The Blind Man's Eyes

  CHAPTER XXIII

  NOT EATON--OVERTON

  Santoine awoke at five o'clock. The messenger whom he had despatched afew hours earlier had not yet returned. The blind man felt strong andsteady; he had food brought him; while he was eating it, his messengerreturned. Santoine saw the man alone and, when he had dismissed him,he sent for his daughter.

  Harriet had waited helplessly at the house all day. All day the househad been besieged. The newspaper men--or most of them--and the crowdsof the curious could be kept off; but others--neighbors, friends of herfather's or their wives or other members of their families--claimedtheir prerogative of intrusion and question in time of trouble. Manyof those who thus gained admittance were unused to the flattery ofreporter's questions; and from their interviews, sensations continuedto grow.

  The stranger in Santoine's house--the man whom no one knew and who hadgiven his name as Philip Eaton--in all the reports was proclaimed themurderer. The first reports in the papers had assailed him; thestories of the afternoon papers became a public clamour for his quickcapture, trial and execution. The newspapers had sent the idle and thesensation seekers, with the price of carfare to the country place, tojoin the pack roaming the woods for Eaton. Harriet, standing at awindow, could see them beating through the trees beyond the house; andas she watched them, wild, hot anger against them seized her. Shelonged to rush out and strike them and shame them and drive them away.

  The village police station called her frequently on the telephone toinform her of the progress of the hunt. Twice, they told her, Eatonhad been seen, but both times he had avoided capture; they made nomention of his having been fired upon. Avery, in charge of the pursuitin the field, was away all day; he came in only for a few moments atlunch time and then Harriet avoided him. As the day progressed, thepursuit had been systematized; the wooded spots which were the onlyones that Eaton could have reached unobserved from the places where hehad been seen, had been surrounded. They were being searched carefullyone by one. Through the afternoon, Harriet kept herself informed ofthis search; there was no report that Eaton had been seen again, butthe places where he could be grew steadily fewer.

  The day had grown toward dusk, when a servant brought her word that herfather wished to see her. Harriet went up to him fearfully. The blindman seemed calm and quiet; a thin, square packet lay on the bed besidehim; he held it out to her without speaking.

  She snatched it in dread; the shape of the packet and the manner inwhich it was fastened told her it must be a photograph. "Open it," herfather directed.

  She snapped the string and tore off the paper.

  She stared at it, and her breath left her; she held it and stared andstared, sobbing now as she breathed. The photograph was of Hugh, butit showed him as she had never seen or known him; the even, directeyes, the good brow, the little lift of the head were his; he wasyounger in the picture--she was seeing him when he was hardly more thana boy. But it was a boy to whom something startling, amazing, horriblehad happened, numbing and dazing him so that he could only stare outfrom the picture in frightened, helpless defiance. That oppressionwhich she had felt in him had just come upon him; he was not yet usedto bearing what had happened; it seemed incredible and unbearable tohim; she felt instinctively that he had been facing, when this picturewas taken, that injustice which had changed him into theself-controlled, watchful man that she had known.

  So, as she contrasted this man with the boy that he had been, her loveand sympathy for him nearly overpowered her. She clutched the pictureto her, pressed it against her cheek; then suddenly conscious that heremotion might be audible to her father, she quickly controlled herself.

  "What is it you want to know, Father?" she asked.

  "You have answered me already what I was going to ask, my dear," hesaid to her quietly.

  "What, Father?"

  "That is the picture of Eaton?"

  "Yes."

  "I thought so."

  She tried to assure herself of the shade of the meaning in her father'stone; but she could not. She understood that her recognition of thepicture had satisfied him in regard to something over which he had beenin doubt; but whether this was to work in favor of Hugh andherself--she thought of herself now inseparably with Hugh--or whetherit threatened them, she could not tell.

  "Father, what does this mean?" she cried to him.

  "What, dear?"

  "Your having the picture. Where did you get it?"

  Her father made no reply; she repeated it till he granted, "I knewwhere it might be. I sent for it."

  "But--but, Father--" It came to her now that her father must know whoHugh was. "Who--"

  "I know who he is now," her father said calmly. "I will tell you whenI can."

  "When you can?"

  "Yes," he said. He was still an instant; she waited. "Where isAvery?" he asked her, as though his mind had gone to another subjectinstantly.

  "He has not been in, I believe, since noon."

  "He is overseeing the search for Eaton?"

  "Yes."

  "Send for him. Tell him I wish to see him here at the house; he is toremain within the house until I have seen him."

  Something in her father's tone startled and perplexed her; she thoughtof Donald now only as the most eager and most vindictive of Eaton'spursuers. Was her father removing Donald from among those seekingEaton? Was he sending for him because what he had just learned wassomething which would make more rigorous and desperate the search? Theblind 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 dismissal. He seemed to have forgottenthe picture; at least, as his daughter moved toward the door, he gaveno direction concerning it. She halted, looking back at him. Shewould not carry the picture away, secretly, like this. She was notashamed of her love for Eaton; whatever might be said or thought ofhim, 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 inquiredfor Avery; he had not returned so she sent for him. She went down tothe deserted library and waited there with the picture of Hugh in herhand. The day had drawn to dusk. She could no longer see the picturein the fading light; she could only recall it; and now, as she recalledit, the picture itself---not her memory of her father's manner inrelation 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 picture that gave her this strange uneasiness quiteseparate and distinct from all that she had felt when she first lookedat it, she could not tell; but the more she studied it, the moretroubled and frightened she grew.

  The picture was a plain, unretouched print pasted upon common squarecardboard without photographer's emboss or signature; and printed withthe picture, were four plain, distinct numerals--8253. She did notknow what they meant or if they had any real significance, but somehownow she was more afraid for Hugh than she had been. She trembled asshe 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. He wasin riding clothes and was disheveled and dusty from leading the men onhorseback through the woods. She saw at her first glance at him thathis search had not yet succeeded and she threw her head back in relief.Donald seemed to have returned without meeting the servant sent for himand, seeing the light, he had looked into the library idly; but when hesaw her, he approached her quickly.

  "What have you there?" he demanded of her.

  She flushed at the tone. "What right have you to ask?" Her instantimpulse had been to conceal the picture, but that would make it seemshe was ashamed of it; she held it so Donald could see it if he looked.He did look and suddenly seized the picture from her.

  "Don!" she cried at
him.

  He stared at the picture and then up at her. "Where did you get this,Harriet?"

  "Don!"

  "Where did you get it?" he repeated. "Are you ashamed to say?"

  "Ashamed? Father gave it to me!"

  "Your father!" Avery started; but if anything had caused himapprehension, it instantly disappeared. "Then didn't he tell you whothis man Eaton is?"

  His tone terrified her, made her confused; she snatched for the picturebut he held it from her. "Didn't he tell you what this picture is?"

  "What?" she repeated.

  "What did he say to you?"

  "He got the picture and had me see it; he asked me if it was--Mr.Eaton. I told him yes."

  "And then didn't he tell you who Eaton was?" Avery iterated.

  "What do you mean, Don?"

  He put the picture down on the table beside him and, as she rushed forit, 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!"

  "Why not?"

  "I don't want you to."

  "Why not?"

  She struggled to free herself from him.

  "I know, of course," he said. "It's because of him." He jerked hishead 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; hewill let you know when you can go to him."

  "When did he tell you that?"

  "Just now."

  "When he gave you the picture?"

  "Yes."

  Avery had almost let her go; now he held her hard again. "Then hewanted me to tell you about this Eaton."

  "Why should he have you tell me about--Mr. Eaton?"

  "You know!" he said to her.

  She shrank and turned her head away and shut her eyes not to see him.And he was the man whom, until some strange moment a few days ago, shehad supposed she was some time to marry. Amazement burned through hernow at the thought; because this man had been well looking, fairlyinteresting and amusing and got on well both with her father andherself and because he cared for her, she had supposed she could marryhim. His assertion of his right to intimacy with her revolted her, andhis confidence that he had ability, by something he might reveal, totake her from Eaton and bring her back within reach of himself.

  Or wasn't it merely that? She twisted in his arms until she could seehis face and stared at him. His look and manner were full of purpose;he was using terms of endearment toward her more freely than he everhad dared to use them before; and it was not because of love for her,it was for some purpose or through some necessity of his own that hewas asserting himself like this.

  So she ceased to struggle against him, only drawing away from him asfar as she could and staring at him, prepared, before she asked herquestion, to deny and reject his answer, no matter what it was.

  "What have you to say about him, Donald?"

  "Harry, you haven't come to really care for him; it was just madness,dear, only a fancy, wasn't it?"

  "What have you to say about him?"

  "You must never think of him again, dear; you must forget him forever!"

  "Why?"

  "Harry--"

  "Donald, I am not a child. If you have something to say which youconsider hard for me to hear, tell it to me at once."

  "Very well. Perhaps that is best. Dear, either this man whom you haveknown as Eaton will never be found or, if he is found, he cannot be letto live. You understand?"

  "Why? For the shooting of Cousin Wallace? He never did that! I don'tbelieve that; I don't think Father believes that; you'll never make anyjury believe that. So if that's all you have to tell me, let me go!"

  She struggled again but Avery held her. "I was not talking about that;that's not necessary--to bring that against him."

  "Necessary?"

  "No; nor is it necessary, if he is caught, even to bring him before ajury. That's been done already, you see."

  "Done already?"

  Avery nodded again toward the photograph on the table. "Yes, Harry,have you never seen a picture with the numbers printed in below likethat? Can't you guess yet where your father must have sent for thatpicture? Don't you know what those numbers mean?"

  "What do they mean?"

  "They are the figures of his number in what is called 'The Rogue'sGallery'; now have you heard of it?"

  "Go on."

  "And they mean he has committed a crime and been tried and convicted ofit; 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 becarried out, he escaped. That man, Philip Eaton, is Hugh--"

  "Hugh!"

  "Hugh Overton, Harry!"

  "Hugh Overton!"

  "Yes; I found it out to-day. The police have just learned it, too. Iwas coming to tell your father. He's Hugh Overton, the murderer ofMatthew Latron!"

  Harriet fought herself free. Denial, revolt stormed in her. "It isn'tso!" she cried. "He is not that man! Hugh--his name is Hugh; but heis not Hugh Overton. Mr. Warden said Hugh--this Hugh had been greatlywronged--terribly wronged. Mr. Warden tried to help Hugh even at therisk of his own life. He would not--nobody would have tried to helpHugh Overton!"

  "Mr. Warden probably had been deceived."

  "No; no!"

  "Yes, Harry; for this man is certainly 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 defiantly. "Father let me keep thephotograph! 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 havesaid that, if--if--"

  She heard a sound behind her and turned. Her father had come into theroom. And as she saw his manner and his face she knew that what Averyhad just told her was the truth. She shrank away from them. Her handswent to her face and hid it.

  So this was that unknown thing which had stood between herself andHugh--that something which she had seen a hundred times check thespeech upon his lips and chill his manner toward her! Hadn't Hughhimself told her--or almost told her it was something of that sort? Hehad said to her on the train, when she urged him to defend himselfagainst the charge of having attacked her father, "If I told them who Iam, that would make them only more certain their charge is true; itwould condemn me without a hearing!" And his being Hugh Overtonexplained everything.

  She knew now why it was that her father, on hearing Hugh's voice, hadbecome curious about him, had tried to place the voice in hisrecollection--the voice of a prisoner on trial for his life, heard onlyfor an instant but fixed upon his mind by the circumstances attendingit, though those circumstances afterward had been forgotten. She knewwhy she, when she had gazed at the picture a few minutes before, hadbeen disturbed and frightened at feeling it to be a kind of pictureunfamiliar to her and threatening her with something unknown andterrible. She knew the reason now for a score of things Hugh had saidto her, for the way he had looked many times when she had spoken tohim. It explained all that! It seemed to her, in the moment, toexplain 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 sheloved--he could not be a murderer!

  Her hands dropped from her face; she threw her head back proudly andtriumphantly, as she faced now both Avery and her father.

  "He, the murderer of Mr. Latron!" she cried quietly. "It isn't so!"

  The blind man was very pale; he was fully dressed. A servant hadsupported him and helped him down the stairs and still stood beside himsustaining him. But the will which had conquered his disability ofblindness was holding him firmly now
against the disability of hishurts; he seemed composed and steady. She saw compassion for her inhis look; and compassion--under the present circumstances--terrifiedher. Stronger, far more in control of him than his compassion for her,she saw purpose. She recognized that her father had come to a decisionupon 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 employhis every power in acting upon it.

  The blind man seemed to check himself an instant in the carrying out ofhis purpose; he turned his sightless eyes toward her. There wasemotion in his look; but, except that this emotion was in part pity forher, she could not tell exactly what his look expressed.

  "Will you wait for me outside, Harriet?" he said to her. "I shall notbe long."

  She hesitated; then she felt suddenly the futility of opposing him andshe passed him and went out into the hall. The servant followed her,closing the door behind him. She stood just outside the doorlistening. She heard her father--she could catch the tone; she couldnot make out the words--asking a question; she heard the sound ofAvery's response. She started back nearer the door and put her hand onit to open it; inside they were still talking. She caught Avery's tonemore clearly now, and it suddenly terrified her. She drew back fromthe door and shrank away. There had been no opposition to Avery in herfather's tone; she was certain now that he was only discussing withAvery what they were to do.

  She had waited nearly half an hour, but the library door had not beenopened again. The closeness of the hall seemed choking her; she wentto the front door and threw it open. The evening was clear and cool;but it was not from the chill of the air that she shivered as she gazedout at the woods through which she had driven with Hugh the nightbefore. There the hunt for him had been going on all day; there shepictured him now, in darkness, in suffering, alone, hurt, hunted andwith all the world but her against him!

  She ran down the steps and stood on the lawn. The vague noises of thehouse now no longer were audible. She stood in the silence of theevening strained and fearfully listening. At first there seemed to beno sound outdoors other than the gentle rush of the waves on the beachat the foot of the bluff behind her; then, in the opposite direction,she defined the undertone of some faraway confusion. Sometimes itseemed to be shouting, next only a murmur of movement and noise. Sheran up the road a hundred yards in its direction and halted again. Thenoise was nearer and clearer--a confusion of motor explosions andvoices; and now one sound clattered louder and louder and leaped nearerrapidly and rose above the rest, the roar of a powerful motor carracing with "cut-out" open. The rising racket of it terrified Harrietwith its recklessness and triumph. Yes; that was it; triumph! Thefar-off tumult was the noise of shouts and cries of triumph; the racingcar, blaring its way through the night, was the bearer of news ofsuccess of the search.

  Harriet went colder as she knew this; then she ran up the road to meetthe car coming. She saw the glare of its headlights through the treespast a bend in the road; she ran on and the beams of the car'sheadlight straightened and glared down the road directly upon her. Thecar leaped at her; she ran on toward it, arms in the air. The clatterof the car became deafening and the machine was nearly upon her whenthe driver recognized that the girl in the road was heedless and mightthrow herself before him unless he stopped. He brought his car upshort 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 Santoine!"

  "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'tyou heard? And we've got him!"

  "Got him!"

  She seemed to the man not to understand; and he had not time to explainfurther even to her. "Where is Mr. Avery?" he demanded. "I've got totell Mr. Avery."

  She made no response but threw herself in front of the car and claspeda wheel as the man started to throw in his gear. He cried to her andtried to get her off; but she was deaf to him. He looked in thedirection of the house, shut off his power and leaped down. He leftthe machine and ran on the road toward the house. Harriet waited untilhe was away, then she sprang to the seat; she started the car andturned it back in the direction from which it had come. She speededand soon other headlights flared at hers--a number of them; four orfive cars, at least, were in file up the road and men were crowding andhorsemen were riding beside them.

  The captors of Hugh were approaching in triumphal procession. Harrietfelt the wild, savage impulse to hurl her racing car headlong and atfull speed among them. She rushed on so close that she saw she alarmedthem; they cried a warning; the horsemen and the men on foot jumpedfrom beside the road and the leading car swung to one side; but Harrietcaught her car on the brakes and swung it straight across the road andstopped it; she closed the throttle and pulled the key from thestarting mechanism and flung it into the woods. So she sat in the car,waiting for the captors of Hugh to come up.

  These appreciated the hostility of her action without yet recognizingher. The motors stopped; the men on foot closed around. One of themcried her name and men descended from the leading car. Harriet gotdown from her machine and met them. The madness of the moments pastwas gone; as the men addressed her with astonishment but with respect,she gazed at them coolly.

  "Where is he?" she asked them. "Where is he?"

  They did not tell her; but reply was unnecessary. Others' eyes pointedhers to Hugh. He was in the back seat of the second machine with twomen, one on each side of him. The lights from the car following andthe refractions from the other lights showed him to her. He wassitting, or was being held, up straight; his arms were down at hissides. She could not see whether they were tied or not. The light didnot shine so as to let her see his face clearly; but his bearing wascalm, he held his head up. She looked for his hurts; there seemed tobe bandages on his head but some one had given him a large cap whichwas pulled down so as to conceal the bandages. Plainly there had beenno other capture; excitement was all centered upon him. Harriet heardpeople telling her name to others; and the newspaper men, who seemed tobe all about, pushed back those who would interfere with her reachingthe second machine.

  She disregarded them and every one else but Hugh, who had seen her andhad kept his gaze steadily upon her as she approached. She stopped atthe side of the car where he was and she put her hand on the edge ofthe tonneau.

  "You have been hurt again, Hugh?" she managed steadily.

  "Hurt? No," he said as constrainedly. "No."

  A blinding flare and an explosion startled her about. It was only aflashlight fired by one of the newspaper photographers who had placedhis camera during the halt. Harriet opened the door to the tonneau.Two men occupied the seats in the middle of the car; it was a large,seven passenger machine. "I will take this seat, please," she said tothe man nearer. He got out and she sat down. Those who had beentrying to start the car which she had driven across the road, had givenup the task and were pushing it away to one side. Harriet sat down infront of Eaton--it was still by that name she thought of him; herfeelings refused the other name, though she knew now it was his realone. She understood now her impulse which had driven her to try toblock the road to her father's house if only for a moment; they weretaking him there to deliver him up to Avery--to her father--who wereconsulting there over what his fate was to be.

  She put her hand on his; his fingers closed upon it, but after hisfirst response to her grasp he made no other; and now, as the lightsshowed him to her more clearly, she was terrified to see how unable hewas to defend himself against anything that might be done to him. Hiscalmness was the calmness of exhaustion; his left arm was bound tightlyto his side; his eyes, dim and blank with pain and weariness, staredonly dully, dazedly at all around.

  The car started, and she sat silent, with her hand still upon his, asthey went on to her father's ho
use.