The Blind Man's Eyes

  CHAPTER XI

  PUBLICITY NOT WANTED

  "Basil Santoine dying! Blind Millionaire lawyer taken ill on train!"

  The alarm of the cry came to answer Eaton's question early the nextmorning. As he started up in his berth, he shook himself intorealization that the shouts were not merely part of an evil dream; someone was repeating the cry outside the car window. He threw up thecurtain and saw a vagrant newsboy, evidently passing through therailroad yards to sell to the trainmen. Eaton's guard outside hiswindow was not then in sight; so Eaton lifted his window from thescreen, removed that, and hailing the boy, put out his hand for apaper. He took it before he recalled that he had not even a cent; buthe looked for his knife in his trousers pocket and tossed it out to theboy with the inquiry: "How'll that do?"

  The boy gaped, picked it up, grinned and scampered off. Eaton spreadthe news-sheet before him and swiftly scanned the lines for informationas to the fate of the man who, for four days, had been lying only fortyfeet away from him at the other end of a Pullman car.

  The paper--a Minneapolis one--blared at him that Santoine's conditionwas very low and becoming rapidly worse. But below, under a Montanadate-line, Eaton saw it proclaimed that the blind millionaire wasmerely sick; there was no suggestion anywhere of an attack. The paperstated only that Basil Santoine, returning from Seattle with hisdaughter and his secretary, Donald Avery, had been taken seriously illupon a train which had been stalled for two days in the snow inMontana. The passenger from whom the information had been gained hadheard that the malady was appendicitis, but he believed that was merelygiven out to cover some complication which had required surgicaltreatment on the train. He was definite as regarded the seriousness ofMr. Santoine's illness and described the measures taken to insure hisquiet. The railroad officials refused, significantly, to make astatement regarding Mr. Santoine's present condition. There wascomplete absence of any suggestion of violence having been done; andalso, Eaton found, there was no word given out that he himself had beenfound on the train. The column ended with the statement that Mr.Santoine had passed through Minneapolis and gone on to Chicago undercare of Dr. Douglas Sinclair.

  Eaton stared at the newspaper without reading, after he saw that. Hethought first--or rather, he felt first--for himself. He had notrealized, until now that he was told that Harriet Santoine hadgone,--for if her father had gone on, of course she was with him,--theextent to which he had felt her fairness, almost her friendship to him.At least, he knew now that, since she had spoken to him after he wasfirst accused of the attack on her father, he had not felt entirelydeserted or friendless till now. And with this start of dread forhimself, came also feeling for her. Even if they had taken her fatherfrom the other end of this car early in the night to remove him toanother special car for Chicago, she would be still watching beside himon the train. Or was her watch beside the dying man over now? Andnow, if her father were dead, how could Harriet Santoine feel towardthe one whom all others--if not she herself--accused of the murder ofher father? For evidently it was murder now, not just "an attack."

  But why, if Santoine had been taken away, or was dead or dying, hadthey left Eaton all night in the car in the yards? Since Santoine wasdying, would there be any longer an object in concealing the fact thathe had been murdered?

  Eaton turned the page before him. A large print of a picture ofHarriet Santoine looked at him from the paper--her beautiful, deep eyesgazing at him, as he often had surprised her, frankly interested,thoughtful, yet also gay. The newspaper had made up its lack of moredefinite and extended news by associating her picture with her father'sand printing also a photograph of Donald Avery--"closely associatedwith Mr. Santoine in a confidential capacity and rumored to be engagedto Miss Santoine." Under the blind man's picture was a biography ofthe sort which newspaper offices hold ready, prepared for the passingof the great.

  Eaton did not read that then. The mention in the paper of anengagement between Avery and Harriet Santoine had only confirmed therelation which Eaton had imagined between them. Avery, therefore, musthave gone on with her; and if she still watched beside her father,Avery was with her; and if Basil Santoine was dead, his daughter wasturning to Avery for comfort.

  This feature somehow stirred Eaton so that he could not stay quiet; hedressed and then paced back and forth the two or three steps hiscompartment allowed him. He stopped now and then to listen; fromoutside came the noises of the yard; but he made out no sound withinthe car. If it had been occupied as on the days previous, he must haveheard some one coming to the washroom at his end. Was he alone in thecar now? or had the customary moving about taken place before he awoke?

  Eaton had seen no one but the newsboy when he looked out the window,but he felt sure that, if he had been left alone in the car, he wasbeing watched so that he could not escape.

  His hand moved toward the bell, then checked itself. By calling anyone, he now must change his situation only for the worse; as long asthey were letting him stay there, so much the better. He realized thatit was long past the time when the porter usually came to make up hisberth and they brought him breakfast; the isolation of the car mightaccount for this delay, but it was more likely that he was to findanother reason.

  Finally, to free himself from his nervous listening for sounds whichnever came, he picked up the paper again. A column told of Santoine'syouth, his blindness, his early struggle to make a place for himselfand his final triumph--position, wealth and power gained; Eaton,reading of Harriet Santoine's father, followed these particulars withinterest; and further down the column his interest became even greater.He read:

  The news of Mr. Santoine's visit of a week on the Coast, if not knownalready in great financial circles, is likely to prove interestingthere. Troubles between little people are tried in the courts; thepowerful settle their disagreements among themselves and without appealto the established tribunals in which their cases are settled withoutthe public knowing they have been tried at all. Basil Santoine, oflate years, has been known to the public as one of the greatest andmost influential of the advisers to the financial rulers of America;but before the public knew him he was recognized by the financialmasters as one of the most able, clear-minded and impartial of theadjudicators among them in their own disputes. For years he has beenthe chief agent in keeping peace among some of the great conflictinginterests, and more than once he has advised the declaring of financialwar when war seemed to him the correct solution. Thus, five years ago,when the violent death of Matthew Latron threatened to precipitatetrouble among Western capitalists, Santoine kept order in what mightvery well have become financial chaos. If his recent visit to thePacific Coast was not purely for personal reasons but was also toadjust antagonisms such as charged by Gabriel Warden before his death,the loss of Santoine at this time may precipitate troubles which,living, his advice and information might have been able to prevent.

  Having read and reread this long paragraph, Eaton started to tear outthe picture of Harriet Santoine before throwing the paper away; then hedesisted and thrust the sheets out the window. As he sat thinking,with lips tight closed, he heard for the first time that morningfootsteps at his end of the car. The door of his compartment wasunlocked and opened, and he saw Dr. Sinclair.

  "Mr. Santoine wants to speak to you," the surgeon announced quietly.

  This startling negation of all he imagined, unnerved Eaton. He startedup, then sank back for better composure.

  "Mr. Santoine is here, then?"

  "Here? Of course he's here."

  "And he's conscious?"

  "He has been conscious for the better part of two days. Didn't theytell you?" Sinclair frowned. "I heard Miss Santoine send word to youby the conductor soon after her father first came to himself."

  "You mean he will recover!"

  "He would recover from any injury which was not inevitably fatal. Hewas in perfect physical condition, and I never have known a patient tograsp so completely the needs of his own case and
to help the surgeonas much by his control of himself."

  Eaton looked toward the window, breathing hard. "I heard thenewsboys--"

  Sinclair shrugged. "The papers print what they can get and in the waywhich seems most effective to them," was his only comment.

  Eaton pulled himself together. So Santoine was neither dead nor dying.Therefore, at worst, the charge of murder would not be made; and atbest--what? He was soon to find out; the papers evidently wereentirely in error or falsely informed. Basil Santoine was still at theother end of the car, and his daughter would be with him there. But asEaton followed Sinclair out of the compartment into the aisle, hehalted a moment--the look of the car was so entirely different fromwhat he had expected. A nurse in white uniform sat in one of the seatstoward the middle of the car, sewing; another nurse, likewise clothedin white, had just come out from the drawing-room at the end of thecar; Avery and Sinclair apparently had been playing cribbage, for Averysat at a little table in the section which had been occupied bySantoine, with the cards and cribbage board in front of him. Thesurgeon led Eaton to the door of the drawing-room, showed him in andleft him.

  Harriet Santoine was sitting on the little lounge opposite the berthwhere her father lay. She was watching the face of her father, and asEaton stood in the door, he saw her lean forward and gently touch herfather's hand; then she turned and saw Eaton.

  "Here is Mr. Eaton, Father," she said.

  "Sit down," Santoine directed.

  Harriet made room for Eaton upon the seat beside her; and Eaton,sitting down, gazed across at the blind man in the berth. Santoine waslying flat on his back, his bandaged head turned a little toward Eatonand supported by pillows; he was not wearing his dark glasses, and hiseyes were open. Eyes of themselves are capable of no expression exceptas they may be clear or bloodshot, or by the contraction or dilation ofthe pupils, or as they shift or are fixed upon some object: their"expression" is caused by movements of the lids and brows and otherparts of the face. Santoine's eyes had the motionlessness of the eyesof those who have been long blind; seeing nothing, with pupils whichdid not change in size, they had only the abstracted look which, withmen who see, accompanies deep thought. The blind man was very weak andmust stay quite still; and he recognized it; but he knew too that hisstrength was more than equal to the task of recovery, and he showedthat he knew it. His mind and will were, obviously, at their fullactivity, and he had fully his sense of hearing.

  This explained to Eaton the better color in his daughter's face; yetshe was still constrained and nervous; evidently she had not found herordeal over with the start of convalescence of her father. Her lipstrembled now as she turned to Eaton; but she did not speak directly tohim yet; it was Basil Santoine who suddenly inquired:

  "What is it they call you?"

  "My name is Philip D. Eaton." Eaton realized as soon as he had spokenthat both question and answer had been unnecessary, and Santoine hadasked only to hear Eaton's voice.

  The blind man was silent for a moment, as he seemed to consider thevoice and try again vainly to place it in his memories. Then he spoketo his daughter.

  "Describe him, Harriet."

  Harriet paled and flushed.

  "About thirty," she said, "--under rather than over that. Six feet ora little more in height. Slender, but muscular and athletic. Skin andeyes clear and with a look of health. Complexion naturally ratherfair, but darkened by being outdoors a good deal. Hair dark brown,straight and parted at the side. Smooth shaven. Eyes blue-gray, withstraight lashes. Eyebrows straight and dark. Forehead smooth, broadand intelligent. Nose straight and neither short nor long; nostrilsdelicate. Mouth straight, with lips neither thin nor full. Chinneither square nor pointed, and without a cleft. Face and head, ingeneral, of oval Anglo-American type."

  "Go on," said Santoine.

  Harriet was breathing quickly. "Hands well shaped, strong but withoutsign of manual labor; nails cared for but not polished. Gray businesssuit, new, but not made by an American tailor and of a style severalyears old. Soft-bosomed shirt of plain design with soft cuffs.Medium-height turn-down white linen collar. Four-in-hand tie, tied byhimself. Black shoes. No jewelry except watch-chain."

  "In general?" Santoine suggested.

  "In general, apparently well-educated, well-bred, intelligent youngAmerican. Expression frank. Manner self-controlled and reserved.Seems sometimes younger than he must be, sometimes older. Somethinghas happened at some time which has had a great effect and can't beforgotten."

  While she spoke, the blood, rising with her embarrassment, had dyedHarriet's face; suddenly now she looked away from him and out thewindow.

  Her feeling seemed to be perceived by Santoine. "Would you rather Isent for Avery, daughter?" he asked.

  "No; no!" She turned again toward Eaton and met his look defiantly.

  Eaton merely waited. He was confident that much of this description ofhimself had been given Santoine by his daughter before the attack hadbeen made on him and that she had told him also as fully as she couldthe two conversations she had had with Eaton. He could not, somehow,conceive it possible that Santoine needed to refresh his memory; thedescription, therefore, must have been for purposes of comparison.Santoine, in his blindness, no doubt found it necessary to getdescriptions of the same one thing from several people, in order thathe might check one description against another. He probably hadHarriet's and Avery's description of Eaton and now was gettingHarriet's again.

  "He would be called, I judge, a rather likable-looking man?" Santoinesaid tentatively; his question plainly was only meant to lead up tosomething else; Santoine had judged in that particular already.

  "I think he makes that impression."

  "Certainly he does not make the impression of being a man who could behired to commit a crime?"

  "Very far from it."

  "Or who would commit a crime for his own interest--material orfinancial interest, I mean?"

  "No."

  "But he might be led into crime by some personal, deeper interest. Hehas shown deep feeling, I believe--strong, personal feeling, Harriet?"

  "Yes."

  "Mr. Eaton,"--Santoine addressed him suddenly,--"I understand that youhave admitted that you were at the house of Gabriel Warden the eveninghe was killed while in his car. Is that so?"

  "Yes," said Eaton.

  "You are the man, then, of whom Gabriel Warden spoke to his wife?"

  "I believe so."

  "You believe so?"

  "I mean," Eaton explained quietly, "that I came by appointment to callon Mr. Warden that night. I believe that it must have been to me thatMr. Warden referred in the conversation with his wife which has sincebeen quoted in the newspapers."

  "Because you were in such a situation that, if Mr. Warden defended you,he would himself meet danger?"

  "I did not say that," Eaton denied guardedly.

  "What, then, was your position in regard to Mr. Warden?"

  Eaton remained silent.

  "You refuse to answer?" Santoine inquired.

  "I refuse."

  "In spite of the probability that Mr. Warden met his death because ofhis intention to undertake something for you?"

  "I have not been able to fix that as a probability."

  The blind man stopped. Plainly he appreciated that, where Connery andAvery had failed in their questionings, he was not likely to succeedeasily; and with his limited strength, he proceeded on a line likely tomeet less prepared resistance.

  "Mr. Eaton, have I ever injured you personally--I don't mean directly,as man to man, for I should remember that; have I ever done anythingwhich indirectly has worked injury on you or your affairs?"

  "No," Eaton answered.

  "Who sent you aboard this train?"

  "Sent me? No one."

  "You took the train of your own will because I was taking it?"

  "I have not said I took it because you were taking it."

  "That seems to be proved. You can accept i
t from me; it has beenproved. Did you take the train in order to attack me?"

  "No."

  "To spy upon me?"

  "No."

  Santoine was silent for an instant. "What was it you took the train totell me?"

  "I? Nothing."

  Santoine moved his head upon the pillow.

  "Father!" his daughter warned.

  "Oh, I am careful, Harriet; Dr. Sinclair allows me to move a little....Mr. Eaton, in one of the three answers you have just given me, you arenot telling the truth. I defy you to find in human reasoning more thanfour reasons why my presence could have made you take this train in themanner and with the attending circumstances you did. You took it toinjure me, or to protect me from injury; to learn something from me, orto inform me of something. I discard the second of these possibilitiesbecause you asked for a berth in another car and for other reasonswhich make it impossible. However, I will ask it of you. Did you takethe train to protect me from injury?"

  "No."

  "Which of your former answers do you wish to change, then?"

  "None."

  "You deny all four possibilities?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you are using denial only to hide the fact, whatever it may be;and of the four possibilities I am obliged to select the first as themost likely."

  "You mean that I attacked you?"

  "That is not what I said. I said you must have taken the train toinjure me, but that does not mean necessarily that it was to attack mewith your own hand. Any attack aimed against me would be likely tohave several agents. There would be somewhere, probably, a distantbrain that had planned it; there would be an intelligent brain near byto oversee it; and there would be a strong hand to perform it. Theoverseeing brain and the performing hand--or hands--might belong to oneperson, or to two, or more. How many there were I cannot nowdetermine, since people were allowed to get off the train. Theconductor and Avery--"

  "Father!"

  "Yes, Harriet; but I expected better of Avery. Mr. Eaton, as you areplainly withholding the truth as to your reason for taking this train,and as I have suffered injury, I am obliged--from the limitedinformation I now have--to assume that you knew an attack was to bemade by some one, upon that train. In addition to the telegram,addressed to you under your name of Eaton and informing of my presenceon the train, I have also been informed, of course, of the code messagereceived by you addressed to Hillward. You refused, I understand, tofavor Mr. Avery with an explanation of it; do you wish to give one now?"

  "No," said Eaton.

  "It has, of course, been deciphered," the blind man went on calmly."The fact that it was based upon your pocket English-Chinese dictionaryas a word-book was early suggested; the deciphering from that wassimply a trial of some score of ordinary enigma plans, until themeaning appeared."

  Eaton made no comment. Santoine went on:

  "And that very interesting meaning presented another possibleexplanation--not as to your taking the train, for as to that there canbe only the four I mentioned--but as to the attack itself, which wouldexonerate you from participation in it. It is because of this that Iam treating you with the consideration I do. If that explanation werecorrect, you would--"

  "What?"

  "You would have had nothing to do with the attack, and yet you wouldknow who made it."

  At this, Eaton stared at the blind man and wet his lips.

  "What do you mean?" he said.

  Santoine did not reply to the question. "What have you been doingyesterday and to-day?" he asked.

  "Waiting," Eaton answered.

  "For what?"

  "For the railroad people to turn me over to the police."

  "So I understood. That is why I asked you. I don't believe incat-and-mouse methods, Mr. Eaton; so I am willing to tell you thatthere is no likelihood of your being turned over to the policeimmediately. I have taken this matter out of the hands of the railroadpeople. We live in a complex world, Mr. Eaton, and I am in the mostcomplex current of it. I certainly shall not allow the publicity of apolice examination of you to publish the fact that I have been attackedso soon after the successful attack upon Mr. Warden--and in a similarmanner--until I know more about both attacks and about you--why youcame to see Warden that night and how, after failing to see him alive,you followed me, and whether that fact led to the attempt at my life."

  Eaton started to speak, and then stopped.

  "What were you going to say?" Santoine urged.

  "I will not say it," Eaton refused.

  "However, I think I understand your impulse. You were about to remindme that there has been nothing to implicate you in any guiltyconnection with the murder of Mr. Warden. I do not now charge that."

  He hesitated; then, suddenly lost in thought, as some new suggestionseemed to come to him which he desired to explain alone, he motionedwith a hand in dismissal. "That is all." Then, almost immediately:"No; wait! ... Harriet, has he made any sign while I have beentalking?"

  "Not much, if any," Harriet answered. "When you said he might not havehad anything to do with the attack upon you, but in that case he mustknow who it was that struck you, he shut his eyes and wet his lips."

  "That is all, Mr. Eaton," Santoine repeated.

  Eaton started back to his compartment. As he turned, Harriet Santoinelooked up at him and their eyes met; and her look confirmed to him whathe had felt before--that her father, now taking control of theinvestigation of the attack upon himself, was not continuing it withprejudice or predisposed desire to damage Eaton, except as the evidenceaccused him. And her manner now told, even more plainly thanSantoine's, that the blind man had viewed the evidence as far fromconclusive against Eaton; and as Harriet showed that she was glad ofthat, Eaton realized how she must have taken his side against Avery inreporting to her father.

  For Santoine must have depended entirely upon circumstances presentedto him by Avery and Connery and her; and Eaton was very certain thatAvery and Connery had accused him; so Harriet Santoine--it could onlybe she--had opposed them in his defense. The warmth of his gratitudeto her for this suffused him as he bowed to her; she returned a frank,friendly little nod which brought back to him their brief companionshipon the first day on the train.

  And as Eaton went back to his compartment through the open car, Dr.Sinclair looked up at him, but Avery, studying his cribbage hand,pretended not to notice he was passing. So Avery admitted too thataffairs were turning toward the better, just now at least, for Eaton.When he was again in his compartment, no one came to lock him in. Theporter who brought his breakfast a few minutes later, apologized forits lateness, saying it had had to be brought from a club car on thenext track, whither the others in the car, except Santoine, had gone.

  Eaton had barely finished with this tardy breakfast when a bumpingagainst the car told him that it was being coupled to a train. The newtrain started, and now the track followed the Mississippi River.Eaton, looking forward from his window as the train rounded curves, sawthat the Santoine car was now the last one of a train--presumably boundfrom Minneapolis to Chicago.

  South they went, through Minnesota and Wisconsin, and the weather grewwarmer and the spring further advanced. The snow was quite clearedfrom the ground, and the willows beside the ditches in the fields werebeginning to show green sprouts. At nine o'clock in the evening, someminutes after crossing the state line into Illinois, the train stoppedat a station where the last car was cut off.

  A motor-ambulance and other limousine motor-cars were waiting in thelight from the station. Eaton, seated at the window, saw Santoinecarried out on a stretcher and put into the ambulance. HarrietSantoine, after giving a direction to a man who apparently was achauffeur, got into the ambulance with her father. The surgeon and thenurses rode with them. They drove off. Avery entered anotherautomobile, which swiftly disappeared. Conductor Connery came for thelast time to Eaton's door.

  "Miss Santoine says you're to go with the man she's left here for you.Here's the thing
s I took from you. The money's all there. Mr.Santoine says you've been his guest on this car."

  Eaton received back his purse and bill-fold. He put them in his pocketwithout examining their contents. The porter appeared with hisovercoat and hat. Eaton put them on and stepped out of the car. Theconductor escorted him to a limousine car. "This is the gentleman,"Connery said to the chauffeur to whom Harriet Santoine had spoken. Theman opened the door of the limousine; another man, whom Eaton had notbefore seen, was seated in the car; Eaton stepped in. Connery extendedhis hand--"Good-by, sir."

  "Good-by."

  The motor-car drove down a wide, winding road with tall, spreadingtrees on both sides. Lights shone, at intervals, from windows of whatmust be large and handsome homes. The man in the car with Eaton, whoseduty plainly was only that of a guard, did not speak to Eaton nor Eatonto him. The motor passed other limousines occasionally; then, thoughthe road was still wide and smooth and still bounded by great trees, itwas lonelier; no houses appeared for half a mile; then lights gloweddirectly ahead; the car ran under the porte-cochere of a great stonecountry mansion; a servant sprang to the door of the limousine andopened it; another man seized Eaton's hand-baggage from beside thechauffeur. Eaton entered a large, beamed and paneled hallway with animmense fireplace with logs burning in it; there was a wide stairwaywhich the servant, who had appointed himself Eaton's guide, ascended.Eaton followed him and found another great hall upstairs. The servantled him to one of the doors opening off this and into a large room,fitted for a man's occupancy, with dark furniture, cases containingbooks on hunting, sports and adventure, and smoking things; off thiswas a dressing room with the bath next; beyond was a bedroom.

  "These are to be your rooms, sir," the servant said. A valet appearedand unpacked Eaton's traveling bag.

  "Anything else, sir?" The man, who had finished unpacking his clothesand laying them out, approached respectfully. "I've drawn your bathtepid, sir; is that correct?"

  "Quite," Eaton said. "There's nothing else."

  "Very good. Good night, sir. If there's anything else, the secondbutton beside the bed will bring me, sir."

  When the man had withdrawn noiselessly and closed the door, Eaton stoodstaring about the rooms dazedly; then he went over and tried the door.It opened; it was not locked. He turned about and went into thedressing room and began taking off his clothes; he stepped into thebathroom and felt the tepid bath. In a moment he was in the bath;fifteen minutes later he was in bed with the window open beside him,letting in the crisp, cool breeze. But he had not the slightest ideaof sleep; he had undressed, bathed, and gone to bed to convince himselfthat what he was doing was real, that he was not acting in a dream.

  He got up and went to the window and looked out, but the night wascloudy and dark, and he could see nothing except some lighted windows.As he watched, the light was switched out. Eaton went back to bed, butamazement would not let him sleep.

  He was in Santoine's house; he knew it could be no other thanSantoine's house. It was to get into Santoine's house that he had comefrom Asia; he had thought and planned and schemed all through the longvoyage on the steamer how it was to be done. He would have beenwilling to cross the Continent on foot to accomplish it; no labor thathe could imagine would have seemed too great to him if this had beenits end; and here it had been done without effort on his part,naturally, inevitably! Chance and circumstance had done it! And as herealized this, his mind was full of what he had to do in Santoine'shouse. For many days he had not thought about that; it had seemedimpossible that he could have any opportunity to act for himself. Andthe return to his thoughts of possibility of carrying out his originalplan brought before him thoughts of his friends--those friends who,through his exile, had been faithful to him but whose identity orexistence he had been obliged to deny, when questioned, to protect themas well as himself.

  As he lay on his bed in the dark, he stared upward to the ceiling, wideawake, thinking of those friends whose devotion to him might bejustified at last; and he went over again and tested and reviewed theplan he had formed. But it never had presumed a position for him--evenif it was the position of a semi-prisoner--inside Santoine's house.And he required more information of the structure of the house than heas yet had, to correct his plan further. But he could not, without toogreat risk of losing everything, discover more that night; he turnedover and set himself to go to sleep.