CHAPTER XII
THE ALLY IN THE HOUSE
The first gray of dawn roused Eaton, and drawing on trousers and coatover his pajamas, he seated himself by the open window to see the houseby daylight. The glow, growing in the east, showed him first that thehouse stood on the shore of the lake; the light came to him acrosswater, and from the lake had come the crisp, fresh-smelling breeze thathad blown into his windows through the night. As it grew lighter, hecould see the house; it was an immense structure of smooth gray stone.Eaton was in its central part, his windows looking to the south. Tothe north of him was a wing he could not see--the wing which hadcontained the porte-cochere under which the motor-car had stopped thenight before; and the upper part of this wing, he had been able totell, contained the servants' quarters. To the south, in front of him,was another wing composed, apparently in part at least, of familybedrooms.
Between the house and the lake was a terrace, part flagged, partgravel, part lawn not yet green but with green shoots showing among thelast year's grass. A stone parapet walled in this terrace along thetop of the bluff which pitched precipitously down to the lake fiftyfeet below, and the narrow beach of sand and shingle. As Eatonwatched, one of the two nurses who had been on the train came to awindow of the farthest room on the second floor of the south wing andstood looking out; that, then, must be Santoine's room; and Eaton drewback from his window as he noted this.
The sun had risen, and its beams, reflected up from the lake, danced onhis ceiling. Eaton, chilled by the sharp air off the water--andknowing now the locality where he must be--pulled off his coat andtrousers and jumped back into bed. The motor driveway which stretchesnorth from Chicago far into Wisconsin leaves between it and the lake abroad wooded strip for spacious grounds and dwellings; Santoine's housewas one of these.
Eaton felt that its location was well suited for his plans; and herealized, too, that circumstances had given him time for anything hemight wish to do; for the night's stop at Minneapolis and Santoine'sunexpected taking him into his own charge must have made Eaton'sdisappearance complete; for the present he was lost to "them" who hadbeen "following" him, and to his friends alike. His task, then, was tolet his friends know where he was without letting "them" learn it; andthinking of how this was to be done, he fell asleep again.
At nine he awoke with a start; then, recollecting everything, he jumpedup and shut his windows. There was a respectful, apologetic knock atthe door; evidently a servant had been waiting in the hall for somesound within the room.
"May I come in, sir?"
"Come in."
The man who had attended him the evening before entered.
"Your bath, sir; hot or cold in the morning, sir?"
"Hot," Eaton answered.
"Of course, sir; I'd forgotten you'd just come from the Orient, sir.Do you wish anything first, sir?"
"Anything?"
"Anything to drink, sir."
"Oh, no."
The man again prepared the bath. When Eaton returned to hisdressing-room, he found the servant awaiting him with shaving mug,razor and apron. The man shaved him and trimmed his hair.
"I shall tell them to bring breakfast up, sir; or will you go down?"the man asked then.
Eaton considered. The manners of servants are modeled on the feelingsof their masters, and the man's deference told plainly that, althoughEaton might be a prisoner, he was not to be treated openly as such.
"I think I can go down," Eaton replied, when the man had finisheddressing him. He found the hall and the rooms below bright and openbut unoccupied; a servant showed him to a blue Delft breakfast room tothe east, where a fire was burning in an old-fashioned Dutch fireplace.A cloth was spread on the table, but no places were set; a number ofcovered dishes, steaming above electric discs, were on the sideboard.The servant in attendance there took covers off these dishes as Eatonapproached; he chose his breakfast and sat down, the man laying oneplace for him. This manner of serving gave Eaton no hint as to howmany others were in the house or might be expected to breakfast. Hehad half finished his bacon and greens before any one else appeared.
This was a tall, carefully dressed man of more than fifty, withhandsome, well-bred features--plainly a man of position and wealth butwithout experience in affairs, and without power. He was dark hairedand wore a mustache which, like his hair, was beginning to gray. As heappeared in the hall without hat or overcoat, Eaton understood that helived in the house; he came directly into the breakfast room andevidently had not breakfasted. He observed Eaton and gave him theimpersonal nod of a man meeting another whom he may have met but hasforgotten.
"Good morning, Stiles," he greeted the servant.
"Good morning, sir," the man returned.
The newcomer sat down at the table opposite Eaton, and the servant,without inquiring his tastes, brought pineapple, rolls and coffee.
"I am Wallace Blatchford," the stranger volunteered as Eaton looked up.He gave the name in a manner which seemed to assume that he now must berecalled; Eaton therefore feigned recognition as he gave him his namein return.
"Basil Santoine is better this morning," Blatchford announced.
"I understood he was very comfortable last evening," Eaton said. "Ihave not seen either Miss Santoine or Mr. Avery this morning."
"I saw Basil Santoine the last thing last night," the other boasted."He was very tired; but when he was home, of course he wished me to bebeside him for a time."
"Of course," Eaton replied, as the other halted. There was a humilityin the boast of this man's friendship for Santoine which stirredsympathy, almost pity.
"I believe with the doctors that Basil Santoine is to be spared," thetall man continued. "The nation is to be congratulated. He iscertainly one of the most useful men in America. The President--muchas he is to be admired for unusual qualities--cannot compare inservice. Suppose the President were assassinated; instantly the VicePresident would take his place; the visible government of the countrywould go on; there would be no chaos, scarcely any confusion. Butsuppose Basil Santoine had died--particularly at this juncture!"
Eaton finished his breakfast but remained at the table whileBlatchford, who scarcely touched his food, continued to boast, in hisqueer humility, of the blind man and of the blind man's friendship forhim. He checked himself only when Harriet Santoine appeared in thedoorway. He and Eaton at once were on their feet.
"My dear! He wants to see me now?" the tall man almost pleaded. "Hewants me to be with him this morning?"
"Of course, Cousin Wallace," the girl said gently, almost withcompassion.
"You will excuse me then, sir," Blatchford said hastily to Eaton andhurried off. The girl gazed after him, and when she turned the nextinstant to Eaton her eyes were wet.
"Good morning!"
"Good morning, Miss Santoine. You are coming to breakfast?"
"Oh, no; I've had my breakfast; I was going out to see that thingsoutside the house have been going on well since we have been away."
"May I go with you while you do that?" Eaton tried to ask casually.Important to him as was the plan of the house, it was scarcely lessessential for him to know the grounds.
She hesitated.
"I understand it's my duty at present to stay wherever I may be put;but I'd hardly run away from you while inside your own grounds."
This did not seem to be the question troubling her. "Very well," shesaid at last. The renewed friendliness--or the reservation of judgmentof him--which she had let him see again after the interview with herfather in the car the morning before, was not absent; it seemed onlycovered over with responsibilities which came upon her now that she wasat home. She was abstracted as they passed through the hall and a manbrought Eaton's overcoat and hat and a maid her coat. Harriet led theway out to the terrace. The day was crisp, but the breeze had lost thechill it had had earlier in the morning; the lake was free from ice;only along the little projecting breakwaters which guarded the bluffagainst the washing of the waves
, some ice still clung, and this wasrapidly melting. A graveled path led them around the south end of thehouse.
"Your father is still better this morning?" Eaton asked.
"What did you say?" she asked.
He repeated his question. Was her constraint, he wondered, due to herfeeling, somehow, that for the first time in their short acquaintancehe was consciously "using" her, if only for the purpose of gaining animmediate view of the grounds? He felt that; but he told himself hewas not doing the sort of thing he had refused to do when, on thetrain, he had avoided her invitation to present him to her father.Circumstances now were entirely different. And as he shook off thereproach to himself, she also came from her abstraction.
"Yes; Father's improving steadily and--Dr. Sinclair says--much morerapidly than it would have been right to expect. Dr. Sinclair is goingto remain only to-day; then he is to turn Father over to the villagedoctor, who is very good. We will keep the same nurses at present."
"Mr. Blatchford told me that might be the arrangement."
"Oh, you had some talk with Mr. Blatchford, then?"
"We introduced ourselves."
Harriet was silent for a moment, evidently expecting some comment fromhim; when he offered none, she said, "Father would not like you toaccept the estimate of him which Mr. Blatchford must have given you."
"What do you mean?"
"Didn't Mr. Blatchford argue with you that Father must be the greatestman living?"
"He certainly expressed great admiration for your father," Eaton said."He is your cousin?"
"I call him that; he's Father's cousin. They were very close friendswhen they were boys, though Cousin Wallace is a few years older. Theyentered preparatory school together and were together all throughcollege and ever since. I suppose Cousin Wallace told you that it washe-- Those are the garages and stables over there to the north, Mr.Eaton. This road leads to them. And over there are the toolhouses andgardeners' quarters; you can only just see them through the trees."
She had interrupted herself suddenly, as though she realized that hisattention had not been upon what she was saying but given to the planof the grounds. He recalled himself quickly.
"Yes; what was it you were saying about Mr. Blatchford?"
She glanced at him keenly, then colored and went on. "I was sayingthat Father and he went through college together. They both werelooked upon as young men of very unusual promise--Mr. Blatchfordespecially; I suppose because Father, being younger, had not shown soplainly what he might become. Then Father was blinded--he was justsixteen; and--and Cousin Wallace never fulfilled the promise he hadgiven."
"I don't quite see the connection," Eaton offered.
"Oh, I thought Cousin Wallace must have told you; he tells almost everyone as soon as he meets them. It was he who blinded Father. It was ahunting accident, and Father was made totally blind. Father alwayssaid it wasn't Cousin Wallace's fault; but Mr. Blatchford was almostbeside himself because he believed he had ruined Father's life. ButFather went on and did all that he has done, while it stopped poorCousin Wallace. It's queer how things work out! Cousin Wallacethought it was Father's, but it was his own life that he destroyed.He's happy only when Father wants him with him; and to himself--and tomost people--he's only the man that blinded Basil Santoine."
"I think I shall understand him now," Eaton said quietly.
"I like the way you said that.... Here, Mr. Eaton, is the best placeto see the grounds."
Their path had topped a little rise; they stopped; and Eaton, as shepointed out the different objects, watched carefully and printed theparticulars and the general arrangement of the surroundings on hismemory.
As he looked about, he could see that further ahead the path they wereon paralleled a private drive which two hundred yards away entered whatmust be the public pike; for he could see motor-cars passing along it.He noted the direction of this and of the other paths, so that he couldfollow them in the dark, if necessary. The grounds were broken byravines at right angles to the shore, which were crossed by littlebridges; other bridges carried the public pike across them, for hecould hear them rumble as the motor-cars crossed them; a man couldtravel along the bottom of one of those ravines for quite a distancewithout being seen. To north and south outside of the cared-forgrounds there were clumps of rank, wild-growing thicket. To the east,the great house which the trees could not hide stood out against thelake, and beyond and below it, was the beach; but a man could nottravel along the beach by daylight without being visible for miles fromthe top of the bluff, and even at night, one traveling along the beachwould be easily intercepted.
Could Harriet Santoine divine these thoughts in his mind? He turned toher as he felt her watching him; but if she had been observing him ashe looked about, she was not regarding him now. He followed herdirection and saw at a little distance a powerful, strapping man,half-concealed--though he did not seem to be hiding--behind somebushes. The man might have passed for an undergardener; but he was notworking; and once before during their walk Eaton had seen another man,powerfully built as this one, who had looked keenly at him and thenaway quickly. Harriet flushed slightly as she saw that Eaton observedthe man; Eaton understood then that the man was a guard, one ofseveral, probably, who had been put about the house to keep watch ofhim.
Had Harriet Santoine understood his interest in the grounds aspreparatory to a plan to escape, and had she therefore taken him out toshow him the guards who would prevent him? He did not speak of themen, and neither did she; with her, he went on, silently, to thegardeners' cottages, where she gave directions concerning the springwork being done on the grounds. Then they went back to the house,exchanging--for the first time between them--ordinary inanities.
She left him in the hall, saying she was going to visit her father; butpart way up the stairs, she paused.
"You'll find books in the library of every conceivable sort, Mr.Eaton," she called down to him.
"Thank you," he answered; and he went into the library, but he did notlook for a book. Left alone, he stood listening.
As her footsteps on the stairs died away, no other sound came to him.The lower part of the house seemed deserted. He went out again intothe hall and looked about quickly and waited and listened; then hestepped swiftly and silently to a closet where, earlier, he had noticeda telephone. He shut himself in and took up the receiver of theinstrument. As he placed it to his ear, he heard the almostimperceptible sound of another receiver on the line being lifted; thenthe girl at the suburban central said, "Number, please."
Eaton held the receiver to his ear without making reply. The otherperson on the line--evidently it was an extension in the house--alsoremained silent. The girl at central repeated the request; neitherEaton nor the other person replied. Eaton hung up the receiver andstepped from the closet. He encountered Donald Avery in the hall.
"You have been telephoning?" Avery asked.
"No."
"Oh; you could not get your number?"
"I did not ask for it."
Eaton gazed coolly at Avery, knowing now that Avery had been at theother telephone on the line or had had report from the person who hadbeen prepared to overhear.
"So you have had yourself appointed my--warden?"
Avery took a case from his pocket and lighted a cigar without offeringEaton one. Eaton glanced past him; Harriet Santoine was descending thestair. Avery turned and saw her, and again taking out his cigar-case,now offered it to Eaton, who ignored it.
"I found Father asleep," Harriet said to Eaton.
"May I see you alone for a moment?" he asked.
"Of course," she said; and as Avery made no motion, she turned towardthe door of the large room in the further end of the south wing. Eatonstarted to follow.
"Where are you taking him, Harriet?" Avery demanded of her sharply.
She had seemed to Eaton to have been herself about to reconsider heraction; but Avery decided her.
"In here," she replied; and proc
eeded to open the door which exposedanother door just within, which she opened and closed after she hadentered and Eaton had followed her in. Her manner was like that ofhalf an hour before, when she showed him the grounds beyond the house.And Eaton, feeling his muscles tighten, strove to control himself andexamine the room with only casual curiosity. It would well excuse anyone's interest.
It was very large, perhaps forty feet long and certainly thirty inwidth. There was a huge stone fireplace on the west wall where thewing connected with the main part of the house; and all about the otherwall, and particularly to the east, were high and wide windows; andthrough those to the south, the sunlight now was flooding in.Bookcases were built between the windows up to the ceiling, andbookcases covered the west wall on both sides of the fireplace. Andevery case was filled with books; upon a table at one side lay a pileof volumes evidently recently received and awaiting reading andclassification. There was a great rack where periodicals of everydescription--popular, financial, foreign and American--were kept; andthere were great presses preserving current newspapers.
At the center of the room was a large table-desk with a chair and alounge beside it; there were two other lounges in the room, one at thesouth in the sun and another at the end toward the lake. There weretwo smaller table-desks on the north side of the room, subordinate tothe large desk. There were two "business phonograph" machines withcabinets for records; there was a telephone on the large desk andothers on the two smaller tables. A safe, with a combination lock, wasbuilt into a wall. The most extraordinary feature of the room was asteep, winding staircase, in the corner beyond the fireplace, evidentlyconnecting with the room above.
The room in which they were was so plainly Basil Santoine's work-roomthat the girl did not comment upon that; but as Eaton glanced at thestairs, she volunteered:
"They go to Father's room; that has the same space above."
"I see. This is a rather surprising room."
"You mean the windows?" she asked. "That surprises most people--sovery much light. Father can't see even sunlight, but he says he feelsit. He likes light, anyway; and it is true that he can tell, withouthis eyes, whether the day is bright or cloudy, and whether the light isturned on at night. The rooms in this wing, too, are nearlysound-proof. There is not much noise from outside here, of course,except the waves; but there are noises from other parts of the house.Noise does not irritate Father, but his hearing has become very acutebecause of his blindness, and noises sometimes distract him when he isworking.... Now, what was it you wished to say to me, Mr. Eaton?"
Eaton, with a start, recollected himself. His gaining a view of thatroom was of so much more importance than what he had to say that, for amoment, he had forgotten. Then:
"I wanted to ask you exactly what my position here is to be."
"Oh," she said. "I thought that was plain to you from what Fathersaid."
"You mean that I am to be kept here?"
"Yes."
"Indefinitely?"
"Until--as Father indicated to you on the train--he has satisfiedhimself as to the source of the attack upon him."
"I understand. In the meantime, I am not to be allowed to communicateat all with any one outside?"
"That might depend upon the circumstances."
He gazed at the telephone instrument on the desk. "Miss Santoine, amoment ago I tried to telephone, when I--" He described the incidentto her. The color on her cheeks heightened. "Some one was appointedto listen on the wire?" he challenged.
"Yes." She hesitated, and then she added, in the manner in which shehad directed him to the guard outside the house: "And besides, Ibelieve there are--or will be--the new phonographic devices on everyline, which record both sides of a conversation. Subject to that, youmay use the telephone."
"Thank you," said Eaton grimly. "I suppose if I were to write aletter, it would be taken from me and opened and read."
She colored ruddier and made no comment.
"And if I wished to go to the city, I would be prevented or followed?"
"Prevented, for the present," she replied.
"Thank you."
"That is all?"
The interview had become more difficult for her; he saw that she wasanxious to have it over.
"Just one moment more, Miss Santoine. Suppose I resist this?"
"Yes?"
"Your father is having me held here in what I might describe as a freesort of confinement, but still in confinement, without any legal chargeagainst me. Suppose I refuse to submit to that--suppose I demand rightto consult, to communicate with some one in order, let us say, todefend myself against the charge of having attacked your father. Whatthen?"
"I can only answer as before, Mr. Eaton."
"That I will be prevented?"
"For the present. I don't know all that Father has ordered done aboutyou; but he is awaiting the result of several investigations. Thetelegrams you received doubtless are being traced to their sources;other inquiries are being made. As you have only lately come back toAmerica, they may extend far and take some time."
"Thank you," he acknowledged. He went to the door, opened it and wentout; he closed it after him and left her alone.
Harriet stood an instant vacantly staring after him; then she went tothe door and fastened it with a catch. She came back to the greattable-desk--her blind father's desk--and seated herself in the greatchair, his chair, and buried her face in her hands. She hadseemed--and she knew that she had seemed--quite composed as she talkedto Eaton; now she was not composed. Her face was burning hot; herhands, against her cheeks, were cold; tremors of feeling shook her asshe thought of the man who just had left her. Why, she asked herself,was she not able to make herself treat this man in the way that hermind told her she should have treated him? That he might be the onewho had dealt the blow intended to kill her father--her being could notand would not accept that. Yet, the only reason she had to deny it,was her feeling.
That Eaton must have been involved in the attack or, at least, musthave known and now knew something about it which he was keeping fromthem, seemed certain. Yet she did not, she could not, abominate andhate this man. Instead, she found herself impelled, against allnatural reason, more and more to trust him. Moreover, was it fair toher father for her to do this?
Since childhood, since babyhood, even, no one had ever meant anythingto her in comparison with her father. Her mother had died when she wasyoung; she had never had, in her play as a child, the careless abandonof other children, because in spite of play she had been thinking ofher father; the greatest joy of childhood she could remember waswalking hand in hand with her father and telling him the things shesaw; it had been their "game"; and as she grew older and it had ceasedto be merely a game--as she had grown more and more useful to the blindman, and he had learned more fully to use and trust her--she had foundit only more interesting, a greater pleasure. She had never had anyother ambition--and she had no other now--except to serve her father;her joy was to be his eyes; her triumph had been when she had foundthat, though he searched the world and paid fortunes to find others to"see" for him, no one could serve him as she could; she had neverthought of herself apart from him.
Now her father had been attacked and injured--attacked foully, while heslept; he had come close to death, had suffered; he was stillsuffering. Certainly she ought to hate, at least be aloof from anyone, every one, against whom the faintest suspicion breathed of havingbeen concerned in that dastardly attack upon her father; and that shefound herself without aversion to Eaton, when he was with her, nowfilled her with shame and remorse.
She crouched lower against this desk which so represented her father inhis power; she felt tears of shame at herself hot on her cold hands.Then she got up and recollected herself. Her father, when he wouldawake, would wish to work; there were certain, important matters hemust decide at once.
Harriet went to the end of the room and to the right of the entrancedoor. She looked about, with a hab
it of caution, and then removed anumber of books from a shelf about shoulder high; she thus exposed apanel at the back of the bookcase, which she slid back. Behind itappeared the steel door of a combination wall-safe. She opened it andtook out two large, thick envelopes with tape about them, sealed andaddressed to Basil Santoine; but they were not stamped, for they hadnot been through the mail; they had been delivered by a messenger.Harriet reclosed the safe, concealed it and took the envelopes back toher father's desk and opened them to examine their contents preparatoryto taking them to him. But even now her mind was not on her work; shewas thinking of Eaton, where he had gone and what he was doing and--washe thinking of her?
Eaton had left the room, thinking of her. The puzzle of his positionin relation to her, and hers to him, filled his mind too. That she hadbeen constrained by circumstances and the opinions of those around herto assume a distrust of him which she did not truly feel, was plain tohim; but it was clear that, whatever she felt, she would obey herfather's directions in regard to him. And she had told that BasilSantoine, if he was to hold his prisoner as almost a guest in his housepending developments, was to keep that guest strictly fromcommunication with any one outside. Santoine, of course, was awarefrom the telegram that others had been acting with Eaton; the incidentat the telephone had shown that Santoine had anticipated that Eaton'sfirst necessity would be to get in touch with his friends. And this,now, indeed was a necessity. The gaining of Santoine's house, underconditions which he would not have dared to dream of, would beworthless now unless immediately--before Santoine could get any furthertrace of him--he could get word to and receive word from his friends.
He had stopped, after leaving Santoine's study, in the alcove of thehall in front of the double doors which he had closed behind him; heheard Harriet fasten the inner one. As he stood now, undecided whereto go, a young woman crossed the main part of the hall, comingevidently from outside the house--she had on hat and jacket and wasgloved; she was approaching the doors of the room he just had left, andso must pass him. He stared at sight of her and choked; then, hecontrolled himself rigidly, waiting until she should see him.
She halted suddenly as she saw him and grew very pale, and her glovedhands went swiftly to her breast and pressed against it; she caughtherself together and looked swiftly and fearfully about her and outinto the hall. Seeing no one but himself, she came a step nearer,"Hugh!" she breathed. Her surprise was plainly greater than his ownhad been at sight of her; but she checked herself again quickly andlooked warningly back at the hall; then she fixed on him her blueeyes--which were very like Eaton's, though she did not resemble himclosely in any other particular--as though waiting his instructions.
He passed her and looked about the hall. There was no one in sight inthe hall or on the stairs or within the other rooms which opened intothe hall. The door Eaton had just come from stayed shut. He held hisbreath while he listened; but there was no sound anywhere in the housewhich told him they were likely to be seen; so he came back to the spotwhere he had been standing.
"Stay where you are, Edith," he whispered. "If we hear any one coming,we are just passing each other in the hall."
"I understand; of course, Hugh! But you--you're here! In his house!"
"Even lower, Edith; remember I'm Eaton--Philip Eaton."
"Of course; I know; and I'm Miss Davis here--Mildred Davis."
"They let you come in and out like this--as you want, with no onewatching you?"
"No, no; I do stenography for Mr. Avery sometimes, as I wrote you.That is all. When he works here, I do his typing; and some even forMr. Santoine himself. But I am not confidential yet; they send for mewhen they want me."
"Then they sent for you to-day?"
"No; but they have just got back, and I thought I would come to see ifanything was wanted. But never mind about me; you--how did you gethere? What are you doing here?"
Eaton drew further back into the alcove as some one passed through thehall above. The girl turned swiftly to the tall pier mirror near towhich she stood; she faced it, slowly drawing off her gloves, tremblingand not looking toward him. The foot-steps ceased overhead; Eaton,assured no one was coming down the stairs, spoke swiftly to tell her asmuch as he might in their moment. "He--Santoine--wasn't taken ill onthe train, Edith; he was attacked."
"Attacked!" Her lips barely moved.
"He was almost killed; but they concealed it, Edith--pretended he wasonly ill. I was on the train--you know, of course; I got yourwire--and they suspected me of the attack."
"You? But they didn't find out about you, Hugh?"
"No; they are investigating. Santoine would not let them make anythingpublic. He brought me here while he is trying to find out about me.So I'm here, Edith--here! Is it here too?"
Again steps sounded in the hall above. The girl swiftly busied herselfwith gloves and hat; Eaton stood stark in suspense. The servantabove--it was a servant they had heard before, he recognizednow--merely crossed from one room to another overhead. Now the girl'slips moved again.
"It?" She formed the question noiselessly.
"The draft of the new agreement."
"It either has been sent to him, or it will be sent to him verysoon--here."
"Here in this house with me!"
"Mr. Santoine has to be a party to it--he's to draft it, I think.Anyway, he hasn't seen it yet--I know that. It is either here now,Hugh, or it will be here before long."
"You can't find out about that?"
"Whether it is here, or when it will be? I think I can."
"Where will it be when it is here?"
"Where? Oh!" The girl's eyes went to the wall close to where Eatonstood; she seemed to measure with them a definite distance from thedoor and a point shoulder high, and to resist the impulse to come overand put her hand upon the spot. As Eaton followed her look, he heard aslight and muffled click as if from the study; but no sound could reachthem through the study doors and what he heard came from the wallitself.
"A safe?" he whispered.
"Yes; Miss Santoine--she's in there, isn't she?--closed it just now.There are two of them hidden behind the books one on each side of thedoor."
Eaton tapped gently on the wall; the wall was brick; the safeundoubtedly was backed with steel.
"The best way is from inside the room," he concluded.
She nodded. "Yes. If you--"
"Look out!"
Some one now was coming downstairs. The girl had time only to whisperswiftly, "If we don't get a chance to speak again, watch that vase."She pointed to a bronze antique which stood on a table near them."When I'm sure the agreement is in the house, I'll drop a glove-buttonin that--a black one, if I think it'll be in the safe on the right,white on the left. Now go."
Eaton moved quietly on and into the drawing-room. Avery's voiceimmediately afterwards was heard; he was speaking to Miss Davis, whomhe had found in the hallway. Eaton was certain there was no suspicionthat he had talked with her there; indeed, Avery seemed to suppose thatEaton was still in the study with Harriet Santoine. It was her lapse,then, which had let him out and had given him that chance; but it was alapse, he discovered, which was not likely to favor him again. Fromthat time, while never held strictly in restraint, he found himselfalways in the sight of some one. Blatchford, in default of any oneelse, now appeared to assume the oversight of him as his duty. Eatonlunched with Blatchford, dined with Blatchford and Avery--Blatchford'spresence as a buffer against Avery's studied offense to him alonemaking the meal endurable. Eaton went to his room early, where at lasthe was left alone.
The day, beginning with his discovery of the fact that he was inSantoine's house and continuing through the walk outside, which firsthad shown him the lay of the grounds, and then the chance at the sightof Santoine's study followed by the meeting just outside the studydoor--all this had been more than satisfactory to him. He sat at hiswindow thinking it over. The weather had been clear and there was amoon; as he watched the light upon th
e water and gazed now and again atthe south wing where Santoine had his study, suddenly several windowson the first floor blazed out simultaneously; some one had enteredSantoine's work-room and turned on the light. Almost at once the lightwent out; then, a minute or so later, the same windows glowed dully.The lights in the room had been turned on again, but heavy, opaquecurtains had been drawn over the windows before the room was relighted.These curtains were so close over the windows that, unless Eaton hadbeen attracted by the first flash of light, he scarcely would havenoticed that the lights were burning within the room.
He had observed, during the day, that Avery or Harriet had been at workin that room--one of them or both--almost all day; and besides the girlhe had met in the hall, there had been at least one other stenographer.Must work in this house go on so continuously that it was necessary forsome one to work at night, even when Santoine lay ill and unable tomake other than the briefest and most important dispositions? And whowas working in that room now, Avery or Harriet? He let himself think,idly, about the girl--how strange her life had been--that part of it atleast which was spent, as he had gathered most of her waking hours ofrecent years had been spent, with her father. Strange, almost, as hisown life! And what a wonderful girl it had made of her--clever, sweet,lovable, with more than a woman's ordinary capacity for devotion andself-sacrifice.
But, if she were the one working there, was she the sort of girl shehad seemed to be? If her service to her father was not only on hispersonal side but if also she was intimate in his business affairs,must she not therefore have shared the cruel code which had terrorizedEaton for the last four years and kept him an exile in Asia and which,at any hour yet, threatened to take his life? A grim set came toEaton's lips; his mind went again to his own affairs.