The night was sharp with the chill preceding the day; it had cleared; the stars were shining. As she stood looking to the west, the lights of a motor turned into the grounds. She ran toward it, thinking it must be bringing word of some sort; but the men who leaped from it were strangers to her--they were the first of the reporters to arrive. They tried to question her, but she ran from them into the house. She watched from the windows and saw other reporters arriving. To Harriet there seemed to be scores of them. Every morning paper in Chicago, immediately upon receipt of the first flash, had sent at least three men; every evening paper seemed to have aroused half its staff from their beds and sent them racing to the blind millionaire"s home on the north sh.o.r.e. Even men from Milwaukee papers arrived at four o"clock.
Forbidden the house, they surrounded it and captured servants. They took flashlights till, driven from the lawn, they went away--many of them--to see and take part in the search through the woods for Blatchford"s murderer. The murder of Santoine"s cousin--the man, moreover, who had blinded Santoine--in the presence of the blind man was enough of itself to furnish a newspaper sensation; but, following so closely Santoine"s visit to the Coast because of the murder of Gabriel Warden, the newspaper men sensed instantly in it the possibility of some greater sensation not yet bared.
Harriet was again summoned. A man--a stranger--was awaiting her in the hall; he was the precursor of those who would sit that day upon Wallace Blatchford"s death and try to determine, formally, whose was the hand that had done it--the coroner"s man. He too, she saw, was already convinced what hand it had been--Eaton"s. She took him to the study, then to the room above where Wallace Blatchford lay dead. She stood by while he made his brief, conventional examination. She looked down at the dead man"s face. Poor Cousin Wallace! he had destroyed his own life long before, when he had destroyed her father"s sight; from that time on he had lived only to recompense her father for his blindness.
Cousin Wallace"s life had been a pitiable, hopeless, loving perpetuation of his penance; he had let himself hold nothing of his own in life; he had died, as she knew he would have wished to die, giving his life in service to his cousin; she was not unduly grieving over him.
She answered the man"s questions, calmly and collectedly; but her mind was not upon what she was saying. Her mind was upon only one thing--even of that she could not think connectedly. Some years ago, something--she did not know what--had happened to Hugh; to-night, in some strange way unknown to her, it had culminated in her father"s study. He had fought some one; he had rushed away to follow some one.
Whom? Had he heard that some one in the study and gone down? Had he been fighting their battle--her father"s and hers? She knew that was not so. Hugh had been fully dressed. What did it mean that he had said to her that these events would either destroy him or would send him back to her as--as something different? Her thought supplied no answer.
But whatever he had done, whatever he might be, she knew his fate was hers now; for she had given herself to him utterly. She had told that to herself as she fled and pursued with him that night; she had told it to him; she later had told it--though she had not meant to yet--to her father. She could only pray now that out of the events of this night might not come a grief to her too great for her to bear.
She went to the rooms that had been Eaton"s. The police, in stripping them of his possessions, had overlooked his cap; she found the bit of gray cloth and hugged it to her. She whispered his name to herself--Hugh--that secret of his name which she had kept; she gloried that she had that secret with him which she could keep from them all.
What wouldn"t they give just to share that with her--his name, Hugh!
She started suddenly, looking through the window. The east, above the lake, was beginning to grow gray. The dawn was coming! It was beginning to be day!
She hurried to the other side of the house, looking toward the west.
How could she have left him, hurt and bleeding and alone in the night!
She could not have done that but that his asking her to go had told that it was for his safety as well as hers; she could not help him any more then; she would only have been in the way. But now-- She started to rush out, but controlled herself; she had to stay in the house; that was where the first word would come if they caught him; and then he would need her, how much more! The reporters on the lawn below her, seeing her at the window, called up to her to know further particulars of what had happened and what the murder meant; she could see them plainly in the increasing light. She could see the lawn and the road before the house.
Day had come.
And with the coming of day, the uncertainty and disorder within and about the house seemed to increase.... But in the south wing, with its sound-proof doors and its windows closed against the noises from the lawn, there was silence; and in this silence, an exact, compelling, methodic machine was working; the mind of Basil Santoine was striving, vainly as yet, but with growing chances of success, to fit together into the order in which they belonged and make clear the events of the night and all that had gone before--arranging, ordering, testing, discarding, picking up again and reordering all that had happened since that other murder, of Gabriel Warden.
CHAPTER XXI
WHAT ONE CAN DO WITHOUT EYES
The blind man, lying on his bed in that darkness in which he had lived since his sixteenth year and which no daylight could lessen, felt the light and knew that day had come; he stirred impatiently. The nurse, the only other occupant of the room, moved expectantly; then she sank back; Santoine had moved but had not roused from that absorption in which he had been ever since returning to his bed. He had not slept.
The connections of the electric bells had been repaired,--the wires had been found pulled from their batteries,--but Santoine had not moved a hand to touch a b.u.t.ton. He had disregarded the warning of the doctor who had been summoned at once after the murder and had come to his room again just before dawn to warn him that after his recklessness of the night he must expect a reaction. He had given such injunctions in regard to any new development that he was certain that, even if his servants believed him asleep, they would report to him. But there had been no report; and Santoine expected none immediately. He had not lain awake awaiting anything; he felt that so much had happened, so many facts were at his command, that somewhere among them must be the key to what they meant.
The blind man knew that his daughter was concealing something from him.
He could not tell what the importance of the thing she was concealing might be; but he knew his daughter was enough like himself for it to be useless for him to try to force from her something she did not mean to tell. The new intimacy of the relation between his daughter and Eaton was perfectly plain to Santoine; but it did not cause him to try to explain anything in Eaton"s favor; nor did it prejudice him against him. He had appeared to accept Avery"s theory of what had happened in the study because by doing so he concealed what was going on in his own mind; he actually accepted it only to the point of agreeing that Eaton must have met in the study those enemies--or some one representing the enemies--who had attacked him with the motor-car and had before attempted to attack him on the train.
Three men--at least three men--had fought in the study in Santoine"s presence. Eaton, it was certain, had been the only one from the house present when the first shots were fired. Had Eaton been alone against the other two? Had Eaton been with one of the other two against the third? It appeared probable to Santoine that Eaton had been alone, or had come alone, to the study and had met his enemies there. Had these enemies surprised Eaton in the study or had he surprised them?
Santoine was inclined to believe that Eaton had surprised them. The contents taken from the safe had certainly been carried away, and these would have made rather a bulky bundle. Eaton could not have carried it without Harriet knowing it. Santoine believed that, whatever knowledge his daughter might be concealing from him, she would not have concealed this. It was certain that some time had been necessary for opening the safe, before those opening it suffered interruption.
Santoine felt, therefore, that the probabilities were that Eaton"s enemies had opened the safe and had been surprised by Eaton. But if they had opened the safe, they were not only Eaton"s enemies; they were also Santoine"s; they were the men who threatened Santoine"s trust.
Those whom Eaton had fought in the room had had perfect opportunity for killing Santoine, if they wished. He had stood first in the dark with the electric torch in his hand; then he had been before them in the light after Blatchford had entered. But Santoine felt certain no one had made any attack upon him at any moment in the room; he had had no feeling, at any instant, that any of the shots fired had been directed at him. Blatchford, too, had been unattacked until he had made it plain that he had recognized one of the intruders; then, before Blatchford could call the name, he had been shot down.
It was clear, then, that what had protected Santoine was his blindness; he had no doubt that, if he had been able to see and recognize the men in the room after the lights were turned on, he would have been shot down also. But Santoine recognized that this did not fully account for his immunity. Two weeks before, an attack which had been meant for Eaton had struck down Santoine instead; and no further attempt against Eaton had been made until it had become publicly known that Santoine was not going to die. If Santoine"s death would have served for Eaton"s death two weeks before, why was Santoine immune now? Did possession of the contents of Santoine"s safe accomplish the same thing as Santoine"s death? Or more than his death for these men? For what men?
It was not, Santoine was certain, Eaton"s presence in the study which had so astounded Blatchford; Wallace and Eaton had pa.s.sed days together, and Blatchford was accustomed to Eaton"s presence in the house. Some one whom Blatchford knew and whose name Santoine also would know and whose presence in the room was so strange and astonishing that Blatchford had tried to prepare Santoine for the announcement, had been there. The man whose name was on Blatchford"s tongue, or the companion of that man, had shot Blatchford rather than let Santoine hear the name.
The blind man stirred upon his bed.
"Do you want something, Mr. Santoine?" the nurse asked. The blind man did not answer. He was beginning to find these events fit themselves together; but they fitted imperfectly as yet.
Santoine knew that he lacked the key. Many men could profit by possessing the contents of Santoine"s safe and might have shot Blatchford rather than let Santoine know their presence there; it was impossible for Santoine to tell which among these many the man who had been in the study might be. Who Eaton"s enemies were was equally unknown to Santoine. But there could be but one man--or at most one small group of men--who could be at the same time Eaton"s enemy and Santoine"s. To have known who Eaton was would have pointed this man to Santoine.
The blind man lay upon his back, his open, sightless eyes unwinking in the intensity of his thought.
Gabriel Warden had had an appointment with a young man who had come from Asia and who--Warden had told his wife--he had discovered lately had been greatly wronged. Eaton, under Conductor Connery"s questioning, had admitted himself to be that young man; Santoine had verified this and had learned that Eaton was, at least, the young man who had gone to Warden"s house that night. But Gabriel Warden had not been allowed to help Eaton; so far from that, he had not even been allowed to meet and talk with Eaton; he had been called out, plainly, to prevent his meeting Eaton, and killed.
Eaton disappeared and concealed himself at once after Warden"s murder, apparently fearing that he would also be attacked. But Eaton was not a man whom this personal fear would have restrained from coming forward later to tell why Warden had been killed. He had been urged to come forward and promised that others would give him help in Warden"s place; still, he had concealed himself. This must mean that others than Warden could not help Eaton; Eaton evidently did not know, or else could not hope to prove, what Warden had discovered.
Santoine held this thought in abeyance; he would see later how it checked with the facts.
Eaton had remained in Seattle--or near Seattle--eleven days; apparently he had been able to conceal himself and to escape attack during that time. He had been obliged, however, to reveal himself when he took the train; and as soon as possible a desperate attempt had been made against him, which, through mistake, had struck down Santoine instead of Eaton. This attack had been made under circ.u.mstances which, if it had been successful, would have made it improbable that Eaton"s murderer could escape. It had not been enough, then, to watch Eaton and await opportunity to attack him; it had been necessary to attack him at once, at any cost.
The attack having reached Santoine instead of Eaton, the necessity for immediate attack upon Eaton, apparently, had ceased to exist; those who followed Eaton had thought it enough to watch him and wait for more favorable opportunity. But as soon as it was publicly known that Santoine had not been killed but was getting well, then Eaton had again been openly and daringly attacked. The reason for the desperate chances taken to attack Eaton, then, was that he was near Santoine.
Santoine"s hands clenched as he recognized this. Eaton had taken the train at Seattle because Santoine was on it; he had done this at great risk to himself. Santoine had told Eaton that there were but four possible reasons why he could have taken the train in the manner he did, and two of those reasons later had been eliminated. The two possibilities which remained were that Eaton had taken the train to inform Santoine of something or to learn something from him. But Eaton had had ample opportunity since to inform Santoine of anything he wished; and he had not only not informed him of anything, but had refused consistently and determinedly to answer any of Santoine"s questions. It was to learn something from Santoine, then, that Eaton had taken the train.
The blind man turned upon his bed; he was finding that these events fitted together perfectly. He felt certain now that Eaton had gone to Gabriel Warden expecting to get from Warden some information that he needed, and that to prevent Warden"s giving him this, Warden had been killed. Then Warden"s death had caused Santoine to go to Seattle and take charge of many of Warden"s affairs; Eaton had thought that the information which had been in Warden"s possession might now be in Santoine"s; Eaton, therefore, had followed Santoine onto the train.
Santoine had not had the information Eaton required, and he could not even imagine yet what the nature of that information could be. This was not because he was not familiar enough with Warden"s affairs; it was because he was too familiar with them. Warden had been concerned in a hundred enterprises; Santoine had no way of telling which of this hundred had concerned Eaton. He certainly could recall no case in which a man of Eaton"s age and cla.s.s had been so terribly wronged that double murder would have been resorted to for the concealment of the facts. But he understood that, in his familiarity with Warden"s affairs, he had probably been in a position to get the information, if he had known what specific matters it concerned. That, then, had been the reason why his own death would have served for the time being in place of Eaton"s.
Those who had followed Eaton had known that Santoine could get this information; that accounted for all that had taken place on the train.
It accounted for the subsequent attack on Eaton when it became known that Santoine was getting well. It accounted also--Santoine was breathing quickly as he recognized this--for the invasion of his study and the forcing of the safe last night.
The inference was plain that something which would have given Santoine the information Warden had had and which Eaton now required had been brought into Santoine"s house and put in Santoine"s safe. It was to get possession of this "something" before it had reached Santoine that the safe had been forced.
Santoine put out his hand and pressed a bell. A servant came to the door.
"Will you find Miss Santoine," the blind man directed, "and ask her to come here?"
The servant withdrew.
Santoine waited. Presently the door again opened, and he heard his daughter"s step.
"Have you listed what was taken from the safe, Harriet?" Santoine asked.
"Not yet, Father."
The blind man thought an instant. "Day before yesterday, when I asked you to take charge for the present of the correspondence Avery has looked after for me, what did you do?"
"I put it in my own safe--the one that was broken into last night. But none of it was taken; the bundles of letters were pulled out of the safe, but they had not been opened or even disturbed."
"I know. It was not that I meant." Santoine thought again. "Harriet, something has been brought into the house--or the manner of keeping something in the house had been changed--within a very few days--since the time, I think, when the attempt to run Eaton down with the motor-car was made. What was that "something"?"
His daughter reflected. "The draft of the new agreement about the Latron properties and the lists of stockholders in the properties which came through Mr. Warden"s office," she replied.
"Those were in the safe?"