The Blind Man's Eyes

  CHAPTER V

  ARE YOU HILLWARD?

  It is the wonder of the moment of first awakening that one--howevertried or troubled he may be when complete recollection returns--mayfind, at first, rehearsal of only what is pleasant in his mind. Eaton,waking and stretching himself luxuriously in his berth in the reveriehalfway between sleep and full consciousness, found himself supremelyhappy. His feelings, before recollection came to check them, remindedhim only that he had been made an acquaintance, almost a friend, theday before, by a wonderful, inspiring, beautiful girl. Then suddenly,into his clearing memory crushed and crowded the reason for his beingwhere he was. By an instinctive jerk of his shoulders, almost ashudder, he drew the sheet and blanket closer about him; the smile wasgone from his lips; he lay still, staring upward at the berth above hishead and listening to the noises in the car.

  The bell in the washroom at the end of the car was ringing violently,and some one was reinforcing his ring with a stentorian call for"Porter! Porter!"

  Eaton realized that it was very cold in his berth--also that the train,which was standing still, had been in that motionless condition forsome time. He threw up the window curtain as he appreciated that and,looking out, found that he faced a great unbroken bank of glisteningwhite snow as high as the top of the car at this point and rising evenhigher ahead. He listened, therefore, while the Englishman--for thevoice calling to the porter was his--extracted all availableinformation from the negro.

  "Porter!" Standish called again.

  "Yessuh!"

  "Close my window and be quick about it!"

  "It's closed, suh."

  "Closed?"

  "Yessuh; I shut it en-durin' the night."

  "Closed!" the voice behind the curtains iterated skeptically; there wasa pause during which, probably, there was limited exploration. "I say,then, how cold is it outside?"

  "Ten below this morning, suh."

  "What, what? Where are we?"

  "Between Fracroft and Simons, suh."

  "Yet?"

  "Yessuh, yit!"

  "Hasn't your silly train moved since four o'clock?"

  "Moved? No, suh. Not mo'n a yahd or two nohow, suh, and I reckon webacked them up again."

  "That foolish snow still?"

  "Yessuh; and snow some more, suh."

  "But haven't we the plow still ahead?"

  "Oh, yessuh; the plow's ahaid. We still got it; but that's all, suh.It ain't doin' much; it's busted."

  "Eh--what?"

  "Yessuh--busted! There was right smart of a slide across the track,and the crew, I understands, diagnosed it jus' fo' a snowbank and donebucked right into it. But they was rock in this, suh; we's layin'right below a hill; and that rock jus' busted that rotary like aBelgium shell hit it. Yessuh--pieces of that rotary essentiallyscattered themselves in four directions besides backwards and fo'wards.We ain't done much travelin' since then."

  "Ah! But the restaurant car's still attached?"

  "De restaur--oh, yessuh. We carries the diner through--from the Coastto Chicago."

  "H'm! Ten below! Porter, is that wash-compartment hot? And are theyserving breakfast yet?"

  "Yessuh; yessuh!"

  The Briton, from behind his curtains, continued; but Eaton no longerpaid attention.

  "Snowed in and stopped since four!" The realization startled him withthe necessity of taking it into account in his plans. He jerkedhimself up in his berth and began pulling his clothes down from thehooks; then, as abruptly, he stopped dressing and sat absorbed inthought. Finally he parted the curtains and looked out into the aisle.

  The Englishman, having elicited all he desired, or could draw, from theporter, now bulged through his curtains and stood in the aisle,unabashed, in gaudy pajamas and slippers, while he methodically bundledhis clothes under his arm; then, still garbed only in pajamas, heparaded majestically to the washroom. The curtains over the berths atthe other end of the car also bulged and emitted the two dark-hairedgirls. They were completely kimono-ed over any temporary deficiency ofattire and skipped to the drawing-room inhabited by their parents. Thedrawing-room door instantly opened at Amy's knock, admitted the girlsand shut again. Section Seven gave to the aisle the reddish-haired D.S. He carried coat, collar, hairbrushes and shaving case and went tojoin the Briton in the men's washroom.

  There was now no one else in the main part of the car; and no berthsother than those already accounted for had been made up. Yet Eatonstill delayed; his first impulse to get up and dress had been lost inthe intensity of the thought in which he was engaged. He had lethimself sink back against the pillows, while he stared, unseeingly, atthe solid bank of snow beside the car, when the door at the further endof the coach opened and Conductor Connery entered, calling a name."Mr. Hillward! Mr. Lawrence Hillward! Telegram for Mr. Hillward!"

  Eaton started at the first call of the name; he sat up and faced about.

  "Mr. Hillward! Telegram for Mr. Lawrence Hillward!"

  The conductor was opposite Section Three; Eaton now waited tensely anddelayed until the conductor was past; then putting his head out of hiscurtains and assuring himself that the car was otherwise empty as whenhe had seen it last, he hailed as the conductor was going through thedoor.

  "What name? Who is that telegram for?"

  "Mr. Lawrence Hillward."

  "Oh, thank you; then that's mine." He put his hand out between thecurtains to take the yellow envelope.

  Connery held back. "I thought your name was Eaton."

  "It is. Mr. Hillward--Lawrence Hillward--is an associate of mine whoexpected to make this trip with me but could not. So I should havetelegrams or other communications addressed to him. Is there anythingto sign?"

  "No, sir--train delivery. It's not necessary."

  Eaton drew his curtains close again and ripped the envelope open; butbefore reading the message, he observed with alarm that his pajamajacket had opened across the chest, and a small round scar, such asthat left by a high-powered bullet penetrating, was exposed. He gaspedalmost audibly, realizing this, and clapped his hand to his chest andbuttoned his jacket. The message--nine words without signature--laybefore him:

  Thicket knot youngster omniscient issue foliage lecture tragicinstigation.

  It was some code which Eaton recognized but could not decipher at once.It was of concern, but at that instant, less of concern than to knowwhether his jacket had been open and his chest exposed when he took themessage. The conductor was still standing in the aisle.

  "When did you get this?" Eaton asked, looking out.

  "Just now."

  "How could you get it here?" Eaton questioned, watching the conductor'sface.

  "We've had train instruments--the emergency telegraph--on the wiressince four o'clock and just got talking with the stations east; wiresare still down to the west. That message came through yesterday sometime and was waiting for you at Simons; when we got them this morning,they sent it on."

  "I see; thanks." Eaton, assured that if the conductor had seenanything, he suspected no significance in what he saw, closed hiscurtains and buttoned them carefully. The conductor moved on. Eatontook a small English-Chinese pocket-dictionary from his vest pocket andopened it under cover of the blanket; counting five words up from_thicket_ he found _they_; five down from _knot_ gave him _know_; sixup from _youngster_ was _you_; six down from _omniscient_ was _one_;seven up from _issue_ was _is_; and so continuing, he translated thenine words to:

  "They know you. One is following. Leave train instantly."

  Eaton, nervous and jerky, as he completed the first six words, laughedas he compiled the final three. "Leave train instantly!" The humor ofthat advice in his present situation, as he looked out the window atthe solid bank of snow, appealed to him. He slapped the littledictionary shut and returned it to his pocket. A waiter from thedining car came back, announcing the first call for breakfast, andspurred him into action. Passengers from the Pullman at the rearpassed Eaton's section for
the diner. He glanced out at the first twoor three; then he heard Harriet Dorne's voice in some quiet,conventional remark to the man who followed her. Eaton started at it;then he dressed swiftly and hurried into the now deserted washroom andthen on to breakfast.

  The dining car, all gleaming crystal and silver and white coverswithin, also was surrounded by snow. The space outside the windowsseemed somewhat wider than that about the sleeping car. And a momentbefore Eaton went forward, the last cloud had cleared and the sun hadcome out bright. The train was still quite motionless; the greatdrifts of snow, even with the tops of the cars on either side, madeperfectly plain how hopeless it would be to try to proceed without theplow; and the heavy white frost which had not yet cleared from some ofthe window-panes, told graphically of the cold without. But the diningcar was warm and cheerful, and it gave assurance that, if the train washelpless to move, it at least offered luxuries in its idleness. AsEaton stepped inside the door, the car seemed all cheer and goodspirits.

  Fresh red carnations and ruddy roses were, as usual, in the cut-glassvases on the white cloths; the waiters bore steaming pots of coffee andbowls of hot cereals to the different tables. These, as usual, wereten in number--five with places for four persons each, on one side ofthe aisle, and five, each with places for two persons, beside thewindows on the other side of the car.

  Harriet Dorne was sitting facing the door at the second of the largertables; opposite her, and with his back to Eaton, sat Donald Avery. Athird place was laid beside the girl, as though they expected Dorne tojoin them; but they had begun their fruit without waiting. The girlglanced up as Eaton halted in the doorway; her blue eyes brightenedwith a look part friendliness, part purpose. She smiled and nodded,and Avery turned about.

  "Good morning, Mr. Eaton," the girl greeted.

  "Good morning, Miss Dorne," Eaton replied collectedly. He nodded alsoto Avery, who, stiffly returning the nod, turned back again to MissDorne.

  Amy and Constance, with their parents, occupied the third large table;the other three large tables were empty. "D. S." was alone at thefurthest of the small tables; a traveling-salesman-looking person waswashing down creamed Finnan haddock with coffee at the next; thepassenger who had been alone in the second car was at the third; theEnglishman, Standish, was beginning his iced grape-fruit at the tableopposite Miss Dorne; and at the place nearest the door, aninsignificant broad-shouldered and untidy young man, who had boardedthe train at Spokane, had just spilled half a cup of coffee over theegg spots on his lapels as his unsteady and nicotine-stained fingersall but dropped the cup.

  The dining car conductor, in accordance with the general determinationto reserve the larger tables for parties traveling together, pulledback the chair opposite the untidy man; but Eaton, with a sharp senseof disgust, went past to the chair opposite the Englishman.

  As he was about to seat himself there, the girl again looked up. "Oh,Mr. Eaton," she smiled, "wouldn't you like to sit with us? I don'tthink Father is coming to breakfast now; and if he does, of coursethere's still room."

  She pulled back the chair beside her enticingly; and Eaton accepted it.

  "Good morning, Mr. Avery," he said to Miss Dorne's companion formallyas he sat down, and the man across the table murmured somethingperforce.

  As Eaton ordered his breakfast, he appreciated for the first time thathis coming had interrupted a conversation--or rather a sort ofmonologue of complaint on the part of Standish addressed impersonallyto Avery.

  "Extraordinarily exposed in these sleeping cars of yours, isn't one,wouldn't you say?" the Englishman appealed across the aisle.

  "Exposed?" Avery repeated, more inclined to encourage the conversation.

  "I say, is it quite the custom for a train servant--whenever he fancieshe should--to reach across one, sleeping?"

  "He means the porter closed his window during the night," Eatonexplained to Avery.

  "Quite so; and I knew nothing about it--nothing at all. Fancy! Therewas I in the bunk, and the beggar comes along, pulls my curtains aside,reaches across me--"

  "It got very cold in the night," Avery offered.

  "I know; but is that any reason for the beggar invading my bunk thatway? He might have done anything to me! Any one in the car might havedone anything to me! Any one in your bally corridor-train might havedone anything. There was I, asleep--quite unconscious; people passingup and down the aisle just the other side of a foolish fall of curtain!How does any one know one of those people might not be an enemy ofmine? Remarkable people, you Americans--inconsistent, I say. Lockyour homes with most complicated fastenings--greatest lock-makers inthe world--burglar alarms on windows; but when you travel, exposeyourselves as one wouldn't dream of exposing oneself elsewhere.Amazing places, your Pullman coaches! Why, any one might do anythingto any one! What's to stop him, what?"

  Eaton, suddenly reminded of his telegram, put a hand into his pocketand fingered the torn scraps; he had meant to remove and destroy them,but had forgotten. He glanced at Harriet Dorne.

  "What he says is quite true," she observed. She was smiling, however,as most of the other passengers were, at the Englishman's vehemence.

  They engaged in conversation as they breakfasted--a conversation inwhich Avery took almost no part, though Miss Dorne tried openly to drawhim in; then the sudden entrance of Connery, followed closely by astout, brusque man who belonged to the rear Pullman, took Eaton'sattention and hers.

  Other passengers also looked up; and the nervous, untidy young man atthe table near the door again slopped coffee over himself as theconductor gazed about.

  "Which is him?" the man with Connery demanded loudly.

  Connery checked him, but pointed at the same time to Eaton.

  "That's him, is it?" the other man said. "Then go ahead."

  Eaton observed that Avery, who had turned in his seat, was watchingthis diversion on the part of the conductor with interest. Connerystopped beside Eaton's seat.

  "You took a telegram for Lawrence Hillward this morning," he asserted.

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "Because it was mine, or meant for me, as I said at the time. My nameis Eaton; but Mr. Hillward expected to make this trip with me."

  The stout man with the conductor forced himself forward.

  "That's pretty good, but not quite good enough!" he charged."Conductor, get that telegram for me!"

  Eaton got up, controlling himself under the insult of the other'smanner.

  "What business is it of yours?" he demanded.

  "What business? Why, only that I'm Lawrence Hillward--that's all, myfriend! What are you up to, anyway? Lawrence Hillward traveling withyou! I never set eyes on you until I saw you on this train; and youtake my telegram!" The charge was made loudly and distinctly; everyone in the dining car--Eaton could not see every one, but he knew itwas so--had put down fork or cup or spoon and was staring at him."What did you do it for? What did you want with it?" the stout manblared on. "Did you think I wasn't on the train? What?

  "I was in the washroom," he continued, roaring for the benefit of thecar, "when the conductor went by with it. I couldn't take the telegramthen--so I waited for the conductor to come back. When I got dressed,I found him, and he said you'd claimed my message. Say, hand it overnow! What were you up to? What did you do that for?"

  Eaton felt he was paling as he faced the blustering smaller man. Herealized that the passengers he could see--those at the smallertables--already had judged his explanation and found him wanting; theothers unquestionably had done the same. Avery was gazing up at himwith a sort of contented triumph.

  "The telegram was for me, Conductor," he repeated.

  "Get that telegram, Conductor!" the stout man demanded again.

  "I suppose," Connery suggested, "you have letters or a card orsomething, Mr. Eaton, to show your relationship to Lawrence Hillward."

  "No; I have not."

  The man asserting himself as Hillward grunted.

  "Have y
ou anything to show you are Lawrence Hillward?" Eaton demandedof him.

  "Did you tell any one on the train that your name was Hillward beforeyou wanted this telegram?"

  It was Harriet Dorne's voice which interposed; and Eaton felt his pulseleap as she spoke for him.

  "I never gave any other name than Lawrence Hillward," the otherdeclared.

  Connery gazed from one claimant to the other. "Will you give thisgentleman the telegram?" he asked Eaton.

  "I will not."

  "Then I shall furnish him another copy; it was received here on thetrain by our express-clerk as the operator. I'll go forward and gethim another copy."

  "That's for you to decide," Eaton said; and as though the matter wasclosed for him, he resumed his seat. He was aware that, throughout thecar, the passengers were watching him curiously; he would have foregonethe receipt of the telegram rather than that attention should beattracted to him in this way. Avery was still gazing at him with thatlook of quiet satisfaction; Eaton had not dared, as yet, to look atHarriet Dorne. When, constraining himself to a manner of indifference,he finally looked her way, she began to chat with him as lightly asbefore. Whatever effect the incident just closed had had upon theothers, it appeared to have had none at all upon her.

  "Are you ready to go back to our car now, Harriet?" Avery inquired whenshe had finished her breakfast, though Eaton was not yet through.

  "Surely there's no hurry about anything to-day," the girl returned.They waited until Eaton had finished.

  "Shall we all go back to the observation car and see if there's a walkdown the track or whether it's snowed over?" she said impartially tothe two. They went through the Pullmans together.

  The first Pullman contained four or five passengers; the next, in whichEaton had his berth, was still empty as they passed through. Theporter had made up all the berths, and only luggage and newspapers andovercoats occupied the seats. The next Pullman also, at first glance,seemed to have been deserted in favor of the diner forward or of theclub-car further back. The porter had made up all the berths therealso, except one; but some one still was sleeping behind the curtainsof Section Three, for a man's hand hung over the aisle. It was agentleman's hand, with long, well-formed fingers, sensitive and at thesame time strong. That was the berth of Harriet Dorne's father; Eatongazed down at the hand as he approached the section, and then he lookedup quickly to the girl. She had observed the hand, as also had Avery;but, plainly, neither of them noticed anything strange either in itsposture or appearance. Their only care had been to avoid brushingagainst it on their way down the aisle so as not to disturb the manbehind the curtain; but Eaton, as he saw the hand, started.

  He was the last of the three to pass, and so the others did not noticehis start; but so strong was the fascination of the hand in the aislethat he turned back and gazed at it before going on into the last car.Some eight or ten passengers--men and women--were lounging in theeasy-chairs of the observation-room; a couple, ulstered and fur-capped,were standing on the platform gazing back from the train.

  The sun was still shining, and the snow had stopped some hours before;but the wind which had brought the storm was still blowing, andevidently it had blown a blizzard after the train stopped at four thatmorning. The canyon through the snowdrifts, bored by the giant rotaryplow the night before, was almost filled; drifts of snow eight or tenfeet high and, in places, pointing still higher, came up to the rear ofthe train; the end of the platform itself was buried under three feetof snow; the men standing on the platform could barely look over thehigher drifts.

  "There's no way from the train in that direction now," Harriet Dornelamented as she saw this.

  "There was no way five minutes after we stopped," one of the menstanding at the end of the car volunteered. "From Fracroft on--I wasthe only passenger in sleeper Number Two, and they'd told me to get up;they gave me a berth in another car and cut my sleeper out atFracroft--we were bucking the drifts about four miles an hour; itseemed to fill in behind about as fast and as thick as we were cuttingit out in front. It all drifted in behind as soon as we stopped, theconductor tells me."

  The girl made polite acknowledgment and referred to her two companions.

  "What shall we do with ourselves, then?"

  "Cribbage, Harriet? You and I?" Avery invited.

  She shook her head. "If we have to play cards, get a fourth and makeit auction; but must it be cards? Isn't there some way we can get outfor a walk?"

  CHAPTER VI

  THE HAND IN THE AISLE

  The man whose interest in the passenger in Section Three of the lastsleeper was most definite and understandable and, therefore, mostopenly acute, was Conductor Connery. Connery had passed through thePullmans several times during the morning--first in the murk of thedawn before the dimmed lamps in the cars had been extinguished; againlater, when the passengers had been getting up; and a third time afterall the passengers had left their berths except Dorne, and after nearlyall the berths had been unmade and the bedding packed away behind thepanels overhead. Each time he passed, Connery had seen the hand whichhung out into the aisle from between the curtains; but the onlydefinite thought that came to him was that Dorne was a sound sleeper.

  Nearly all the passengers had now breakfasted. Connery, therefore,took a seat in the diner, breakfasted leisurely and after finishing,went forward to see what messages had been received as to the relievingsnow-plows. Nothing definite yet had been learned; the snow ahead ofthem was fully as bad as this where they were stopped, and it would bemany hours before help could get to them. Connery walked back throughthe train. Dorne by now must be up, and might wish to see theconductor. Unless Dorne stopped him, however, Connery did not intendto speak to Dorne. The conductor had learned in his many years ofservice that nothing is more displeasing to the sort of people for whomtrains are held than officiousness.

  As Connery entered the last sleeper, his gaze fell on the dial ofpointers which, communicating with the pushbuttons in the differentberths, tell the porter which section is calling him, and he saw thatwhile all the other arrows were pointing upward, the arrow marked "3"was pointing down. Dorne was up, then--for this was the arrow denotinghis berth--or at least was awake and had recently rung his bell.

  Connery looked in upon the porter, who was cleaning up the washroom.

  "Section Three's getting up?" he asked.

  "No, Mistah Connery--not yet," the porter answered.

  "What did he ring for?" Connery thought Dorne might have asked for him.

  "He didn't ring. He ain't moved or stirred this morning."

  "He must have rung." Connery looked to the dial, and the porter cameout of the washroom and looked at it also.

  "Fo' the lan's sake. I didn't hear no ring, Mistah Connery. It mus'have been when I was out on the platform."

  "When was that?"

  "Jus' now. There ain't been nobody but him in the car for fifteenminutes, and I done turn the pointers all up when the las' passengerwent to the diner. It can't be longer than a few minutes, MistahConnery."

  "Answer it, then," Connery directed.

  As the negro started to obey, Connery followed him into the open car.He could see over the negro's shoulder the hand sticking out into theaisle, and this time, at sight of it, Connery started violently. IfDorne had rung, he must have moved; a man who is awake does not let hishand hang out into the aisle. Yet the hand had not moved. Nothing waschanged about it since Connery had seen it before. The long, sensitivefingers fell in precisely the same position as before, stifflyseparated a little one from another; they had not changed theirposition at all.

  "Wait!" Connery seized the porter by the arm. "I'll answer it myself."

  He dismissed the negro and waited until he had gone. He looked aboutand assured himself that the car, except for himself and the man lyingbehind the curtains of Section Three, was empty. He slowed, as heapproached the hand. He halted and stood a moment beside the berth,himself almost breathless as he listen
ed for the sound of breathingwithin. He heard nothing, though he bent closer to the curtain. Yethe still hesitated, and retreating a little and walking briskly asthough he were carelessly passing up the aisle, he brushed hard againstthe hand and looked back, exclaiming an apology for his carelessness.

  The hand fell back heavily, inertly, and resumed its former positionand hung as white and lifeless as before. No response to the apologycame from behind the curtains; the man in the berth had not roused.Connery rushed back to the curtains and touched the hand with hisfingers. It was cold! He seized the hand and felt it all over; then,gasping, he parted the curtains and looked into the berth. He stared;his breath whistled out; his shoulders jerked, and he drew back,instinctively pressing his two clenched hands against his chest and thepocket which held President Jarvis' order.

  The man in the berth was lying on his right side facing the aisle; theleft side of his face was thus exposed; and it had been crushed in by aviolent blow from some heavy weapon which, too blunt to cut the skinand bring blood, had fractured the cheekbone and bludgeoned the temple.The proof of murderous violence was so plain that the conductor, as hesaw the face in the light, recoiled with starting eyes, white withhorror.

  He looked up and down the aisle to assure himself that no one hadentered the car during his examination; then he carefully drew thecurtains together again, and hurried to the forward end of the carwhere he had left the porter.

  "Lock the rear door of the car," he commanded. "Then come back here."

  He gave the negro the keys, and himself waited to prevent any one fromentering the car at his end. Looking through the glass of the door, hesaw the young man Eaton standing in the vestibule of the car nextahead. Connery hesitated; then he opened the door and beckoned Eatonto him.

  "Will you go forward, please," he requested, "and see if there isn't adoctor--"

  "You mean the man with red hair in my car?" Eaton inquired.

  "That's the one."

  Eaton started off without asking any questions. The porter, havinglocked the rear door of the car, returned and gave Connery back thekeys. Connery still waited, until Eaton returned with the red-hairedman, "D. S." He let them in and locked the door behind them.

  "You are a doctor?" Connery questioned the red-haired man.

  "I am a surgeon; yes."

  "That's what's wanted. Doctor--"

  "My name is Sinclair. I am Douglas Sinclair, of Chicago."

  Connery nodded. "I have heard of you." He turned then to Eaton. "Doyou know where the gentleman is who belongs to Mr. Dorne'sparty?--Avery, I believe his name is."

  "He is in the observation car," Eaton answered.

  "Will you go and get him? The car-door is locked. The porter will letyou in and out. Something serious has happened here--to Mr. Dorne.Get Mr. Avery, if you can, without alarming Mr. Dorne's daughter."

  Eaton nodded understanding and followed the porter, who, taking thekeys again from the conductor, let him out at the rear door of the carand reclosed the door behind him. Eaton went on into the observationcar. As he passed the club compartment of this car, he sensed anatmosphere of disquiet which gave him first the feeling that some ofthese people must know already that there was something wrong fartherforward; but this was explained when he heard some one say that thedoor of the car ahead was locked. Another asked Eaton how he had gotthrough; he put the questioner off and went on into theobservation-room. No suspicion of anything having occurred had as yetpenetrated there.

  "How long you've been!" Harriet Dorne remarked as he came near. "Andhow is it about the roof promenade?"

  "Why, all right, I guess, Miss Dorne--after a little." Controllinghimself to an appearance of casualness, he turned then to Avery: "Bythe way, can I see you a moment?"

  Without alarming Harriet Dorne, he got Avery away and out of the car.A few passengers now were collected upon the platforms between this carand the next, who questioned and complained as Eaton, pushing by themwith Avery, was admitted by the negro, who refused the othersadmittance.

  "Is it something wrong with Mr. Dorne?" Donald Avery demanded as Eatondrew back to let Avery precede him into the open part of the car.

  "So the conductor says."

  Avery hurried forward toward the berth where Connery was standingbeside the surgeon. Connery turned toward him.

  "I sent for you, sir, because you are the companion of the man who hadthis berth."

  Avery pushed past him, and leaped forward as he looked past thesurgeon. "What has happened to Mr. Dorne?"

  "You see him as we found him, sir." Connery stared down nervouslybeside him.

  Avery leaned inside the curtains and recoiled. "He's dead!"

  "The doctor hasn't made his examination yet; but, there seems no doubthe's dead." Connery was very pale but controlled.

  "He's been murdered!"

  "It looks so, Mr. Avery. Yes; if he's dead, he's certainly beenmurdered," Connery agreed. "This is Doctor Douglas Sinclair, a Chicagosurgeon. I called him just now to make an examination; but since Mr.Dorne seems to have been dead for some time, I waited for you beforemoving the body. You can tell,"--Connery avoided mention of PresidentJarvis' name,--"tell any one who asks you, Mr. Avery, that you saw himjust as he was found."

  He looked down again at the form in the berth, and Avery's gazefollowed his; then, abruptly, it turned away. Avery stood clinging tothe curtain, his eyes darting from one to another of the three men.

  "As he was found? When?" he demanded. "Who found him that way? When?How?"

  "I found him so," Connery answered.

  Avery said nothing more.

  "Will you start your examination now, Dr. Sinclair," Connery suggested."No--I'll ask you to wait a minute."

  Noises were coming to them from the platforms at both ends of the car,and the doors were being tried and pounded on, as passengers attemptedto pass through. Connery went to the rear, where the negro had beenposted; then, repassing them, he went to the other end of the car. Thenoises ceased. "The Pullman conductor is forward, and the brakeman isback there now," he said, as he turned to them. "You will not beinterrupted, Dr. Sinclair."

  "What explanation did you give them?" Eaton asked.

  "Why?" Connery returned.

  "I was thinking of Miss Dorne."

  "I told them nothing which could disturb her." Connery, as he spoke,pulled back the curtains, entirely exposing the berth.

  The surgeon, before examining the man in the berth more closely, liftedthe shades from the windows. Everything about the berth was in place,undisturbed; except for the mark of the savage blow on the side of theman's head, there was no evidence of anything unusual. The man'sclothes were carefully and neatly hung on the hooks or in the littlehammock; his glasses were in their case beside the pillow; his watchand purse were under the pillow; the window at his feet was stillraised a crack to let in fresh air while he slept. Save for the marksupon the head, the man might yet be sleeping. It was self-evidentthat, whatever had been the motives of the attack, robbery was not one;whoever had struck had done no more than reach in and deliver hismurderous blow; then he had gone on.

  Connery shut the window.

  As the surgeon carefully and deliberately pulled back the bedclothingand exposed the body of the man clothed in pajamas, the others watchedhim. Sinclair made first an examination of the head; completing this,he unbuttoned the pajamas upon the chest, loosened them at the waistand prepared to make his examination of the body.

  "How long has he been dead?" Connery asked.

  "He is not dead yet."

  "You mean he is still dying?"

  "I did not say so."

  "You mean he is alive, then?"

  "Life is still present," Sinclair answered guardedly. "Whether he willlive or ever regain consciousness is another question."

  "One you can't answer?"

  "The blow, as you can see,"--Sinclair touched the man's face with hisdeft finger-tips,--"fell mostly on the cheek and temple. The chee
kboneis fractured. He is in a complete state of coma; and there may be somefracture of the skull. Of course, there is some concussion of thebrain."

  Any inference to be drawn from this as to the seriousness of theinjuries was plainly beyond Connery. "How long ago was he struck?" heasked.

  "Some hours."

  "You can't tell more than that?"

  "Longer ago than five hours, certainly."

  "Since four o'clock, then, rather than before?"

  "Since midnight, certainly; and longer ago than five o'clock thismorning."

  "Could he have revived half an hour ago--say within the hour--enough tohave pressed the button and rung the bell from his berth?"

  Sinclair straightened and gazed at the conductor curiously. "No,certainly not," he replied. "That is completely impossible. Why didyou ask?"

  Connery avoided answer.

  The doctor glanced down quickly at the form of the man in the berth;then again he confronted Connery. "Why did you ask that?" hepersisted. "Did the bell from this berth ring recently?"

  Connery shook his head, not in negation of the question, but in refusalto answer then. But Avery pushed forward. "What is that? What'sthat?" he demanded.

  "Will you go on with your examination, Doctor?" Connery urged.

  "You said the bell from this berth rang recently!" Avery accusedConnery.

  "I did not say that; he asked it," the conductor evaded.

  "But is it true?"

  "The pointer in the washroom, indicating a signal from this berth, wasturned down a minute ago," Connery had to reply. "A few momentsearlier, all pointers had been set in the position indicating no call."

  "What!" Avery cried. "What was that?"

  Connery repeated the statement.

  "That was before you found the body?"

  "That was why I went to the berth--yes," Connery replied; "that wasbefore I found the body."

  "Then you mean you did not find the body," Avery charged. "Some one,passing through this car a minute or so before you, must have foundhim!"

  Connery attended without replying.

  "And evidently that man dared not report it and could not wait longerto know whether Mr.--Mr. Dorne, was really dead; so he rang the bell!"

  "Ought we keep Dr. Sinclair any longer from the examination, sir?"Connery now seized Avery's arm in appeal. "The first thing for us toknow is whether Mr. Dorne is dying. Isn't--"

  Connery checked himself; he had won his appeal. Eaton, standingquietly watchful, observed that Avery's eagerness to accuse now hadbeen replaced by another interest which the conductor's words hadrecalled. Whether the man in the berth was to live or die--evidentlythat was momentously to affect Donald Avery one way or the other.

  "Of course, by all means proceed with your examination, Doctor," Averydirected.

  As Sinclair again bent over the body, Avery leaned over also; Eatongazed down, and Connery--a little paler than before and with lipstightly set.