, condemn
and jail for life—if execution were
not legal—the heads of the important
groups of industrial properties. Just
at that time, one of these men—one
of the most efficient but also, perhaps,
the one personally most obnoxious or
unpopular — committed one of his
gravest indiscretions. It concerned
the private use of deposits in natijnal
banks; it was a federal offense of the
most patent and provable kind. He
was indicted. Considering the temper
of any possible jury at that time, there
was absolutely no alternative but to
believe the man under indictment
must spend many succeeding years, if
not the rest of his life, in the federal
penitentiary at Atlanta or Leaven-
worth.
“Now, the man wus 11 complete con-
rol of a gronp of the most valunshle
| smd prosnerons provarties in America
i Before his gaining control. the prop-
erties had been almost ruined by dif-
ferences between the minor men who
tried to run them; only the calling of
Matthew Latron into control saved
those men from themselves; they re-
quired him to govern them; his tak-
ing away would bring chaos and ruin
{ among them again. They khew that.
! Tust before he must go to trial. La-
' tron himself became convinced that
he faced confinement for the rest of
« his life; then fate effectively inter-
vened to end all his troubles. His
body, charred and almost consumed
by ftames—but nevertheless the iden-
tified body of Matthew Latron—was
found in the smoking ruins of his
shooting lodge, which burned to the
ground two days before his trial.”
Avery was hunched in the seat
watching the blind man with grow-
ing conviction and fear.
Santoine went on: “A young man
was shown to have followed Latron
to the shooting lodge; a witness ap-
peared who had seen this young man
shoot Latron; a second witness had
seen him set fire to the lodge. The
young man—Hugh Overton—was put
‘on trial for his life. I, myself, as a
witness at the trial supplied the mo-
‘tive for the crime; for, though I had
never met Overton, I knew that he
had lost the whole of a large fortune
through investments recommended to
him by Latron. Overton was. con-
wvicted, sentenced to death; he escaped
before the sentence was carried out—
‘became a fugitive without a name,
who if 'he ever appeared would be
‘handed over for execution. For the
‘evidence had been perfect—complete;
he had shot Latron purely for re-
‘venge, killed him in the most des-
,bicable manner. For there was no
doubt Latron was dead, was there,
Avery?’
“None,” Avery sald huskily.
“That was the time you came into
‘my employ, Avery, recommended to
‘me by one of the men who had been
closest to Latron. I was not connect-
ed with the Latron properties except
as an adviser; but many papers re-
lating to them must go inevitably
through my hands. I was rather on
the inside in all that concerned those
properties. But I could not myself
see the papers; I was blind; therefore
I had to have others serve as eyes for
me. And from the first, Avery, you
served as my eyes in connection with
all papers relating to the Latron
properties. If anything ever appeared
in those papers which might have led
me to suspect that any injustice had
been done in the punishment of La-
tron’s murderer, it could reach me
only through you. - Nothing of that
sort ever did reach me, Avery. You
must have made quite a good thing
out of it.”
“What?”
{ “I say, your position here must
{ have been rather profitable to you,
Avery; I have not treated you badly
myself, recognizing that you must
often be tempted by gaining informa-
tion here from which you might make
money; and your other employers
must have overbid me.”
“I don’t understand; I beg your par-
don, Mr. Santoine, but I do not follow
what you are talking about.”
“No? Then we must go a little fur-
ther. This last year a minor reor-
ganization became necessary in some
of the Latron properties. My friend,
Gabriel Warden—who was an honest
man, Avery—had recently greatly in-
creased his interest in those proper-
ties; it was inevitable the reorganiza-
tion should be largely in his hands.
During his work with the Latron prop-
erties, Warden—the honest man,
Avery—discovered the terrible injus-
tice of which I speak.
“I do not need to draw your atten-
tion, Avery, to the very peculiar con-
dition which followed Warden’s death.
Warden had certainly had communica-
tion with Overton of some sort; Over-
ton’s €nemies, therefore, were unable
to rid themselves of him by delivering
him up to the police hecause they did
net know how much Overton knew,
When I found that Warden had made
me his executor and I went west and
took charge of Lis affairs, their diffi-
culties were intensified, for they did
not dare to let suspicion of what had
been done reach me. There was no
course open to them, therefore, but to
remove Overton before my suspicions
were aroused, even if it could be done
only at desperate risk to themselves.
“What I am leading up to, Avery, is
your own connection with these
events. You looked after your own
interests rather carefully, I think, up
to a certain point. When—knowing
who Eaton was—you got him into a
polo game, it was so that, if your in-
terests were best served by exposing
bim, you could do so without reveal-
ing the real source of your knowledge
of him. But an unforeseen event
arose. The drafts and lists relating
to the reorganization of the Latron
properties—containing the very facts,
no doubt, which first had aroused
Warden’s suspicions—were sent me
through Warden's office, At first there
was nothing threatening to you in
this, because their contents could
reach me only through you. But In
the uncertainty I felt, I had my daugh-
ter take these matters out of your
hands.
“That night, Avery, you sent an un-
signed telegram from the office in the
village, almost within twenty-four
hours my study was entered, the safe
inaccessible to you was broken open,
the contents were carried away. Do
vou suppose I do not know that one
of the two men in the study last night
was the principal whose agents had
failed In two attempts to get rid of
Overton for him, whose other agent—
vourself, Avery—had failed to inter-
cept the evidence which would have
revealed the truth to me, so that, no
tonger tiusting to agents, he himself
had come in desperation to prevent
my learning the facts? I realize fully,
Avery, that by means of you my blind-
ness and my reputation have been
used for five years to conceal from the
public the fact that Matthew Latron
had not been murdered, but was still
alive!”
Sntoine heard Avery get up: he
stood an instant and tried to speak,
but his breath caught nervously: he
made another effort.
“1 didn’t have anything to do with
convicting Overton, or know anything
about it until that part was all over;
I never saw him till I saw him on the
train. 1 didn’t know Warden was
going to be killed.”
“But you were accessory to the rob-
bery of my house last night and,
therefore, accessory to the murder of
Wallace Blatchford. Last night, too,
knowing Overton was innocent of ev-
erything charged against him, you
gave orders to fire upon him at sight
and he was fired upon. And what
were you telling Harriet when I came
in? You have told the police that Over-
ton is the murderer of Latron. Isn't that
so the police will refuse to believe
anything he may say and return him
to the death cell for the sentence to
be executed upon him? The law will
call these things attempted murder,
Avery.”
The blind man heard Avery pacing
the floor, and then heard him stop in
front of him.
“What is it you want to know, air?”
“Who killed Warden?”
“John Yarrow is his name; he was
a sort of hanger-on of Latronm’s. I
don’t know where Latron picked him
UP hii,
“Was it he who also made the at-
tack on the train?”
“Yes.”
“Who was the other man on the
train—the one that claimed the fele-
gram addressed to Lawrence XHill-
ward?”
“His name's Hollock. He’s titular
owner of the place on the Michigan
shore where Latron has been Living.
The telegram I sent night before last
was addressed to his place, you know.
He's been a sort of go-between for
Latron and the men—those who knew
—who were managing the properties.
I'd never met him, though, Mr. San-
toine, and I didn’t know either him
or Hollock on the train. As I said,
I wasn’t in the know about Kkfiling
Warden.”
(Concluded next week).
The Maiden’s Prayer.
“Dear Lord, I ask nothing for my-
self! Only give mother a son-in-
law.”
—The “Watchman” gives all the
news while it is news.