¢ £58 EYES OF THE
1 BLIND ff
_ AfiTHURSoMERsRocH-E


THE EYES OF
/ , /
By ARTHUR ~AIMERS ROCHE
_.- / /
Mr. SW1“;
tery in another
of the piot are hopeiessiy beyond the
the most experi-
shouid a young
wraps one baffling mys-
untii the invoiutions
guessing facuity of
enced reader. Why
reporter be visited at night by a man
who iaiis dead on the threshoid? And
the iQVeiy girid-is she traitor or pat-
riot“? Did she bomb the
and pay ten thousand doiiars for hush
premises
money to a blackmaiier, or was that
just part of the game?
It is a story of intrigue and counter
the reader is kept en-
tirely in the dark untii the piot is we“
advanced and the in“ truth 15 hardiy
apparent until the climax '
to the end of the taie.
those who love mysteries, here is one
close
they wii! enjoy to their heart‘s con-
tent.
‘ by Arthur Somers Roche".
RANSOM
The l "dna 0r
pph~g of Burton Conybear,
Mull-09mm
\. /
__ 1 __
- l- . COMPANY
8,, / NelYork
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The Eyes


Of the Blind


By ARTHUR SOMERS ROCHE

AUTHOR OF
"Ransom," Etc.






A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Publlahed by arrangement with Gxono: H. Donn: COMPANY


COPYRIGHT, 19W,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
(DPYRIGHT, 1018, BY THE RIDOEWAY COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


v.
T0
ETHEL PETTIT ROCHE
WHO MAY NOT HAVE CREATED THE BUNBHTNE,
BUT WBOOWNB I'LAND SHARES ITWITH n





CHAPTER
II
III
IV
VI
VII
VIII
ENE
CONTENTS
TWICE-MURDERED SLEEP .
Two HUNDRED A WEEK Eon—Wan"?
CROSS-PURPOSES
A SCRAP OF PAPER .
MORE SURPRISES
FRIENDS 0R Fons? . . . .
TREASON IN Booxs . . . . . .
Bomas . . . . . . . .
PAD:
13
23
39
50
63
76
84
97
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
TANGLED THREADS .
INCRIMINATING EVIDENCE .
LYDIA TRAPPED. . . . . .
LYDIA GAINS AN ALLY . . . .
A STRANGE MESSAGE
AMERICAN, AFTER. ALL
THE CROOKED TRAIL
“HEmnm IN"
DE GRECQUE ENTERS
TEE CEooxED TRAIL TURNS STRAIGHT .
THE SPY MACHINERY
THE RECORD Scoans A BEAT .
CAPTAIN FAELEY INVESTIGATES
DEEMS SEES .
vii
110
196
141
154
169
182
197
212
230
246
260
278
288
308





THE EYES OF THE BF'JND





THE
EYES OF THE BLIND
CHAPTER ONE
TWICE-MURDERED SLEEP
DEEMS stared at the door. Somebody had
knocked, then. Hands in the pockets of his
dressing-gown, he watched the door-knob turn
to the right, and then to the left. Nervy beggar!
It was a happy thought that had made Deems
put a bolt of his own purchasing on the door.
Otherwise—and he grinned—there would have
been nothing to prevent a midnight visitor from
entering the Deems bachelor apartment. Noth-
ing, that is, except good sense. But then, as
all penologists agree, criminals do not have good
sense. Whoever was trying to enter this apart-
ment now bore out the conclusions of the students
of crime. For how could the dwelling-place of
a newspaper reporter possibly hold attractive
loot for the marauders of midnight? Still, it
gave a fellow quite a thrill. It was as though
11


12 THE EYES OF THE BLIND

some one had asked, quite casually, the loan of
ten thousand dollars.
He moved softly to the door. The bolt was
oiled. He slid it back silently. He threw the
door open. “Suppose,” he began, “we make this
absolutely informal? My name is Deems, but
my intimates call me Deemsie. Come right in
and I’ll show you where I keep the family
plate.”
His visitor stared at Deems stupidly. He
swayed slightly forward; then, as Deems, with
sudden recognition of the man’s condition, with-
held the savage uppercut that the forward mo-
tion had caused him to start, the visitor pitched
forward into the tiny hall. His clawing hands
tore at the portiere that hung between the hall
and the living room; the drapery gave way, and
with a rattle of brass rings he fell to the floor.
Poor devil! Deems bent over him. But no
fumes of liquor assailed him. He felt the man’s
pulse. Then, his face suddenly white, Deems
walked to the telephone.
“Apoplexy,” said the police surgeon, fifteen
minutes later.
“And I almost struck him,” said Deems, self-
reproachfully.
“Well, you didn’t,” said the surgeon sooth-
ingly.


TWICE-MURDERED SLEEP 13

“I know, but—if I’d answered immediately
when he knocked I might have done something—
got help sooner—saved his life, perhaps.”
“Don’t be an ass,” said the surgeon bruskly.
“How could you know that it was a sick man?
Lots of people would have sent a bullet through
the door. Anyway, nothing could have saved
him. Feel nervous? Want something to make
you sleep?”
“Lord, no!” Deems shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m not hysterical. It’s just—it’s a funny
world, isn’t it, Doc? How quick we are to as-
sume that the other fellow’s intentions are evil.”
“They mostly are,” grunted the surgeon.
“You’re a newspaper man, aren’t you?”
Deems nodded. “The Record.”
The gray surgeon stared at him. “Better quit
it; you’ll wind up by being a reformer and writ-
ing uplift fiction.” Then he slapped Deems in
friendly fashion on the shoulder. “It is quite
a shock to have a thing like this happen, but
don’t get morbid. ’Night.”
That’s all there was to it. Still, why make
a to-do about it? Men were dying at the rate
of thousands a day on a hundred bloody battle-
fields; death, even sudden death, must be taken,
not for a grave and portentous event, but for


‘14 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


what it really is, the casual opening of a door
and the easy stepping into another life.
Nevertheless, when it is the door of one’s own
apartment through which a stranger has stepped
into that other life, one feels a personal interest
and obligation. The police officers who had ar-
rived in the ambulance had made a search of the
body and found on him not a single article that
would indicate his identity. Nor was there any
money in his pockets. And somehow or other
Deems could not stomach the thought of letting
this unknown end in the Potters’ Field.
Stricken suddenly with a mortal illness, the
man had evidently turned in at the nearest door-
way. Deems’s apartment being on the ground
floor, it was at Deems’s door that he had stopped.
Had the man died in the hallway, Deems prob-
ably would have felt no further interest. But
in his own rooms! Reporters are not overbur-
dened with riches as a general rule, and Deems
was no exception. Notwithstanding this, he told
the policemen that he would, in the absence of
identification of the dead man, defray his funeral
expenses. At which quixotic ofi' er they shrugged
their shoulders and left him.
Some years of newspaper work, during which
he had been present at scenes ghastly enough to
harden the nerves, had not rendered Deems cal-


TWICE-MURDERED SLEEP 17



“Keep your hands up,” said a voice.
Slowly Deems opened his eyes; heavy with
sleep the rays of the electric flashlight blinded
them. Yet in a second his vision was readjusted
to the new condition. He could make out the
shadowy figure behind the hand that held the
flashlight.
“Have you heart trouble?” he asked.
“Heart troubl ”
“Because, you know, it would never do,” said
Deems.
“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about,”
said the voice.
“Of course.” Deems’s tones were sympa-
thetic. “To have a question like that tossed at
one by a perfect stranger! Now if we knew
each other and were terribly well acquainted,
you’d know of course that I’m given to rambling
verbally. But then we hardly know each other
at all, do we? Of course, you know me by sight,
and that helps. But my name is Deems, Robert
Deems. My men friends call me Deemsie, but
mother always called me Robbie. Funny thing
about mothers, isn’t it? They always wish such
dreadful pet names on their boy-babies. I hope,”
and his voice was severe, “that none of your sons
are called Willie or Frankie.”
“N one of my ”


TWICE—MURDERED SLEEP 19



the man says ‘Miss’ and pauses suggestively, the
lady helps him by supplying her name.”
“This is not quite an ordinary occasion,’
told him.
“You relieve me. I didn’t know but that
burglary was your profession. Merely an avo-
cation?”
The girl had moved as he spoke. She was
standing now by the huddled draperies that had
been torn down by Deems’s earlier visitor.
“Don’t trip over that curtain,” he advised her.
“It proves how much I need a maternal visitor.
Think of a man so lost to the sense of neatness
that he leaves a curtain on the floor.”
The girl moved again. She stopped. For a
moment the flashlight left the face of Deems.
It explored the floor at her feet. Then the light
was switched off. And just as it went out
Deems got the impression that the slim figure
was bending over.
“Don’t move; I’ll fire,” she warned him. Her
voice seemed to come from the floor itself. And
then the flash gleamed again and he could make
out behind it her figure standing now close to the
outside door. He had the odd impression that
she was inwardly shaking with excitement,
though her voice was as calm and crisp as it had
been from the beginning.
,
she


20 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



“You’re not going?”
“Stay right where you are, Mr. Deems,” she
ordered.
The black blot in her right hand moved for-
ward a trifle until it was clearly defined in the
rays of the flashlight that her left hand held. It
was a small but, Deems imagined, a tighly effi-
cient pistol. And it was levelled unwaverineg
at himself.
“Mr. Deems, for your own good I would ad-
vise you to forget that I have been here to-night,”
she said.
“For my peace of mind I wish that I might,”
he answered. “But truly, Miss—-No? Very
well. Oh, I say ”
Fatuous ass that he was! For the outside
door had opened and she was gone! There was
no use in trying to follow. In the first place, he
was clad only in pajamas; and in the second place
——but there wasn’t any second place. He simply
wasn’t dressed, and that’s all there was to it. A
man in pajamas can not chase a lady down a New
York street in the middle of the night. It isn’t
done.
He advanced into the room she had left and
switched on the light. Well, she might be an
amateur burglar, but she was a thoroughly effi-
cient one. Not only had she worked quietly—


TWICE-MURDERth SLEEP 21



she must have been quiet for some time, she had
accomplished so much before he awakened—but
hastily. For she had ransacked his desk, and the
drawers in his table were opened and their con-
tents jumbled in a fashion that proved she had
gone through them. '
And yet, so far as he could see, she had taken
with her none of his possessions. A ring that
had belonged to his mother, of more than senti-
mental value too, was left behind. Also yester-
day had been pay-day and something under
ninety dollars had been in his desk. It was still
there.
What, then, had caused this visit? She had
been too cal-m, too much mistress of herself to
have been deterred from theft by his presence.
He entertained the idea that she had left his
apartment at the very moment that the object of
her visit had been obtained. He couldn’t tell
where that idea came from, but it was firmly
fixed in his mind.
But why on earth should a girl feloniously en-
ter his apartment and then depart without tak-
ing what few portable effects he had? She had
not been afraid of him; his entrance upon her ac-
tivities had hardly disconcerted her. \Vhy, then,
had she come?
The question was unanswerable. That she had


22 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


made a mistake would have been his belief, but
for the queer impression he had received when
she had turned off her flashlight for a moment
——the impression of jubilant excitement emanat-
ing from her.
If only he had been dressed! Still, what
could he have done? He could not have attacked
her. Not her pistol, but the fact that he was
Bob Deems, would have prevented violence.
For, had she been unarmed, he would have made
no physical efi’ort to detain her; indeed, would
have felt almost in duty bound to offer a woman
reduced to such stress that she planned crime
what money he had.
But this girl had not been reduced to any such
stress. If her voice was not sufficient proof of
her breeding, the fact that she had left money
untouched was proof that she was not driven to
her act by poverty.
He sat on the edge of his bed going over the
situation, trying to figure out what else he could
have done. To have stood there supinely and
let the girl get away without clue to her purpose
or identity seemed, on thinking it over, to have
been the act of an utter idiot. And yet, what
the deuce could he have done?
He went to sleep with this question also unan-
swered.


CHAPTER TWO
TWO HUNDRED A WEEK Eon—WHAT?
DEAD men and pretty girls! They had haunted
Deems throughout the night, and now, as he ate
his breakfast, they were still with him. But
why pretty?——he asked himself. The man who
had been taken away in the police ambulance was
indubitably dead. But how did he know that
the girl was pretty?
“That, Deemsie, old scout, is my own little
secret,” he said aloud. “How do you know it’s
going to rain when the sun is shining and there
isn’t a cloud in the sky? How do you know that
the first of the month will bring a flock of bills?
Habit, instinct, sheer intellect. Beauty, Deem-
sie, is a fact, not a theory or a supposition. Why
do facts exist? So that we’ll recognise them.
You don’t have to see the drops to know it’s rain-
ing; you can feel them. Just the same with
beauty. A blind man can tell an orange from
an unpicked lemon. It’s reason, old top.”
Yes, she was pretty; and a lady; and with a
sense of humour. Deems was not exactly a ro-
23


24 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



manticist, but he had his share of red blood, and
the man who would not speculate on the identity
and purpose of a pretty, charming girl who had
visited his apartment at dead of night, must have
milk in his veins. Breakfast had never been
quite so satisfactory as it was this morning. Puz-
zlement was sauce to his appetite. He regretted
that a man could -eat but one breakfast at a time.
He was looking longineg at his empty coffee-
pot when his door-bell rang. It was undoubt-
edly Henry, the coloured janitor, come to clear
away the remains of the breakfast that Delia, his
wife, had prepared.
But it was not Henry, for Henry would have
used his pass-key to turn the feeble lock on the
door. Instead, the door-knob shook in response
to Deems’s call to enter. Beneath his breath
Deems swore. Henry was furniture, and furni-
ture could not be an interruption to a train of
thought. He was coldly civil as he opened the
door.
His visitor beamed. A man of medium
height, rather stockily built, a trifle past middle
age, quietly dressed, he might have been a book-
agent or a life-insurance solicitor, had it not been
for his eyes. Even in the murk of the ill-lighted
hallway the man’s eyes gleamed. They were
restless, rolling eyes, bright with an uncanny


TWO HUNDRED A WEEK FOR—WHAT? 25


fire, and Deems felt that they explored his in-
nermost soul. Instinctively, despite the other’s
smile, Deems disliked and distrusted him.
“Mr. Robert Deems?” asked the man.
Deems nodded assent. Without quite know-
ing how it happened, he found himself shaking
the hand of the afl’able stranger and showing
him a seat in his living-room. The man exuded
cordiality, and somehow Deems felt ashamed of
himself because he could not respond.
“My name is Wilder, Thomas Wilder.”
Deems murmured a polite assent.
“I am one of a group of men interested in the
International Press Service Bureau,” said
Wilder. “You have not heard of us, Mr.
Deems, for the reason that we have not as yet
entered actively upon the work of supplying the
press of the wald with our features. But we
hope to begin very soon. May I ask if you are
under contract to the Record?”
Deems shook his head.
"Then I may assume that you would consider
an offer from us ?” asked the visitor.
Deems eyed the man. Now that his hat was
removed, Wilder looked older than he had
seemed in the gloomy hallway. Also Deems
felt that cordiality, beaming cordiality, was not
characteristic of the man. He sensed a restless-


26 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



ness, a nervousness in Wilder’s manner; not be-
cause of the man’s ever-moving eyes; but because
of an intangible something else, the indefinable
thing that we call personality.
“What is the nature of your offer?” asked
Deems.
VVilder’s smile grew wider; he nodded approv-
ingly. “That is the sort of question I hoped for,
Mr. Deems. The man who is ready to consider
any ofler, who leaps blindly into an at? air, has
not the requisite balance for the position which
I come to offer you.”
He hitched his chair a bit nearer to Deems,
and his rolling eyes grew steady. “This is a
time of turmoil, Mr. Deems. It is a time when
the newspaper profession is facing great changes.
For a great many years the press of this coun-
try, aside from its little-read editorial pages, has
been merely a daily record of yesterday’s hap-
penings. What my organisation aims at is the
interpretative recording of the history that is be-
ing made to-day; its meaning, not only with re-
gard to the day before yesterday, but to the day
after to-morrow. Quasi-editorial correspond-
ence, so to speak; correspondence that will have
as definite an effect in informing and molding, I
or. rather, I should say, keeping pace with, public


TWO HUNDRED A ‘VEEK FOR—WHAT? 27



opinion as the utterances of a king or a presi-
dent.”
Deems grinned. “The beauty in aiming high
is that your shot travels farther,” he said.
W'ilder shrugged his shoulders. “Even to a
man like you it seems ambitious, eh? And yet,
now is the time when the press of the world has
reached the highest power in its history. And
yet who shall say that it has reached its limit?”
“Not I,” said Deems. “But why select me
as one of yOur correspondents?”
“You are too modest, Mr. Deems. We know
your work upon the Record; we know your per-
sonal character; brains coupled with honesty.
You have those things and those things are what
we need.”
“Thank you,” said Deems.
“You would consider such an offer, then?”
“Make it,” replied Deems.
“That, too, is the sort of thing we like,” said
VVilder: “to meet a man who will not waste time.
\Vhat we offer you is this: two hundred a week,
all expenses, and a contract for one year.”
Deems whistled. “And I go—where?”
“To Brazil first; on the Santa Lucia, sailing
this afternoon.”
Deems whistled again. “That’s short notice,”
he said. “It wouldn’t be playing quite fair with


28 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



the Record. I should have to give them a week’s
notice at the least.”
His visitor shook his head. “That is unfortu-
nate,” he said. “It is quite necessary that you
leave to-day. I should have stated, too, that we
are keeping the formation of our business rather
a secret.”
Deems looked puzzled. “But I should think
in the very nature of things that you would want
to prepare the papers for this new service.”
His visitor’s smile grew mysterious. “You
are a most capable writer, Mr. Deems, and a
man of vision; but the sordid practicalities of
business are perhaps not familiar to you.”
“No, frankly, they are not,” agreed Deems.
“Exactly. But we plan to launch this busi-
ness in a unique manner. There is behind us
unlimited capital; it is not necessary that we be-
gin to earn an income immediately. Before the
men whom we send out write us a single line, we
wish them to study the people, the customs, the
characteristics, of the countries to which they are
assigned. You will be in Brazil months before
we shall expect to hear from you.”
“And I leave this afternoon, eh?” said Deems,
slowly.
“This afternoon,” echoed Wilder.
“It might be arranged,” murmured Deems.


TWO HUNDRED A WEEK FOR—WHAT? 29



“Realising the opportunity offered me, the Rec-
ord might forgive the lack of notice.”
“There, again, is something to be explained,”
said Wilder. “It would be quite essential that
the Record know nothing of your plans. You
would merely resign.”
Deems laughed exasperatedly. “This is ex-
tremely mysterious,” he said. “Not to tell them
anything. You spoke of sordid practicalities a
moment ago. There are such things as pass-
ports, you know. We are at war.”
Wilder smiled. “A passport, with your
photograph, is already made out. You will
merely have to sign it.”
Deems pursed his lips. “You were quite con-
fident of getting me.”
Wilder shrugged. “Let us be frank, Mr.
Deems. You are a most excellent newspaper-
man, but your salary is just eighty dollars a
week. YVas it likely that you would refuse?”
“I suppose not,” admitted Deems thought-
fully. “But—my salary; my photograph?”
VVilder’s beaming smile became a chuckle.
“We have something of an organisation, Mr.
Deems.”
“So it would appear. But—two hundred a
week—we’re being frank, you know—that, to me,


30 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



with expenses—aren’t you a bit afraid of being
——er——stung?” ‘
The smile left Wilder’s lips. “We investi-
gate carefully, Mr. Deems. We will not be—
' stung. I am to take it that you accept my of-
fer?”
Deems smiled deprecatingly. “Sordid actu-
alities seem to run in my mind this morning. It’s
a—rather long trip. A guarantee—” He
paused.
The smile returned to Wilder’s mouth. It
was a wide mouth, thin and harsh. “You are
no fool, my dear Mr. Deems. There is no guar-
antee like cash. Two hundred a week for half
a year is fifty-two hundred dollars. Expenses.
at a hundred _a week, are twenty-six hundred
more. I have brought with me seventy-eight
hundred dollars and your ticket.”
“Let me see it, please,” requested Deems.
Wilder opened a capacious wallet. He drew
forth a formidable-looking document that Deems
knew was a passport, something that looked like
a steamer ticket, and—a massive roll of cur-
rency. The latter he handed to Deems.
The newspaperman looked at it with interest.
He let his fingers play with it lingeringly.
“Nice little stuff,” he crooned. “Never
dreamed that there was no much money in the


TWO HUNDRED A WEEK FOR—\VHAT? 31



world—and it sort of sings to me, as though it
had found a papa. Poor little lonesome long
green. Go back to stepfather!”
And he tossed the money upon the table-desk
that stood between Wilder’s chair and his own.
His young mouth was suddenly as harsh as the
older man’s; his grey eyes were steely.
“Listen, Wilder,” he said, coldly. “It’s a
wonder of a game. I marvel that I don’t fall
for it, but—I’m too curious. I want to know
why. Put your money in your wallet; I won’t
charge you a cent for listening. Tell me.”
Wilder stared at him. His face expressed
shocked surprise.
“Why, Mr. Deems! You speak as though
you doubted my good faith!”
“Do I? What a rotten actor I’d make! My
voice gives me away, doesn’t it? Doubt your
good faith? Why, my dear Mr. Wilder! You
stagger me; you daze me. Doubt you? Never
in the world! I can tell a con man around the
corner. But why me? Why little Bobby
Deems, who never saved a penny in his life, and
-—it’s the missing paper; that’s what it is!
Please, pul-lease don’t disappoint me! Say that
it is the missing paper.”
Wilder pocketed his money; he rose from his
chair; he slowly drew on his gloves.


32 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


“A game, eh? You are as simple-minded as
that, eh? Not simple-minded enough to take
our money, but simple-minded enough to think
that you can get away with a thing like this? You
are a fool, Mr. Deems.”
“I know it,” said Deems, humbly. “I’m stu-
pid. But—don’t hurry; tell me about it, won’t
you?” .
Something foreign came into Wilder’s tones;
not a trace of accent, but a certain stiffness of
speech, as though he chose words from an un-
certain vocabulary. He no longer beamed; his
lips had relaxed into their natural grimness, into
a menace that was half sneer.
“There are several ways of attending to affairs,
Mr. Deems. One way is—to pay. That some—
times is easier. The other way—to exact pay-
ment—that is not so difficult, Mr. Deems. You
choose that we shall attend to the afiair in the
second way. I bid you good morning, Mr.
Deems.”
There was finality in his tones. Yet he paused
at the door; Deems sensed then a weakness inthe
man’s character, a willingness to temporise. His
mouth was cruel, not firm.
“You are young, Mr. Deems. It is quite pos-
sible that you do not pause to think. We would


TWO HUNDRED A WEEK FOR—“’HAT? 33



not be too harsh with you. Perhaps the money
is not enough, eh?”
“Enough? Suppose that you tell me exactly
what you want of me?” demanded Deems.
“Why quibble, why waste time?” demanded
Wilder. “If your honour is sensitive—to offer
you a pleasant vacation, that seemed the sim-
plest way. But if it is merely a question of how
much—we stand ready to pay. You are wiser,
perhaps, than your years would indicate. But
remember that wisdom makes compromises. WVe
are more or less, apparently, in your power. But
that renders us the more dangerous to you, as
you must apprehend, Mr. Deems. A hundred
thousand dollars, no questions asked, you to ab-
sent yourself from America for at least six
months. What?”
“And in return?” questioned Deems.
“You tell us exactly how much Regan said
to you?”
(‘Bogm?,’
Wilder struck the table with his gloved hand.
“Do not play the fool, Mr. Deems. Regan!
The man who died here last night, and whose
funeral expenses you are paying.”
Deems’s lips pursed. “And suppose that I
told you that Rogan told me nothing?"
Wilder smiled. “Then I should ask you to


34! THE EYES OF THE BLIND



give to me the memorandum that he might have
given you.”
“And if I told you that he gave me no such
memorandum ?”
“Then I should remind you that you spoke,
but a moment ago, of a paper,” said Wilder.
“And I should reply that I was joking,” said
Deems.
“And expect me to believe it?”
“I should insist that you believe it,” retorted
Deems quietly.
“I am lacking in a sense of humour. It is im-
possible for me to catch the point of your jest.”
“I can understand that; it was a stupid joke,”
admitted Deems. “Still, I was joking.”
“Yet, for a hundred thousand dollars, one can
well become serious.”
“Not this time. The man Rogan told me
nothing, gave me nothing.”
“That is your last word? We shall not come
again, Mr. Deems.”
“You disappoint me. You have no idea how
you make a morning, Mr. Wilder,” grinned
Deems impertinently.
For a moment the eyes of the two men met.
There was something so menacing in the glance
of Wilder, that for a moment Deems thought


TWO HUNDRED A WEEK FOR—WHAT? 35

;


the other meditated an attack. But the menace
departed.
“You have my deep sympathy, Mr. Deems.
One always pities a fool.”
He had passed through the door before Deems
could think of an apt retort.
“Dead men, pretty midnight visitors, and now
—a hundred thousand dollars—and I think the
beggar meant it. Rogan ” Deems’s utter-
ance grew incoherent. Wilder had been in
deadly earnest, and for all that he might be a
bit crazy, his visit here had not been purposeless,
had not been the weird act of a maniac. The
money that Deems had held in his hand had been
real.
Deems’s eyes narrowed as he turned into
Third Avenue from the street where stood his
apartment, to take the elevated to Park Row.
The visit of Wilder was connected with the dead
man, whose name, apparently, was Rogan.
Could the visit of the girl be connected with
either of the others? If so, what was the con-
nection? That she should have known Rogan,
should know Wilder, was quite absurd. Wilder
was uncanny, a personage hinting of hidden evil;
and Rogan, poor, commonplace-seeming little
man—he could not have moved in the same class
that held the girl of last night.


36 THE EYES OF THE BLIND

And yet, if Wilder knew Rogan— The
girl had bent over near the fallen portiéres. Had
Regan dropped something? Had she come in
search of that something? He stopped, brows
wrinkled in speculation two-thirds of the way
across the street. He leaped to the sidewalk just
in time.
Bound north, but on the west side of the street,
the automobile had not sounded a horn. Racing
at upward of forty miles an hour it was now, as
from the vantage of the sidewalk Deems stared
angrily after it, a block and a half away. On
the wrong side of the street, and breaking the
speed la.w——-the blanked utter idiots! And yet,
as long as half-wits were permitted to run mo-
tors, sane people should take heed to their street
crmsings. He forgot his narrow escape before
he had mounted the steps to the elevated. Also,
he almost forgot Wilder and Regan; the girl
was so much more intriguing.
In the “D” pigeonhole at the oflioe he found
an envelope addressed to him. It contained his
afternoon and evening assignments. The first
was a routine matter of the dulleet; the latter
was rather promising. There was to be 8. din-
ner of the Anti-VVar Society—and—~Deems
sonatinieod his instructions closely—he was not
to write the story for the paper; some one else


TWO HUNDRED A WEEK FOR—WHAT? 87



was to attend to that; he was to call at the home
of Stephen Gryce, owner of the Record, and per-
sonally repOrt to the publisher the events of the
dinner. It was an odd assignment, but—every-
thing in the world was odd. For instance, what
could be odder than the trio of happenings of the
past fourteen hours or so?
“Gentleman to see you, Mr. Deems,’
office boy.
“What’s his name?” questioned Deems. He
was angry that his pleasant speculations about
the girl were once again broken into.
“Didn’t say.”
“Be out in a moment,” said Deems.
He walked to his desk. Clancy, of the Ship
News Department, gave him a wave of the hand
as he walked out of the city room. Deems nod-
ded pleasantly; he liked Clancy. He opened his
desk and took out pencil and copy paper. His
afternoon assignment was of the sort that would
necessitate notes. Then he started for the door.
He was half-way to it when he heard a roar like
the blowing-out of a tire. But motors do not
run on the twelfth floor of the Record Building.
He was the first to reach the outer office.
Clancy lay upon the floor, a bullet-hole mar-
ring his good-natured features. Beside him lay
said an



38 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


a stranger, also dead. And the office boy stared
at Deems; he spoke hoarser, afl'rightedly:
“He t’ought Clancy was youse, sir; I heard
him call him ‘Deems.’ ”


CHAPTER THREE
CROSS-PURPOSES
GRYCE looked at his cigar; his nostrils, broad
nostrils, quivered faintly as he sniffed the fra-
grance. Huge of feature, yet relieved from
grossness by the intellectual eyes and forehead,
one felt that here was a man whose appetites were
ever clamorous, were held in restraint only by a
strength of will. The trim body, one knew, was
trim not wholly through nature or physical dis-
cipline; the tailor had done his full share.
“The greatest man the world has ever seen?”
He looked at his guest. His eyes grew specu-
lative. “Alexander, Napoleon, Darwinfithat’s
too hard a question. Unless, of course, you per-
mit me to call man Him whom millions call God.”
“Yet He lived and died a man,” said his guest.
“Then there is no room for argument. Christ,
of course, stands supreme.”
“And yet to-day we worship Mars,” said the
other.
Gryce frowned. “I would hardly say that.
Doesn’t it seem to you that Christ is warring
39


40 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


against Mars, and that we of the Allied nations
fight on the side of Christ?”
His guest applied a match to his cigar. “Yet
one is permitted to ask oneself whether or not
Christ would have combated evil with en .”
“But are we of the Allied nations doing that?”
demanded Gryce.
His guest lifted his shoulders. “I yield to
no one in my love for France,” he said. “And
.yet—”
Gryce inclined his head. “I understand the
patriotism of the Comte de Grecque; the whole
world understands it. You and I are simply
discussing theories ”
“—that might have been made actualities,”
said de Grecque.
Gryce watched a smoke ring shatter itself
against a lamp. “How?” he asked.
“Suppose that Belgium had not resisted; sup-
pose that my beloved country had not taken up
arms in defence of herself. Suppose that our
great ally, England, had not entered the war?”
“Why, then the German heel would have been
ground into the face of civilisation,” asserted
Gryce.
De Grecque shrugged. “You and I are but
human, my friend. I at once joined the army
of France; I served until it seemed that I could


CROSS-PURPOSES 4-1



serve France better in the field of diplomacy.
l\'Iy actions belie my words. And yet that does
not mean that I believe in my actions rather than
in my words. It means that having the limited
intellect of human beings, the limited imagina-
tion, I was unable to see any other course than
that of desperate resistance to a cruel foe. I
am still resisting, in so far as one man may, the
aggressions of that eruel foe. But at times,
when I think upon the countless dead of Europe,
I wonder whether, had Christ been alive in hu-
man flesh at the outbreak of the war, he would
have counselled resistance or non-resistance.
blind, to withdraw now—I would not counsel
that—but to see another great nation drawn into
the vortex—I wonder.”
His rolling eyes ceased their movement and
rested upon the wide face of Gryce.
“To-day is the day of great change,” he con-
tinued. “The world is anxious to change. To
emulate Caesar, to emulate Christ! That is the
choice you make.”
“I make?” Gryce met the look of the French-
man.
“That the world makes. You perhaps are
more typical of the world than any man I know:
You are not sure; you see an armed, threaten-
ing foe, killing and maiming and destroying what


CROSS—PURPOSES 43

which do not uphold the pacifists’ conception of
Christ,” said Gryce.
“Yet the Christian God is the Prince of
Peace,” smiled de Grecque.
Gryce threw his cigar into the fireplace. He
rose and walked up and down the room. “I
know, I know,” he said. “And I understand
that we are both anxious for our cause to tri-
umph. I realise that we speak abstractly. And
yet, if there is truth in the abstract, why is it not
truth in the concrete?”
“It is,” said de Grecque. “But we lack the
courage to face it or, having faced it, we refuse
to recognise it. Public opinion is a mighty
force. But you, you make public opinion. You
are a great publisher; millions read your news-
papers; if you were to throw the full weight of
your newspapers against the sending of an army
to France——”
“But that—you, who have fought for France,
who now serve over here—do you counsel that I
should help the ends of Germany?”
“Listen, my friend. This war will be won or
lost before America’s might can be felt. For
America to send her legions abroad means
merely that America must suffer—it does not
mean that France will be the gainer. To break
relations with Germany, to admit what Germany


4-4- THE EYES OF THE BLIND


by her deeds has insisted upon, that a state of
war exists—that is America’s proud part. But
it is enough. To whom can the world turn for
counsel, for mediation, now that America has
entered the war? But if America should be in
the war in name only she might prove in the end
the salvation of the world. Germany would
trust her as a fair arbiter. But if German troops
have clashed in the field against American
troops Did I believe your country able to
equip and transport armies to France in time. I
should not speak this way. But the world knows
that you will be too late. And it is as a lover, not
of France alone, but of the world, that I spoke.
“I need not say to you, my friend, that I have
put into speech for the first time that which I
have believed for months. The world must be
saved not only from the dominion of Germany,
but from the dominion of forces that Germany’s
heinous acts have set loose. The spirit of hatred,
of revenge—it must not be freed. And you, Mr.
Gryce, are the one man in America who can see
to it that this spirit is held in leash. It is daring
to play the role of the lover of mankind; more
daring than the réle of the hater of mankind.
The world has its Napoleon, its Alexander, its
Caesar. One may name the destroyers until the
tongue grows weary with the utterance. But


CROSS-PURPOSES 4-5


there is but one great Lover, and His name lives
forever.”
“He was crucified,” said Gryce softly.
“He was,” said de Grecque.
Gryce ceased his pacing up and down the
room. He stared at the Frenchman.
“You do not speak for yourself alone, de
Grecque.”
“I speak for the war-worn world,” replied the
other.
“Yet there must be men of your acquaintance
who agree with you?”
“I do not need to say to you that I am a man
of the world,” said de Grecque. “Men of the
world do not often need actual speech to know
the feeling of others. But I can assure you, Mr.
Gryce, that I have weighed my words carefully;
that I know whereof I speak when I say to you
that the best thought of Europe agrees with me.
It is not well that certain things be said too
openly. A people can not understand the ab-
stract. They would read treason with superpa-
triotism. But you yourself—you are not alone
in your opposition to America’s taking an active
part in this war?” ‘
Gryce shook his head. “I believe that there
are millions with me,” he stated.
“And you can make those millions articulate,”


4-6 "'15 EYES OF THE BLIND


said de Grecque. “And when the war is over
and America learns the true horrors that Europe
has suffered, America will bestow honour upon
him who had vision and did not fear to use his
vision.”
He rose to his feet. He beamed upon the
publisher. Their hands met. “I am with you,”
said Gryce. “With you for the betterment of
mankind, no matter where it leads me.”
His big body was slumped back in a chair and
he was staring at the logs in the fireplace whose
flames took away the chill of the April night,
when his daughter entered the room. He looked
up and smiled an invitation. She sat down on
the arm of his chair and her right hand slid natu-
rally around his neck; her fingers caressed his
wide check,
For a moment the two sat. in silence. Then
the girl spoke:
“I am beginning to wonder, Daddy, whether
education should not be banned by law.”
“Heresy!” he cried. “This from a settlement
worker!”
“I’ve been to the dinner of the Anti-War So-
ciety,” she told him. “Intellect, Daddy; intel-
lect, educated and refined down to the point al-
most of nothingness. I wonder if reason has ad-
vanced the world one-tenth as far as instinct and


CROSS-PURPOSES 47



emotion. To hear them talk—ugh,” her mouth
was pretty in its moue; “they’re traitors! But
such plausible traitors. I haven’t brains, Daddy,
and I couldn’t get up and denounce them. For
all the pacifists have a thousand specious argu-
ments; they quote dates and figures and conver-
sations until your head reels. As if one needed-
intellect to determine between right and wrong!”
Gryce’s body stiffened. “How did you hap-,
pen to be there, Lydia?” -
“Invited,” she answered. “Because your pa-
pers stood for peace, they seemed to think that
you weren’t for war, now that it’s been declared.
Everybody preferred peace, if it could be gained
honourably. But you you’re for prosecuting
the war to the utmost, as everybody knows.
They were insolent in daring to invite me! But I
went, and I’m glad of it, for I know what sort
of people pacifists are now. An idea is more to
them than the life of a baby. Daddy, I hate
them.”
“And yet, there may be great good in what
they say,” said Gryce.
The girl slipped from the arm of the chair; she
faced her father.
“Good! When they propose that we shall
permit the German outrage to continue? You
aren’t serious, Father?”


48 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


“And if I were?”
“I won’t believe it,” she told him.
Eyes wide, face flushed, she stared at him.
Her lips trembled, but the speech at the tip of
her tongue was interrupted by a knock on the
door. A servant announced that the gentleman
from the Record had arrived.
“Show him in here,” said Gryce. He refused
to meet his daughter’s eyes, the eyes that for the
first time in his memory were accusatory. As
for Lydia, she made no further attempt at speech.
While yet she was several feet from the door,
the servant opened it again, announcing, “Mr.
Deems.”
The newspaper man stepped into the room;
at sight of the girl he paused, looking uncertainly
from her to her father. Then, as she so evi-
dently waited for him to pass, he advanced into
the room. But Lydia Gryce started forward at
the same time. One of those amusing collisions,
that it always seems could have been avoided by
the ordinary use of eyesight, occurred. The
girl stepped back.
“I beg pardon,” she said.
She waited for Deems to step aside. Instead,
he stared at her. Beneath his gaze her eyes low-
ered; her face, that had been crimson as she
walked away from her father, grew pale.


' CROSS-PURPOSES 49



“Have you heart trouble?” asked Deems.
Into her face the colour swept again. Gryce
turned in his chair.
“That you, Mr. Deems? Why, have you
young people met before?”
Lydia had regained her self-possession now.
“I think not,” she said.
The publisher stared at the reporter. “Did
I hear you ask her if she had heart trouble?”
Deems flushed. “Why—er—I said-that I al-
ways start trouble,” he answered. “I clumsily
bumped into your daughter and—”
“Oh!” grunted Gryce. “Lydia, this is Mr.
Deems, one of my young men on the Record.
Good night, Daughter.”
“Good night, Father.” She bowed to Deems
and left the room. He stared after her. Well,
instinct had not lied; the girl who had come to
his apartment last night was pretty. Pretty?
What a weak, piflling word “pretty” was!
Beautiful, for that matter, was all too inexpres-
sive. For Lydia Gryce was one of the loveliest
girls in New York. And it was Lydia Gryce’s
voice that he had heard last night!
Gryce was unaware of the young man’s amaze-
ment, for Lydia had said, “Good night, Father.”
It was the first time in her life that she had not
called him “daddy.”


CHAPTER FOUR
A SCRAP or PAPER.
THE man-servant accosted Deems at the foot of
the stairs.
“Miss Gryce wishes to speak to you,” he said.
He ushered the newspaper man into the recep-
tion-room.
The library had been rather dimly lighted, but
this room was brilliant. Her hat removed, the
girl stood beneath a chandelier. Deems could
appreciate her beauty to its full extent. Yet,
even as he waited for her to speak, he realised
that Lydia Gryce was one of those rare beings
whose charm could not be gathered at a glance.
Beauty depends so much upon expression; and
Lydia Gryce was not rigid of feature. Now,
her lips parted, her eyes the least bit apprehen-
sive, she made Deems think of some shy sprite of
the forest poised for flight. Yet there was noth-
ing helpless about her expression; rather, it
savoured of defiance. He knew that those grey
eyes, slightly clouded now, would be just as
lovely when the spirit of mockery peeped from
50


A SCRAP OF PAPER 51




them. The mouth would be even more delicious
when it smiled. And he was quite certain that,
no matter how she tried, the low broad brow
could never wrinkle. Her dark hair, so brown
as to be almost black, caught the gleam of the
electric lights. Her flush warned him that he
was staring. He lowered his eyes as she spoke:
“Mr, Deems, why did you follow me here?”
She came directly to the point.
“Follow you? I came here to see your fa-
ther, Miss Gryce.”
“You were at the meeting of the Anti-W'ar
Society. I saw you taking notes. Yet you
come to the house instead of going to the Record
office,” she accused.
“There was another man covering the story.
I made notes to report to your father,” he re-
plied.
“Notes for my father? But he can read his
own paper.”
Deems shrugged. “That will be to-morrow
morning.”
“But why—you are honest, Mr. Deems ?”
“I never lie except when it is unavoidable,
Miss Gryce.”
“As when my father asked what you had said
to me?”
He bowed. “Exactly.”


52 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



The apprehension left her eyes. They met
his squarely. “What did my father say to you?”
“Nothing, Miss Gryce. I merely told him
briefly the events of the evening.”
She was silent a moment. It seemed as
though she were weighing carefully her next
speech. “You are acquainted with the Comte
de Grecque, Dir. Deems?”
He shook his head. “I have heard the name.
Isn’t he with some mission over here?”
She nodded. “Did you have any visitors to-
day, Mr. Deems?”
“One, at my rooms. Another called at the
office and asked for me. He killed a friend of
mine and himself.”
The girl shuddened faintly. “You knew
neither of the men?”
“Neither of them.”
“Would you mind telling me what your first
visitor wanted?”
“He seemed to have an idea that I was in pos-
session of information of value to him. At any
rate, he offered me a great deal of money.”
‘WVhat was the information that he wanted?”
she asked.
“I don’t know. A man died in my rooms last
night. Because I was sorry for the chap and
offered to pay his funeral expenses, the man


54- THE EYES OF THE BLIND


“Suppose, Mr. Deems, that we stop fencing?
To attempt cross-examining a newspaper man is
futile. Wilder offered you more than seven
thousand dollars. You admit that you want a
great deal more than that. A hundred thou-
sand dollars! I do not wish to bargain with you.
Perhaps you might be bought much more
cheaply. That does not matter. You will take
a hundred thousand from me?”
Deems smiled. “Let’s stop fencing, Miss
Gryce. Why not tell me exactly what you wish
of me ?”
“The paper that Rogan gave you; the same
paper that de Grecque wanted from you—VVil-
der, if you think it safer to call him that.”
“Safer?”
She made an impatient movement with her
hands.
“One hundred thousand dollars, Mr. Deems,
and immunity.”
“Immunity?” He looked at her blankly.
“Miss Gryce, I’ve been moving in the dark ever
since last night when I awoke to find you moving
in the dark. A man dies in my rooms; a girl
visits my rooms; a stranger, whom you tell me is
the Comte de Grecque, offers me a preposterous
position; you offer me a hundred thousand dol-
lars. My death is attempted. A friend of


A SCRAP OF PAPER 55

mine dies in my stead. Miss Gryce, don’t you
think you ought to offer some explanation ?”
From her purse she drew a tiny piece of paper..
“It is silly giving you information that you al-
ready possess, but the oblique mind prefers in-
directness.” She unfolded the paper. “You
were quite amusing last night, Mr. Deems; I
think the stage lost something when you entered
newspaper work. Your nonchalance, your per-
fect willingness to let me go—but that is the at-
tribute of the good bargainer. To await 06ers
rather than to seek them; that is good business.”
On the table she tossed the bit of paper that
she had been unfolding. Deems could see that
it was blank.
“Now, Mr. Deems, give me the real paper
that Rogan gave to you before he died.”
He shook his head. “If I had such a paper
it would be yours at once, Miss Gryce.”
“The hundred thousand will be cash, Mr.
Deems.”
“But I tell you that I know of no such paper,"
he protested.
“I do not think it would be quite fair of me
to threaten you with the same sort of thing that
de Grecque has attempted,” she said. “I would
rather appeal to your purse. But I assure you,
Mr. Deems, that we who are fighting in the dark


56 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



to protect our country, may, if forced to it, use a
weapon stronger than bribes.”
Deems’s eyes widened. “If it is a matter in-
volving America, why not appeal to my loyalty,
Miss Gryce ?”
She laughed. He had never expected to hear
such bitterness of tone from lips, that he knew
could be so merry.
“Your loyalty? One appeals to what exists,
Mr. Deems. I suppose that because my father
is deluded, you think he is wicked; that you, and
those with you, can use him; that you can appeal
to him to call me ofi’! I warn you, Mr. Deems,
that you are wrong in your estimate of my fa-
ther. It takes him long to make up his mind;
he may make minor errors for a while. But in
the end—You can afford to temporise with de
Grecque; you can make sport of me. But my
father is a powerful man, one of the most power-
ful in this country, and when in the end, he finds
that he has been deceived————”
She paused, breathless. Deems stared at her.
“Will you please listen to me, Miss Gryce! I
suppose that I should resent being prejudged.
But that doesn’t matter. You talk of loyalty,
of disloyalty. You speak of de Grecque—whom
you say is my visitor, Wilder ;——you talk of de-
luding your father, of an appeal to him to call


A SCRAP OF PAPER 57



you off. Miss Gryce, if I give you my word of
honour that I am absolutely bewildered, that I
haven’t the faintest idea of what all this means—”
He paused, eying her questioningly.
“Yet you held out for a bigger price from de
Grecque,” she accused.
He shrugged impatiently. “It all sounded so
absurd, Miss Gryce, that I let you interpret my
action to suit yourself. But I give you my word
of honour that I have no knowledge of the paper
that you seem to think I possess; that I know
nothing of Wilder or de Grecque; that the man
Rogan ”
“You will even tell me that you had never seen
Rogan before?” she demanded, incredulously.
“I even tell you that,” he answered. Then,
as suspicion blazed in her eyes again, he went on
hurriedly: “I give you my word, Miss Gryce.
More than that, if I can help you ”
“You? Help me? You who hold out for a
bribe that—”
“Have I accepted your offer?” he reminded
her. “After all, a hundred thousand dollars is
an enormous bribe, Miss Gryce.”
“Perhaps you think I could not pay it?”
“In which case I should probably ask to see
your money,” he said.
Her expression grew thoughtful. “And yet,


58 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



last night, your attitude toward me—why didn’t
you detain me? A burglar, in the night—and
you were not afraid of my pistol—”
He grinned—the likable grin that made him
friends. “Miss Gryce, did you not realise that
I’d turned in for the night? Could I pursue a
lady down the street in pajamas?”
She tried to hold her expression of suspicion;
she even fought for indignation; but she smiled.
“That was a difficulty,” she admitted.
He pursued his advantage. “Why can’t you
trust me? Tell me what it is that you thought
to find in my rooms. \Vhat it meant.” I
“And you maintain that Rogan was unknown
to you? His funeral expenses——”
“After all, he was a human being, and he’d
seemed to appeal to me. To bury him—is that
too unusual?” '
“It isn’t common,’ she said. Her gaze soft-
ened. “If I could believe you—”
"Try me,” he begged.
Something of eagerness in his tone made her
stiffen. It was as though she sensed his tre-
mendous personal interest in her and resented it.
“I said that I did not care to threaten
you, Mr. Deems. Let de Grecque and those
allied with him do that. It seems to me—
5


60 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



your apartment in his blind seeking for aid?
With no intention of going there?” '
“That’s what I want you to believe, because
it’s the truth."
“But the substitute paper?” she countered.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Suppose that
Rogan had lost the original earlier?”
“And was unaware of the loss?” she asked.
He nodded. “Look here, Miss Gryce! You
ask me for that paper. So does de Grecque. I
refuse it to de Grecque. He tries to have me
assassinated. Why should I refuse to give it to
you when de Grecque is my enemy? Is there a
third party who wants it?”
“You’ve not given it to my father?” she de-
manded, unexpectedly.
“Why?” he asked.
“I don’t know why. I ask if you have.”
“And I reply that I have not. And I ask
you, once again, to trust me, Miss Gryce. If I
can be of service—”
“You can,” she said. “If you will find the
paper that should have been on Rogan’s body,
but that was not there when he was searched at
the morgue—if you can find who took it-—-—-”
“And the nature of the paper?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You will know it if you
find it, Mr. Deems. Provided you are honest,


A SCRAP OF PAPER 61
0



now. No one can mistake that paper. It is an
oiled paper—exactly like this one here.” She
pointed to the creased sheet on the table.
Deems sighed. A wildgoose chase— Then
he looked at the girl. Whatever this amazing
mixup meant, the girl was in it. That she was
the daughter of a multimillionaire who happened
to employ Deems mattered not at all. Deems
was not conceited, yet he was thoroughly Ameri-
can, whieh means that he considered himself as
good as any one else. The girl was unmarried;
unless it were a secret, she was not engaged.
And somehow intuition told him that she was not
engaged.
“I’ll find it; or I’ll find who took it from
Rogan,” he promised recklessly.
Outside, he shook his head wearily. What
was it all about? And her father, Stephen
Grycel More cross-purposes! And de Grecque!
If de Grecque was VVilder—he hadn’t even de-
scribed Wilder to Miss Gryce; she knew that
\Vilder was de Grecque. How? She couldn’t
have been loitering near Deems’s apartment
house, but she had said, “We.” Whatever it was
in which she was involved, others were involved in
it also. One of those others might have watched
the Deems apartment.
He formd himself walking too close to the


62 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


houses. He stepped out nearer the curb. When
two attempts on one’s life have been made it be-
hooves one to walk cautiously. He was still
alert when he entered his apartment. And yet
he was taken by surprise. For the man sitting
in his easy chair as he switched on the light was
not de Grecque, nor did he hold a weapon in
view. But it was Rogan, the man who had been
pronounced dead in this very room last night.


CHAPTER FIVE
moan SURPRISES
ROGAN, after all, was not quite so commonplace-
seeming as Deems had thought him to be last
night. To find alive in one’s apartment a man
whose funeral expenses one has guaranteed
within the past twenty-four hours is suflicient to
shock one’s preconceptions. But it was more
than Rogan’s presence, more even than the fact
that Rogan was apparently the centre of a web
of intrigue that lent personality to Deems’s vis-
itor. It was a jocular something in his eye, a
queer twist of his bearded lips as he grinned at
Deems, that made the newspaper man recognise
an insouciance of soul similar to his own.
“Rattles you, eh?” chuckled Rogan.
“Oh, no! Nothing like that at all. You die
in my room; you come to life in it. Fifty-fifty
and fair enough.” .
“Good conscience,” approved Rogan. “Now,
lots of people would have thought themselves
haunted, and immediately surrendered the pre-
cious trifles they might have robbed me of. I.
68


64- THE EYES OF THE BLIND



take it that you have been acting in a fiduciary
capacity.”
Carefully Deems placed his hat and gloves on
a chair. Deliberately he walked to the mantel
and selected a pipe. Meticulously he filled it,
tamping down the tobacco precisely. It was go-
ing strongly before he spoke to Rogan.
“Analysing that speech of yours, I take it that
I have something of yours.”
“You get credit for having it, from me,”
grinned Rogan.
“A piece of paper, isn’t it?”
“You said it,” replied the bearded man.
“Sort of waxed paper?”
“Oiled,” corrected Rogan. “Hand it over.”
“Wait a bit,” admonished Deems. “Your
presence here. Why aren’t you dead?”
“I’ll fool a lot of doctors yet,” said Rogan.
“Suspended animation. Ever hear of it?”
“I hear you now,” said Deems. “When did
you come to?”
“Ten minutes after the doctor carried me away
from here last night.”
“Yet nothing was said to me about it,” said
Deems.
“Probably not. Decent of you to foot the
bills for my funeral, too. I owe you something.
But about no mention being made of my—er—


MORE SURPRISES 65



failure of demise, so to speak—there were
reasons.”
“Couldn’t tell them to me, could you?” ques-
tioned Deems.
Rogan eyed him. “I guess so,” he said, la-
conically. “Here’s one of them.”
' Deems eyed the little gold badge that Rogan
permitted him to view. “Secret Service, eh.
Any particular reason for coming to me?”
“Last night?” Rogan shook his head. “Felt
dizzy; knew I was followed; turned in first door;
knocked—you let me in. At least, I didn’t know
you then, but I do now.”
“Yes, you must feel acquainted,” stated
Deems, dryly. “I don’t remember giving you a
latch-key.”
“Wouldn’t need it,” grinned Rogan. “Your
lock is simple. And—now—that paper?”
The quizzical look slowly left his eyes, to be
replaced by sternness. “You know,” he said,
“you told me that it was a paper, a waxed paper.”
“Surely,” said Deems. “But I haven’t it.”
Rogan nodded thoughtfully. “Lots of things
to attend to, to-day. The near-apoplectic fit I
had left me feeling pretty rocky. Couldn’t get
out until late. Dangerous for me to go round
without at least getting shaved. Throw ’em off
a bit if I can. But that paper—who has it?”


66 THE EYES OF THE BLIND

F
Deems shook his head. “I don’t know; I
never saw it.”
“M-m-mh.” Hogan was thoughtful. He
tapped the little gold badge. “You understand,
of course—”
“Bribery has been attempted to-day; then
murder; then a girl bawled me out, and—now
you, with prison-cells—that’s it, isn’t it?”
“Might even go that far with you, yes,” ad-
mitted Rogan.
“I guessed so. Well, Mr. Rogan, I haven’t
your paper. I never saw it. I never heard of it
until twelve hours after you were carried out of
here.”
“A girl—bawled you out? That’s the
phrase?” inquired Rogan.
“You heard me,” said Deems, resentfully.
“Accused me of being a crook—look here, Ro—
gan, you may think I’ve double-crossed you
somehow, but—you know perfectly well that I
never met you until last night. If I have been
crooked, it’s a recent affair, at least, so far as you
are concerned, isn’t it?”
“Well?” grunted Rogan.
“This: suppose you just take it for granted
that I’m on the level. If I’m not on the level,
then I’m simply making a play to be thought so.
But, even if I’m crooked as hell, it doesn’t do any


MORE SURPRISES 67

;
harm for you to tell me what it’s all about. At
worst, you’ll only be telling me what I already
know. What is this paper, and where do you
come in?”
“You haven’t told me the girl’s name,” coun-
tered Rogan.
“Is it necessary?”
“A Federal court would compel you to tell me
if I went that far,” asserted Rogan.
“Think so?” said Deems, defiantly.
Rogan shrugged his shoulders. “You love
your country, I’m assuming. This is a sizable
afl’air, young feller. Tell me where the girl
comes in and I’ll tell you where I come in. But
never mind, if you don’t want to—Lydia Gryce,
eh? Of course. Well, why did she bawl you
out?”
He knew so much that it seemed perfectly
natural for Deems to tell him more. “Because
I didn’t have the paper you left here to hand
over to her.”
“How did she know that you had it?”
“She knew that you’d been here, apparently
died here,” replied Deems.
“Keeping tabs on me, eh? And how did you
happen to see her? Did she send for you?”
Deems gazed at the man. A member of the
Secret Service, there couldn’t be any reason on


68 THE EYES OF THE BLIND
=
earth why he should not, having told so much,
tell more to Rogan. “She came here last night.”
“Last night?” ejaculated Rogan. “And told
you who she was. Or had you known her be-
fore ?” he demanded, sharply.
“Never saw her,” answered Deems. “As a
matter of fact, I didn’t see her last night. But
to-night, at her father’s house, I recognised her
voice, and—she waited for me after I left her
father and asked me for that original paper.”
“Original?” said Rogan, softly.
“Yes. While she was in my rooms she’d evi-
dently picked up another piece of paper, folded
like the one she was looking for; oiled paper, too.
To-night she accused me of making the substi-
tution, offered me huge money to give her the
original, and—oh, hell! I’m tired playing but-
ton, button! I’ve told you everything I know.
VVhat is that paper?”
“Young feller,” Rogan smiled, “it’s beginning
to occur to you, maybe, that you’re touching
into regular affairs, eh? Took some pull to have
the police give out the report that I was dead,
eh? And you say that somebody’s tried to kill
you. I can guess the somebody. Stocky sort
of chap, rolling eyes, eh? Uh-huh. I thought
so. And a. pretty girl harpoons you. Bawls
you out, proper. Don’t you think that an affair


MORE SURPRISES 69



that’s mixed up with murderers and lovely
women is a fine affair to keep out of?”
“I never asked in,” Deems reminded him.
“I’ve been dragged in.”
“But you can step out now. Better had,
young feller. I believe you; you haven’t the
paper I left here.”
“Where did you leave it?” demanded Deems.
“If it’s as important as you say ”
“A feller’s heart is a darned peculiar thing,”
declared Regan, “and when a man’s heart goes
blooey, and he’s got something valuable—he’s
liable to hand it to the first person he sees. It
was kinda important. It had ought to’ve got to
a certain place right quick. I thought that who—
ever read it, if he was a decent American citizen,
would hand it to the right parties, the same being
the nearest Federal authority. But—you never
saw it? I must ’a’ dropped it out of my hands
as I fell—and the girl thought she had it. It
ain’t like Lydia Gryce to be fooled on a thing
like that. She’s young enough, but she’s no
spring chicken in the brain.”
Deems flushed. He did not care for Rogan’s
tones. But rebuke could profitably be deferred
to information.
“The nature of the paper. You were going to
tell me?” he said.


70 THE EYES OF THE BLIND

“Pretty valuable document, you’re beginning
to believe, aren’t you? Me, in hiding, playing
dead, taking it for granted that you’re followed,
knowing that they’d tried to bump you off——”
“You knew that?” demanded Deems.
Rogan grinned. “If they hadn’t made a play
for you, I’d taken it for granted you’d sold out
to them. Matter of fact, I gave up all hope until
I got tipped off to what happened at the Record
office—then I went scouting around for you.
You see, the paper hadn’t been turned in to the
proper people. So 'I kinda supposed it was lost
or—the wrong people had it. Then—a man is
killed in a mixup in which you are meant—and
I make a few inquiries, and take a look at the
killer. I recognise him. So I rather guess that
a certain gang must think you have that paper,
and that you musta refused to come through.
What got me was why you hadn’t been down to
the Federal Building with it. But I could wait
for that explanation. I sneaked up here. And
I think I’ll shave before I leave, too. They
think I’m dead, but—I look too much like my-
self just now. Your razor?”
Deems nodded. “But not yet awhile. What
was in the paper?”
“Really anxious to know still? Might get


MORE SURPRISES 71
you in still more trouble, you know. W-e-ll,
suppose you ask Miss Lydia Gryce about it.”
“I have,” said Deems, shortly.
“And she wouldn’t tell you, eh? Nice, kindly
little girl she is, too. Oughta be real friendly
with an upstanding youngster like you. Ought
not to be hard to make her talk; and pretty good
sport, too. WVish I were a youngster again.
There’s the girl for me: loads of coin, looks to
burn, and not so nice that she wouldn’t be—
nice.”
The leer that accompanied his last word was
inexpressible. The flush left Deems’s face;
white, silent, he glared at Rogan. Then, slowly,
menace in his eyes, he stepped toward the Secret
Service man. Rogan watched him approach.
“Forgotten that I’ve a weak heart, eh?
Might kill me,” he warned.
“You ought to be dead,” whispered Deems.
“You’re going to eat your filthy talk, you——”
And then over Rogan’s face swept a most dis-
arming smile. He stepped toward Deems, his
hand outstretched. Uncertainly the newspaper
man stared at the hand; he faltered; his clenched
hands relaxed,
“It’s tough, youngster,” said Rogan. “But
you’re too nice a kid—I wanted to know if you
stood in with her or not. I find out that you


72 THE EYES OF THE BLIND

don’t. Good boy. And don’t mind what I said
about her. She isn’t worth it.”
“Careful,” breathed Deems.
“Listen, boy.” The man was so patently sin-
cere that the fight left the spirit of Deems.
“She’s a bad one, that girl. Blessed if I can un-
derstand what gets in the blood of some of ’em.
But at that, you can’t blame ’em for loving their
parents, though an old pole-cat like Gryce—well,
speed the day when we land him. We’ll maybe
only beat a lynching party by a few seconds, at
that. People aren’t going to stand around for-
ever and let him get away with treason.”
“Treason?” echoed Deems.
“You work on his paper, don’t you. Isn’t
there any gossip around the office? Well, they’d
keep it quiet at that, those that are with him.
And he hasn’t printed a line yet that would get
him in bad. He’s biding his time. And I sup-
pose the girl is in it to help him. But I’d respect
her more if she had less filial love and more pa-
triotism. I suppose he thinks he’ll some day
have a title or something—God knows what
these treasonable pacifists think, anyway!” He
grunted disgustedly.
Slowly the colour ebbed back into Deems’s
cheeks. Things became clearer to him.


MORE SURPRISES 73



“Is—Stephen Gryce involved in—this paper?”
he asked.
“Involved?” Rogan laughed harshly. “Some-
what!”
Deems’s heart sang a tune. He’d never
doubted; he knew, had known all along, that
Lydia Gryce could not be involved in anything
wrong.
“Seem happy all of a sudden. Gryce mean to
you fellers on the Record?”
Deems shook his head impatiently. “Can’t
you see it? Can you blame Miss Gryce, if she
knew what was in the wind, for trying to save
her father? Wouldn’t any girl do as much?
Wouldn’t any man? Why shouldn’t she get
hold of the paper that—” His face fell. “But
she hasn’t. She offered me a hundred thousand
for it, and would hardly believe me when I told
her that I didn’t have it.”
“Clever girl,” commented Rogan. “Framing
her alibi in advance.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Deems.
“Now don’t try any gun-play, and remember
that I’ve a weak heart and that I’m your friend,”
warned Regan. “Do you think the girl would
admit she had the paper to you? Especially as
she might have supposed that you knew its con-
tents? Certainly not! She pretends that she


74- THE EYES OF THE BLIND



hasn’t got it. She never knew any evidence
against her dear old daddy, bless his traitor’s
heart! Get the game? She destroys the evi-
dence and plays little Miss Simple!”
“I don’t believe it,” said Deems, weakly.
“Sure not. There are a lot of real worthy
souls that think Benedict Arnold was framed,
and that maybe Judas had a lot of good qualities,
after all. You’re young, son, that’s all.”
“And you believe that Miss Gryce has the
paper?”
“Did you ever see a girl with grey eyes like
hers that didn’t get what she went after? She
came to these rooms looking for that paper,
didn’t she? Well, believe me, she left with it.”
“But she said—” began Deems.
“Said? Of course she said! Does she want
to go to jail? My Lord, youngster, do you go
out on a newspaper story as well filled with the
milk of human kindness and credulity and suck-
erness as this?”
The man was right! A Secret Service man,
pursued by enemies—undoubtedly—of the
United States, he knew whereof he spoke. To
pit against the words of such a man the emotions
aroused by a pretty face! And yet, that face
was so exquisitely lovely, had flamed so in scorn


MORE SURPRISES 75



that he knew it could not frame untruth. The
telephone rang. Deems answered it.
He listened a moment. He hung up delib—
erately, and faced Rogan.
“The police have identified the man who killed
my friend Clancy,” he said.
“Who is he ?” asked Rogan.
“Miss Gryce’s groom. A man devoted to her
since childhood, who taught her to ride her first
horse, who—”
“The lady thought you had read that paper,”
said Rogan. “She was taking no chances. Be—
lieve me now, son?”


CHAPTER SIX
FRIENDS on FOES?
“YOU won’t change your mind, Father?”
Gryce’s eyes were impatient. “Don’t you
think, Lydia, that I am the best judge of my
own actions?”
“No!” she answered firmly.
Gryce shifted in his big chair; his big features
reddened. “Then, my dear, the only thing that
I can see for us to do is to agree to disagree.
After all I’ve lived a great many years and my
life has been fairly successful thus far.”
“And it is because you have been so success-
ful, because your example means so much that
I’m begging you now to think,” she told him.
His impatient expression grew more pro-
nounced. “Possibly, Lydia, I’ve thought a lot
on this matter. Has it occurred to you that I
am not impulsive?”
“I wish you were,” she blazed. “I wish you
were so impulsive that you’d see red, and make
your papers mirror what you see!”
“Enough people are seeing red now, my dear.
76


FRIENDS OR FOES? '77



I should think you would be glad that your father
was not one of the millions led astray by the lust
for blood.”
She sighed hopelessly. “We don’t seem to
meet on common ground,” she said. “You make
no distinction between the blood-lustful and
those who are giving their lives to destroy the
lust for blood! And Randall! You are honest,
Father. You’re mistaken, dreadfully, horribly
mistaken, but Senator Randall—he’s dishonest.
To re-elect him senator! Do you know what the
Germans will think? That we are not heart and
soul in the war. A pro-German, a man who op-
posed, not merely our entry into the war, but
our prosecution of it after our entry!”
“Randall is not a pro-German; he’s a lover of
peace,” affirmed her father.
She looked baflled. “But don’t you see, Fa-
ther, that the very men who are most strongly
for the prosecution of this war feel as they do
because they love peace. And because they
know that the only way to obtain peace is to
fight for it.”
He smiled, faintly supercilious. “You are
like the rest, Lydia; because Randall disagrees
with you, you think him dishonest.”
“I know that he is dishonest.”
“You can prove it? If you can, Lydia, the


78 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



Record is as open to you as it is to any person in
the country. Advance proofs that a candidate
for public office is dishonest and there isn’t influ-
ence enough in the world to keep such proofs out
of my papers.”
“You mean financial dishonesty, don’t you,
Father? Mental dishonesty—that means noth-
ing?”
“That’s a phrase, Lydia, and a phrase is not
proof. To know that a man is mentally dishon-
est one must, in the absence of definite proof that
he is a liar or a thief, be able to read his thoughts.
You can’t quite do that, can you, my dear ?” She
might have been six years old, judging by the
blandness of his smile.
“Yes, I can do that,” she asserted. “I know
exactly what is in the mind of Randall. Was he
a pacifist in 1898? According to the Congres-
sional Record he voted in favour of the war with
Spain. Less than three years ago he denounced
the President because of his pacific attitude to-
ward Mexico. But the Spaniards are few in his
constituency, and there are no Mexicans. But
there are thousands of Germans. The thought
uppermost in Randall’s brain is the thought of
votes. To be re-elected! The ‘how’ doesn’t
matter. That he sacrifices in effect his alle-
giance to America makes no difference to Sena-


FRIENDS OR FOES? 79


tor'Randall. He is as much a traitor as though
he invited German troops to come over here and
pointed out their landing-place.”
“You are speaking, my dear, about one of the
greatest men in America,” said Gryce rebuk-
ingly. “Think of Randall’s great record of pub-
lic service, of what he has done for the people.”
“I am thinking of what he is trying to do now,”
she cried.
“And thinking, my dear, not very straightly.”'
A servant knocked at the door. “The Comte
de Grecque,” he announced.
“Show him to the library. I will join him in
a minute,” said Gryce.
He pushed back his chair. “Let us, my dear,
drop a discussion that is painful to us both. I
am much older than you, Lydia, and I think I
love my country quite as well.”
“I’m sure of that,” she told him. “It’s only
that I love you so much that I want to see you
love your country rightly. And there’s no choice
now. Not to be with America is to be against
her.”
Gryce’s heavy lips curled in a sneer. “The
cry of the profiteer, of the money-patriot,” he
scoffed.
“Those hundreds of thousands of American
boys who are volunteering—are they profiteers ?”


80 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



“They are the misguided youths who make
possible the profiteers’ business,” he rejoined.
“But let’s not talk any more, Lydia. De
Grecque is waiting for me.”
She eyed him hesitatingly. “We don’t agree,
Father, but if I should tell you something you
would not mention it?”
“Lydia! What a question! We have drifted
far apart, my dear. One might think we were
enemies.”
“I am sorry,” she said, “but—you are becom-
ing quite friendly with the Comte de Grecque.
Will you, Father, be careful what you say to
him?”
He frowned. “That’s the trouble with all of
your sex, Lydia; if a woman disagrees with a
person she at once thinks that person morally
lacking. But a man, because another man dis-
agrees with him, does not assume moral turpi-
tude on the part of the other.”
“Does, the Comte de Grecque disagree with
your views on the war?” she asked quietly.
He stared at her, sudden disquiet in his eyes.
“De Grecque has fought for France; he is in the
service of France now.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. But you
needn’t answer it. I know more of the Count


FRIENDS OR FOES? 81


than you do, Father, and I beg you to see little
of him.”
“You know more of de Grecque? Lydia,
you’re absurd.”-
“And yet—Father, you haven’t discovered
what possessed Johann yesterday afternoon?”
Gryce’s eyes saddened. “Insane, poor J 0-
hann.”
“Yet he asked quite sanely for Mr. Deems.
He carefully divested himself of everything that
would show his identity. He even, according to
the police doctors, tried to aim the shot that killed
himself so that it would render his face unrecog-
nisable. For an insane man he was extremely
cunning.”
“What are you driving at, Lydia?” demanded
her father.
“Johann was a German,” she said.
“Well? Even Germans go insane, you
know.”
“And you can think of no reason why a Ger-
man should want to kill Mr. Deems ?” she asked.
“Lydia, you’re making out Johann a deliber-
ate murderer. Johann, who taught you to ride,
who adored the ground you walked on.”
“But suppose Ishould tell you that to a Ger-
man who served his native land Mr. Deems might
seem a dangerous person?”


82 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



Gryce looked disgusted. “Deems is a capable
reporter, andpersonally a likable youngster, but
I don’t think that the German Empire concerns
itself very much with Deems. Nor do I think
that Johann could have been a person of very
great consequence in the German scheme of
things.”
“That is why, having done what he was told to
do—having thought he had accomplished what
Was demanded of him—Johann killed himself.
The important ones do not take the deadly risks.
Johann was a pawn and pawns are sacrificed in
the great game.”
“Lydia, you talk like the heroine of a dime
novel. The Germans in this country are as
friendly and loyal to us as those of any other
country.”
“Do you really believe that? In view of all
the outrages that have happened here? But we
won’t argue any more. I only beg of you to be
careful with de Grecque.”
“I suppose that de Grecque,” he sneered, “is
in some way connected with J ohann’s action of
yesterday. You couple their names in succeed-
ing sentences.”
She hesitated. “Once again, Father, no mat-
ter how absurd what I say may seem—you will
not repeat it?”


. FRIENDS OR FOES? 83



He bowed. Mockineg he answered, “I shall
keep your great secrets inviolable.”
“Then I tell you that de Grecque was Jo-
hann’s paymaster.”
“All you have to do, Lydia,” he said sternly,
“is prove such an outrageous assertion against
the character of a French diplomatic officer
and—but you are so absurd. As if there were
any reason for any great plot against young
Deems! And as if the Comte de Grecque could
be serving German ends.”
“I haven’t the proof now,” she admitted, “but
when I do-——”
“Lydia,” he said, “I have never attempted to
exert unreasonable authority, but you seem in-
fected with the madness of suspicion that is
prevalent in the country to-day. I thorght you
were sane. Senator Randall! The Comte de
Grecque! You are melodramatically ridicu-
lous, my dear.”
He left her standing in the centre of the room,
her hands tightly clenched.


CHAPTER SEVEN
mason IN aooxs
THE secretary of the Booklovers’ Club rapped
gently on the table. He looked mildly about
him, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a
quick smile. The group of eight men ceased
their conversation. The waiter who had placed
an envelope by the secretary’s plate quietly with-
drew from the room.
They were, for the most part, not only well-
groomed, but they had about them the look that
suggested a university background. “Tell-born,
moneyed, cultured; that was the impression that
they would have conveyed to most persons.
That one or two of them had an authoritative
manner that somehow is not expected to be an
attribute of the bookish, and that the hands of
others were unusually roughened, might have
been unnoticed by the casual. Attentively they
waited for the secretary to speak.
He lifted a sheet of paper. “From our
friend, Heinrich Graffe,” he announced.
84


'I‘REASON IN BOOKS 85



“Wanting money, eh?” grunted a man at the
foot of the table.
The mild-eyed secretary looked reprovingly at
the speaker. “A club should never fail to pay
its debts on demand,” he said. “Graife supplies
us with most of our rare editions, and ”
There was something subtly humorous, to his
auditors, in his remark, and grins ran around the
table. The man who had spoken nodded assent
to the secretary. “It is all right,” he said.
“Graffe is a worthy man. How much this
time?”
The secretary shook his head. He beamed,
through his horn-rimmed spectacles.
“Culture spreads,” he announced. “With
half the world thinking only in terms of destruc-
tion, the other half thinks of creation.”
Again a grin ran around the table. “If it only
were half,” grunted the man who had spoken
before.
“It will be, Jamison,” said the secretary com-
placently. “But—the letter. Graffe introduces
to us a worthy aspirant for knowledge. He is
outside. His name is Curtiss—YVilliam Cur-
tiss.”
“Why does he not apply through the regular
channels of admission?” demanded Jamison.
The secretary shrugged his shoulders. “If


86 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



Graffe thinks him worthy of a special introduc-
tion—shall we have him in?”
A murmur ran around the table. The secre-
tary pressed a bell. To the waiter who reap-
peared he ordered that Mr. Curtiss be shown in.
The secretary met the newcomer at the door.
He shook hands warmly.
“A friend of our fellow-bibliophile is very wel-
come here, Mr. Curtiss,” he said. “And how is
Mr. Graffe?”
“Quite well,” replied the newcomer. His
manner was diffident, and before be advanced
fully into the room, his glance had rested on the
face of every man there.
“Gentlemen, Mr. Curtiss,” said the secretary.
A jumble of pleasant greetings followed.
The secretary pulled a chair close to his own.
“Mr. Graffe tells us that you wish to join our
club. He makes rather a point of it; doesn’t
want us to wait until the semi-annual election of
members, but prefers that the board of directors
elect you at once.”
The newcomer nodded. “We thought that
perhaps it would be better that way,” he said.
The secretary looked a question. Quite evi-
dently he waited for Curtiss to explain.
“Things are focusing rapidly in Washington,”
said Curtiss.


TREASON 1N BOOKS 87


The secretary looked blank. The board of di-
rectors took their cue from him; their'faces were
non-committal.
“Publicity is needed,” went on Curtiss. He
looked about him a trifle defiantly.
“Yes?” encouraged the secretary gently.
“There is talk in Washington to the effect that
the President will ask Congress to pass a draft
law.”
“Yes?” said the secretary again.
Curtiss shrugged. “Publicity men might be
extremely useful just now.”
“In what way?” asked the secretary.
“In moulding public opinion—and the opin—
ions of members of the national legislature.”
Curtiss looked around the room. “Against the
draft,” he added.
The secretary picked up the letter of introduc-
tion. He read it carefully through again.
“You are an American citizen, Mr. Curtiss ?”
he asked.
“Straight revolutionary stock,” was the an-
swer.
“And your—er—interest in this matter?”
“You’re interested, aren’t you? And these
gentlemen here? Why shouldn’t I be inter-
ested, then?”
“This is a society of men interested in rare


88 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



editions,” said the secretary. He looked again
at the letter of introduction. “You have known
Mr. Graffe a long time?”
The board of directors seemed to leave the
matter entirely in the hands of the secretary.
Curtiss met his glances coolly.
“As his letter says—two years and a half.”
“A personal friendship, or ”
Curtiss laughed. “Financial, also. A man
who keeps his word can gain my personal friend-
ship. Graffe has always made good.”
“In what way, please?”
“Well, his checks have never come back from
the banks,” grinned Curtiss.
“And those checks ?” queried the secretary.
“The Miners’ Protective Fraternity of Mon-
tana; they struck, as you will remember; Eng-
land needed copper badly, too. A great many
thousand acres of rice were destroyed in Arkan-
sas last year. The negroes refused to work.
The I. IV. W. got the credit, but—Heinrich
Graffe knows who got the money. There have
been many other matters.”
The secretary looked thoughtful. “But—you
spoke of publicity. Those matters—a little bit
more devious than publicity, weren’t they?”
Curtiss looked a trifle bored. “Erin’s Loyal


TREASON IN BOOKS 89



Sons got into the newspapers quite a bit this past
winter.”
The secretary whistled. Around the table
faces lighted up.
“You did that ?” asked Jamison.
“Well, I wasn’t responsible fer the editorial
attitude assumed by most of the press, but—I
got them the space for their meetings. I can’t
change editorial policies for you, but I can get
news into the papers. Even when it isn’t ex-
actly news,” he grinned,
“And you worked for Heinrich Graffe?”
asked Jamison.
Curtiss lowered one eyelid. “I never ask too
many questions,” he replied. “Graffe paid me
—that’s been enough for me.”
“And you come to us because———”
“Because Grafl'e sent me here.” Curtiss
broke into the secretary’s question.
“You knew of—us—before Grafl'e introduced
us?”
Curtiss shook his head.
The secretary looked at the board of direc-
tors. He seemed to read the answer to his un-
uttered question. He turned to Curtiss.
“Grafl’e is well-known to us,” he said slowly.
“And he would not have talked, as he must have
talked to you, unless he knew you were worthy


90 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



of trust. You will hear from us, Mr. Curtiss.”
His tones were those of dismissal. Curtiss
rose to his feet.
“My address is
The secretary shook his head. “It is quite un-
necessary, Mr. Curtiss. When we want you we
shall find you.”
He was smiling, and through his round spec-
tacles his eyes beamed; his voice was friendly,
gentle almost; but the man to whom he spoke
sensed the subtle threat. But his manner was
cool as he bowed and left the private dining-room
of the Café du Marechal, where the board of
directors of the Booklovers’ Club was holding its
weekly meeting.
He was still cool, although a trifle more seri-
ous of expression, when he entered the bookshop
of Heinrich Graffe, on Lexington Avenue.
A few elderly men roamed about the shop,
thumbing worn volumes that they took down,
without protest from the one clerk, a rather stout,
middle-aged, Teutonic-seeming woman, who ap-
peared more interested in stockings that she
darned than in trade.
Curtiss inclined his head toward the woman,
swept the prospective customers with a glance,
and advanced to the rear of the store. There, in
a sort of cubby-hole, reached by a short flight
7,


TREASON IN BOOKS 91



of stairs, was the office of Heinrich Grafl’e.
From his higher perch the bookseller could watch
his customers, and his face had wrinkled in a
smile from the moment of Curtiss’s entrance.
“Well,” he greeted the young man, “you went,
you saw, and you-what, young feller?”
Curtiss sat down on a shiny chair. He looked
down upon the store, its customers, its drowsy
woman-clerk, its book-shelves. He turned to
Graffe.
“I don’t know how you do it, Rogan, old top,”
he said, with apparent irrelevance.
The bookseller passed a hand over a smoothly
shaven chin. “Do what?” he asked. He
grinned amiably.
“‘Vell, among other things, what you did just
now—rubbing your chin. It wasn’t so long ago
that you wore a beard, and ”
“But Heinrich Graffe has always been smooth-
sha-ven. Ever since he was born—about three
years ago,” grinned Rogan. “When Heinrich
went on a vacation three months ago—the first
thing Heinrich did was to grow a beard. Then
—when he decided to return to New York and
his bookstore—he shaved. I kinda flatter my-
self, young feller, that it would take a mighty
sharp pair of eyes to detect that I’ve shaved only
recently. I ought to be white, but a week’s au-


92 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



tomobiling spreads such a tan that it’s pretty
hard to tell what’s new and what’s old about
it.”
“I know,” said the young man, “but—well,
you’re getting away with it, and I suppose that’s
answer enough.”
“Not getting cold feet, are you ?” inquired Ro-
gan. “Wth to pull out? Excuse me; I know
better than that.” He eyed the young man. “It
is risky, but—a man that doesn’t want his coun-
try Germanised—he takes the risk, Deems, my
boy. That gang—that smooth bunch of trai-
tors—did they fall?” I
“I guess so,” replied Deems. “They’ll let me
know, I take it. hiy alibi—will it stand inves—
tigation?”
Rogan shrugged. “If they go very far into
the details of Heinrich Graffe—I’ve planted my-
self as far as I can, but—oh, well, it’s all in a
lifetime. But about you—the Arkansas and
Colorado matters—the man really responsible
for those troubles is in a Federal jail. He was
about your general build and looks. You’re
fairly safe. But not very safe. Does it mat-
ter?”
Deems shook his head. “Not very much. I
love my skin, like any man, but—a chance is a
chance, and I like to take it. Especially—~110-


TREASON IN BOOKS 93



gan, in God’s name, why? That crowd there—
not more than three of them, if I’m a judge, are
German-born. And they’ve been—or they
should have been—Americanised. What have
they against this country? Is pacifism a dis-
ease—or———”
“Ask some one brighter than me,” said Rogan.
“By the way, nobody fussing around the place
you’re living?”
Deems shook his head.
“Haven’t run into any one from the Record?”
“No, fortunately.”
“ ‘Fortunately’ is right,” asserted Rogan. “I
guess—well, de Grecque thinks, maybe, that you
tipped off the Government, and———”
“\Vouldn’t de Grecque have disappeared in
that case?” demanded Deems.
“Flight is confession,” replied Rogan, “and de
Grecque isn’t the confessing kind. He wouldn’t
beat it; he’d stay and fight.”
“But if you are right, and Miss Gryce has the
paper, and her father stands in with de Grecque
—-wouldn’t de Grecque know by now that he has
nothing to fear, that the girl or her father have
the paper?” asked Deems.
Rogan looked shrewd. “Suppose,” he said,
"that old man Gryce is willing that de Grecque
think the paper lost? He’s getting into deep


94 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



water, Gryce is, but if de Grecque has nothing
on him—he can pull out, can’t he? And if de
Grecque, suspicious of his good faith, should ask
him to sign another paper, Gryce could refuse
on the ground that de Grecque was too careless.
Something like that may be in the minds of the
Gryces, eh?”
“Then that paper—it was something that
Gryce had signed?”
“Maybe,” said Rogan.
“And if de Grecque had it—you must have
taken it from de Grecque,” cried Deems.
“Never denied it, did I?” grinned Rogan.
“And yet you dare continue—and de
Grecque belongs to that Booklovers’ Club?”
“You might have met him there to-day. I
warned you.”
Deems nodded. “I know. But Hogan—to
use me—if de Grecque should see mewyou’d be
suspected, known, too.”
“That’s why I want you to be careful, son,”
said Rogan. “I’ve got to use you. I mean ”
he paused uncertainly.
“What do you mean, ‘got to use me’?” ques—
tioned Deems.
“Why, well—it didn’t seem quite fair—hav-
ing got you into something by being ill in your
rooms—made your newspaper job dangerous—


96 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



——well, by trailing along with Rogan he might,
at the finish, help her. Also—he hadn’t forgot-
ten his compact with the girl. She would be-
lieve in his honesty when he found the paper that
Rogan had dropped in his room, or found the
person who had taken it from Rogan. By stick-
ing with Rogan he’d find out, perhaps, what she
wanted to know.
His face darkened. The evidence was too
strong. Rogan had had the paper when he en-
tered Deems’s rooms. The girl had taken it, and
had lied to him when she denied having it.
He had been gloomy enough during the week
that had elapsed since he had had his interview
with the girl. Not even the excitement of pre-
paring a new identity, or facing peril, had ban-
ished gloom. Hogan and common sense told
him that Lydia Gryce was dishonest, an embryo,
if not an actual, traitor. But instinct told him
quite the contrary. He wondered, as he walked
to the rooms on Irving Place, where, as lVilliam
Curtiss, he had been living for the past week,
which was right.


98 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



of the Booklovers’ Club trusted the pseudo Hein-
rich Graffe, to have inquired Deems’s address
from the Lexington Avenue bookseller, was
something that did not enter into Deems’s cal-
culations. He realised only that the men who
composed the society into whose inner workings
and purposes he hoped to insinuate himself were
not fools; that before they gave to the new ap-
plicant for admission their trust they would in-
vestigate him thoroughly.
Well, he was ready for investigation. He
struggled with a grin as be mounted the short
stoop to his lodging-house.
It was early evening, and he might as well eat
now as later. Besides, if the person—or persons
—who had been following him intended to visit
his rooms—and they must so intend to—it was
somewhat of a shame to keep them cooling their
heels outside. He surveyed his room carefully
and left it.
There was an excellent restaurant on a nearby
side street. There, treating himself extremely
well to fried chicken and waffles, he picked up an
evening paper. The news was exciting; Amer-
ica was quite definitely in the war, and the pros-
pects of a draft law looked not too remote. He
pursed his lips; a good, healthy youth like him-
self, with no obligations, might well obtain a com-


BOMBS 99



mission. However, for the present that could
wait. He turned to the editorial page.
A virulent attack upon Gryce, his erstwhile
employer, caught his eye. Gryce was opposing
the passage of a draft law, evidently; was, accord-
ing to this paper, endeavouring to hamper the
Government in its hardly-begun preparations for
war, and was advocating the re-election to the
Senate of Randall, an ardent pacifist.
Deems put the paper down. The chase of
which he was the object had obscured, for the
moment, the vision that he carried behind his
eyes of Lydia Gryce. This attack upon her
father brought her back into his mind. There
was no doubt of it; Gryce was a potential traitor,
at the least. What his daughter might be——
Well, he would think of her no more. He would
stick to Rogan; help Rogan with his work of es-
pionage; and then, when that was over—well,
there would be oflicers’ training camps, and
He had a sense of humour. By the time that he
had reached a stage in his mental progression
where he beheld himself leading a charge over the
top, and saw Lydia Gryce dazed and white as she
read his name in the list of casualties, he began
to grin.
He grinned a lot; not an inane grin, but a grin
of health and good humour. The absurdities of


100 THE EYES OF THE BLIND

:

life were so many! But to a person with guilt
upon her conscience the Deems grin might read-
ily seem sardonic. His landlady, encountering
him in the hall as he let himself in after his din-
ner, coloured slightly.
Ordinarily she was a most loquacious person.
Deems had been resident in her house barely a
week, but in that time she had managed to in-
form him of her three marriages, her daughter
who was in the “movies,” and something of her
social status as a girl. So her hasty brushing-by
of her new lodger, Without a word of greeting,
formed, in addition to her faint flush, a bit of
evidence that one glance at the table in his room
enabled Deems to verify.
He had not presented his letter of introduc-
tion this afternoon without making anticipatory
plans. One of those plans was a half-written
article that lay upon his table. It was an article
strongly condemning the entry of the United
States into the war and calling all who read it to
resist in every possible manner any attempt of
Congress or the President to send troops to
Europe.
It was, Deems realised with shamefaced pride,
a well-written article. If any member of the
Booklovers’ Club happened to read this manu-
script that member would be absolutely con-


BOMBS 101



vinced that Deems—or Curtiss—was at least
truthful in his pretensions to being a literary
man. The article was pro-German to a degree;
if they believed in the sincerity of its author, then
Deems’s effort to insinuate himself into the club
could be furthered.
And some one had been in the room. Of
course, it might have been his landlady. Garru-
lous persons are nearly always curious. But
Deems did not think so. Enviably ignorant, so
that no tragedy greater than the defection of a
servant could possibly interest her, the world war
was outside the scope of her thought. If she
read Deems’s article she would not understand
it. And he was quite certain that she would
never have progressed beyond the first stage. But
whoever had tampered with the arrangement of
the pages had not stopped at the first paragraph.
That person had placed in their proper order the
third and fourth pages, which had not been in or-
der when Deems had left his room for dinner.
But it did not need all this deep reasoning.
Some one from the Booklovers’ Club had fol-
lowed him to the bookshop on Lexington Avenue,
thence to his lodgings and, most certainly after
he had departed, to his room.
His landlady knocked at the door. “Got
plenty towels, Mr. Curtiss?”


“)2 THE EYES OF THE BLIND

“Thank you, yes,” replied Deems,
His tone was one of polite dismissal. But she
lingered. “Don’t you want no soap nor noth-
in’?”
Heretofore Deems had had difficulty in obtain-
ing towels in sufficient number to gratify his de-
sire for ablutions, and his soap he provided for
himself.
Also, she did not meet his eye. The spirit of
mischief, never entirely dormant in him, became
wide awake. There was something so con-
sciously-unconscious in her manner that it tickled
him. She had, beyond the shadow of doubt, per-
mitted the person who had been following Deems
to enter his room during her lodger’s absence.
Like the child who hovers, with an appearance of
extreme innocence, in the vicinity of the window
that it has broken, so the landlady could not tear
herself away from Deems.
“Ain’t nothin’ at all I can do for you?” she
insisted.
Deems became possessed of the desire to break
through the wall of innocence.
“\Vhy—yes,” said Deems. “How long did
you let him stay in my room?”
“Not more than ” She gasped; the colour
that she had worn entirely vanished. “I mean——


BOM BS 103


she didn’t go in here—I dunno what you’re talk-
ing about.”
Just one word in herdncoherent speech startled
Deems. It was the word “she.”
“A woman? What did she look like? Don’t
bother to deny it, now. How much did she give
you? I’ll double it. It’s all right; don’t be
frightened, I don’t mind at all.”
His hand had gone into his trousers pocket;
it came out clasping a roll of bills. The woman
stared at them.
“Twenty dollars, Mr. Curtiss, but ”
Deems thrust some bills into her hand “De-
scribe her,” he said.
He stood a long time, staring out of the win-
dow, after she had taken her flustered but rich
departure. A woman’s eyes are very keen.
The description given by the landlady of the vis-
itor to Deems’s room answered Deems’s visual-
isation of Lydia Gryce.
Out of sheer mischief he had surprised the
landlady into confession that she had admitted
some one into the room. But the spirit of mis-
chief was gone from him now.
He had flattered himself that he had absolutely
disappeared from his old haunts; that no one,
save Rogan, knew that William Curtiss was
really Bob Deems. He had prepared for an in-


lU-L THE EYES OF THE BLIND


vasion of his apartment by some one from the
Booklovers’ Club. He had, indeed, rented the
room on Irving Place partly because the land-
lady had secmed so thoroughly venal. He had
not thought for a minute that she would refuse,
on being properly—0r improperly—bribed, to
let any one search his effects.
But that Lydia Gryce should have been the
one to pay the bribe! The evidence was cumu-
lative. Lydia Gryce nocturnally had visited his
apartment; Lydia Gryce’s groom had killed
Clancy; and now—Lydia Gryce had been in his
room.
But why? Regan was convinced that the
Gryces held the paper that Rogan had obtained
from de Grecque only to lose. Why should
Lydia Gryce But, her groom had killed
Clancy in mistake for Deems! Could it be that
the girl meditated—he hated, even in thought,
to name the word. One murder had already
been committed, but that she should meditate an-
other
To the south lay Fourteenth Street. He could
see the west corner, where Irving Place had its
conflux with the cross-town street; he looked, his
eyes close to the window-pane, to the north. He
could see, through the gathering gloom, the trees
of Gramercy Park. Somehow the trees spelled


BOMBS 105



solitude. There was no solitude for him in this
room, this room so recently visited by Lydia
Gryce. He could be more alone near the park,
peopled though the streets surrounding it might
be by the hundreds who, on a spring evening
like this, would be tempted to that rarest of rec-
reations to a New Yorker, an evening stroll.
He could not stay. As a matter of fact, it
came to him as an afterthought, it was dangerous
for him to remain here. That the Booklovers’
Club members might know his address—he had
courted investigation from them. But that
Lydia Gryce should know it spelled imminent
danger. De Grecque! If Rogan were right, de
Grecque was an ally of Gryce, and Lydia Gryce
stood with her father. Then—if Lydia Gryce
knew that William Curtiss was Bob Deems—
and she must know it—de Grecque would soon
know it, and the Booklovers would know it.
Solitude, after all, was not what he wanted.
He needed to see Rogan, to obtain advice from
him, to warn him how near was danger.
It was not in the fashion of one pondering,
one seeking solitude for the clarification of the
mental processes, that he walked up Irving Place
and around the park. It was at a rushing walk
that approached a run.
He was a block away, crossing Twenty-third


106 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



Street cat-a-corner, when he saw a woman
emerge from the door of the bookshop. Even
at that distance, and in the gathering gloom, her
lithe walk made him think of Lydia Gryce. So
acute was the notion that he stood on the curb
and watched the taxi into which she had stepped
swing down the street toward him. As it passed
he strained his eyes. His impression was more
vivid. He could make out not a single feature
but—he seemed to feel the presence of Lydia
Gryce in that taxi.
So, then, she had discovered Rogan’s nom de
guerre and residence. She knew that Rogan had
not died in Deems’s apartment. And as he
stared after the machine he became conscious of
cries to the north of him. The fat German
woman, whom he had known as the clerk in the
bookshop, had run out upon the sidewalk. She
was pointing down the street, toward Deems,
shrieking:
“That taxicab; she went away in that taxicab.”
At break-neck speed he dashed up the street.
People were gathering, looking curiously at
her; in the distance a lumbering policeman ap-
proached at a jog-trot. Deems ran into the
store. On the floor stood something that he rec-
ognised.
Once he had visited the Bureau of Combusti-


BOMBS 107



bles, that branch of the police department that
handled the bombs formerly deposited by Black-
handers in tenements, but now seemingly distrib-
uted by sympathisers of Germany in places more
economically important than the dwellings of the
poor. It was a bomb that stood upon the floor.
The hysterical woman clerk evidently gathered
her senses. For the policeman entered the shop.
She had managed to tell him, realising that the
absence of the person who had left the bomb here
was less important than the presence of that
which she had left.
The officer was a competent man. The bomb
deposited in a bucket of water, he telephoned to
Police Headquarters. Then he entered the
names of the persons who had crowded into the
shop in his note—book. Then he dismissed them.
Deems was glad to leave. The woman clerk
was too upset by fright to recognise him. He
was just as well pleased that the officer did not
know that he was a friend of the proprietor of
the place. It might have entailed Deems’s re-
maining. And, before he talked on any subject
to the police, it was as well that he confer with
Rogan. He would telephone the Secret Serv-
ice man later.
Meanwhile—there were one or two little
things in his Irving Place room that he would


108 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


like to have. If Lydia Gryce knew his address,
that address was an unsafe place for him. He
had known that before he left his room, but now
—with the evidence of his own eyes he had seen
the girl~—at least he thought so—and he had seen
the bomb that would have wrecked the building.
There was no longer room for doubt. She had
inspired the murder of Clancy. How she could
have inspired in her groom such devotion that the
man was willing to sacrifice his own life-—— But
the man had been a German, and the Germans
were insane. It had been, so he believed, for the
Fatherland, the Fatherland that Lydia Gryce
preferred to serve, rather than the country from
which she sprang.
Hurriedly he passed around the park and
down Irving Place. And then, a block away
from his lodging-house, he reeled to the curb.
He seized a lamp-post to regain his balance,
while he stared at the place where his lodging-
house had been. For it existed no longer. Its
whole front had been dissipated in an explosion
that shattered windows for blocks around. And,
as nearly as Deems could tell, the explosion had
come from the front room on the second floor.
His room. And Lydia Gryce had just left an-
other bomb in Rogan’s shop.
She had been in Deems’s room earlier this eve-


BOMBS 109



ning. She—— The sidewalk began to heave
up and down, like the surface of the sea after a
storm, as he stared at the smoking ruins of the
house.


CHAPTER NINE
TANGLED THREADS
ONE looks in the mirror to behold, sometimes, the
real image of oneself. Lydia Gryce, elbows on
her dressing-table, and chin cupped in her palms,
beheld the semblance of a charming girl, whose
charm was abated not in the least by the present
gravity of her expression. She was not vain, but
she had common sense, and common sense en-
abled her to recognise the fact that she was per-
sonable. The difference between vanity and
common sense, with relation to one’s personal ap-
pearance, is that the vain person stresses beauty;
while the sane individual appraises it for its ac-
tual worth. And the worth of physical beauty,
though not so great as the poets profess to be-
lieve, nevertheless is not inconsiderable.
Lydia, looking at herself, suddenly coloured.
In the mirror, beside her own face had appeared
the face of Bob Deems. This was one of those
truthful mirrors that reflect the soul as well as
the body. And the real image of Lydia Gryce
was not complete unless there was something of
110


112 THE. OF THE BLIND



of herself when she entered the little reception-
room down-stairs.
“You wish to see me?” she asked coolly.
“Yes, Miss Gryce.” There was something of
insolence in his manner, yet there was also some-
thing ashamed; it was as though, having deter-
mined on a certain course, the man hated himself
for his determination.
Lydia met his look calmly. After all, what-
ever knowledge the man thought himself pos-
sessed of, he was not the sort of person of Whom
she could possibly be afraid. Not his clothing
alone, though the lack of care bestowed on it
showed him to be one without personal pride, but
the weak chin, the shifty eyes, the tremulous lips,
all proclaimed him one to whom the more decent
things are dead. A strong man may, through
circumstances, wear soiled clothing, but the
stains are not those acquired in debauch; only the
weak man goes forth in garments stained with
the dregs from a bar-room. And yet the rat,
meanest of all vermin, will on occasion fight. It
was just as well to temporise with the human ro-
dent before her,
“Won’t you sit down?” she asked.
“I guess I might as well,” he replied with a
leer. “I certainly never thought I‘d see the day


TANGLED THREADS 113



when old man Gryce’s daughter would invite me
to have a chair.”
She was anything in the world but a snob;
nevertheless her father had raised himself from
poverty to wealth and power by his own efforts,
and that there should be in the tone of this weak
drunkard a sneer for her father angered her.
But she veiled her anger.
“What did you want from me?”
“What do you think I want? What do you
suppose a man like me would want from a rich
girl like you?” he demanded.
“Money.”
His discoloured teeth showed in a smile. “I
might’ve known Steve Gryce’s daughter would
be businesslike. Money! You said it! Kind
of a joke on your father, who fired me person-
ally”—-he said this with a certain pride in the
recollection—“to have his daughter stake me for
the rest of my life.”
“Wouldn’t it?” she said.
He looked at her suspiciously. “Sounds as
though you think I’m kidding. Still, if I were
a business man, which, thank God, I’m not, I’d
expect to show my wares before I’d sold them.
I don’t suppose you have the least idea of what
I meant by the message I sent you by your but-
ler? Can’t even guess, can you?”


114- THE EYES OF THE BLIND



“Suppose you explain for me,” she suggested.
“Fair enough. A man named Johann Lauber
is your groom. He kills a reporter named
Clancy down in the Record office. Your
father’s newspaper! According to what I read,
he mistook Clancy for another Record man
named Deems. To-day, this very evening, you
make a trip to where young Deems is living on
Irving Place; likewise you visit a bookshop on
Lexington Avenue. They find a. bomb in the
bookshop. They don’t find the bomb in
Deems’s lodging-house, because it explodes.
They just know it was there. That enough ?”
“Suppose you continue,” she said.
“No trouble at all,” he replied impudently.
“Your groom Lauber tried to kill Deems; he
didn’t succeed, so you tried it yourself.”
“And because of this you want money from
me?”
“Well, I used to be a newspaper man. I
know that the newspapers will pay for news just
as willingly now as they would before your
father fired me from the Record. But I’d just
as lief sell to you as to a paper. It’s simply a
matter of price.”
“And the price is———”
He spread his hands wide. “My cards are on
the table, Miss Gryce; you know what I have.


TANGLED THREADS 115


What’s the electric chair mean to you? Is it
worth ten thousand dollars to keep out of it?”
She shook her head. “Suppose that I don’t
know what you’re talking about?” she said.
His weak eyes, rheumy, glittered. “You’re a
good player, Miss Gryce, and a good player
knows when she’s lost. But sometimes a good
player, who knows that she’s lost, wants to be
convinced that the other fellow knows it, too.
All right; I’ve been living over a saloon on
Bleecker Street. A German saloon. The peo-
ple that run it know that I used to be a news—
paper man. They know that I worked on the
Record. So Lauber, who worked for you and
used to drop in there occasionally, was pointed
out to me. That’s why, seeing him help a girl
into the saddle one day in Central Park, I knew
who the girl was. That’s why I was kind of in-
terested when you got into a taxicab at Madison
Square and drove to a house on Irving Place. I
was interested enough to go back there later on,
and also to the bookshop on Lexington Ave-
nue where you went after you visited the Irving
Place house.”
“You could prove, of course, that it was I who
rode to'those two places?”
“I guess I could,” he told her. “I drove the
taxi you rode in. Of course, a girl like you


116 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


wouldn’t notice a chauffeur, but a cat may look
at a king, and a chauffeur may notice a girl, even
if she is the daughter of Stephen Gryce.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “But why were
you so interested in what I did?” she asked.
“Some guys are born lucky,” he grinned.
“My luck’s been a long time reaching me, but I
always knew it would come sooner or later. I
wouldn’t have gone back there only I happened
to know that young Deems occasionally dropped
into Graffe’s bookshop. Once in a while, when
driving a taxicab hasn’t paid very well, I sell a.
book to Grafl’e. You know, until your father
got so damned high-flown that he refused liquor
advertisements and wouldn’t keep a man who
drank on the paper, I had quite a collection of
books. I let ’em go now. I thought that it was
pretty tough luck having to sell them; that only
shows how little a man knows about his luck.
For if I hadn’t gone into Grafl’e’s, I wouldn’t
have seen young Deems there. He doesn’t re-
member me; I don’t look quite as spruce as I did
when I worked on the Record. Anyway, I
wasn’t there very long after he joined the paper.
But I know him all right.
“A good newspaper man doesn’t forget, as
long as he lives, how to put two and two together.
I leave you up-town to-day. Less than an hour


TANGLED THREADS 117



later I read on the Times bulletin about a bomb
explosion on Irving Place and how another bomb
was left in Graffe’s book-store. I can’t make
it, right ofl’, but by and by I begin to think. I
take a trip down to Irving Place. I get some
dope from the cop there; cops are always friendly
to taxi drivers, you know. They never can tell
when they’ll want a free ride. And this cop,
gossiping, says that the landlady has told about
a young woman paying a visit to the room of one
of her lodgers. That lodger, according to the
cop, was named Curtiss; but from the description
the cop gave me, I guess Curtiss would answer
if you called him Deems. Then, after I’d called
up the Record office, and found out that Deems
hadn’t been to work in some time, and when I
find out, at the address the Record telephone girl
gave me, that Deems hasn’t been home in some
time— Well, do I go to the papers or don’t
I, Miss Gryce?”
She looked at him; before the contempt in her
eyes his glance wavered. But his weak mouth
set in the obstinacy that is a part, sometimes, of
weakness.
“What I’ve been saying to you wouldn’t do
you a lot of good if I said it to a jury,” he said.
“Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money,” she
told him.


118 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


“Ten years in jail—you’d get that, anyway,
even if you didn’t get the chair—is 'a long time,”
he reminded her.
She looked at him thoughtfully. “Granting
that there is something in what you have told me,
how do I know that you won’t go from here to
the police?” she asked.
“You don’t know; you only hope; that’s the
trouble with getting in bad, Miss Gryce. You
haven’t any choice at all; you just have to trust
me.”
“And if I didn’t?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose I’d
go to see your father,” he told her, “before I went
to headquarters.”
She nodded. “Of course you know that I
haven’t any such sum of money as you mention
in the house.”
“I’d take a check,” he said.
“\Vait here,” she told him.
Five minutes later, a check for ten thousand
dollars in his pocket, Randolph Fallon, erstwhile
newspaper man, and taxi chauffeur, but at the
moment a successful blackmailer, walked down
the steps of the Gryce mansion. He was so en-
grossed in thoughts of the future that he did
not recognise the man who mounted the steps as
he descended them.


TANGLED THREADS 119



The servant had hardly closed the door upon
Fallon, when he opened it upon Deems. “Miss
Gryce’ll see you, sir.”
In the same room in which she had just given
Fallon her check Lydia faced the man who had
been occupying so much of her thought of late.
the man whom her heart told her to love but her
head to hate. Somehow or other one does not
conceive of merry-souled people as being crim-
inal. And Lydia’s mental picture of Deems
never lacked twinkling eyes and a smile. But
there was no smile upon the lips of Deems now,
no twinkle in his eye.
“You’ve brought me that paper?” she asked.
He shook his head slowly; wonderment was
in his eyes. “Miss Gryce, I’m labouring under
a curious obsession. Perhaps you can explain
it away.”
Her eyes invited him to continue.
“That obsession,” he went on, “is that you
have had that paper all along,”
She inclined her head. “In briefer words, I
lie?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “You phrase it
well,” he told her. Amazed anger came into his
voice. “Miss Gryce, a servant of yours tries to
kill me. You encourage me in the belief that
the Comte de Grecque was responsible for the


120 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



attempt upon me. You sneered at my pro-
fessed loyalty to my country. To-day you went
to my room. Later on a bomb exploded there.
You went to the book-store of a friend of mine;
fortunately there was no explosion there. But in
my room—it is simply by the mercy of God that
harmless, inoffensive people were not killed.
Miss Gryce, I give you my word of honour that
I do not know what were the contents of that
paper. I only tell you this, in the hope that
when you next cause an attempt to be made upon
my life, you will not jeopardise the lives of other
people.”
“I congratulate you, Mr. Deems. You evi-
dently have no fear for yourself.”
He stared at her. “I have a healthy regard
for my own skin,” he told her. “But that I have
so far, luckily, been able to preserve. I feel con-
fident that I shall be able to protect myself in the
future.”
“From me?”
“From you,” he said.
“Would it be useless to tell you that you are
quite mistaken about me?” she asked.
“I think it would be,” he answered.
“Then why have you come here?” she asked.
He fought against the fascination that she had
held for him from the first moment when, in the


TANGLED THREADS 121


gloom of his apartment, he had heard her voice.
Her voice alone had struck an hitherto unre-
sponsive chord upon his heart-strings; each sight
of her caused new chords to chime. Grey-eyed,
with the unwavering glance that, when it comes
from beneath a broad forehead, seems candid
and honest, he could not conceive of Lydia Gryce
as being capable of falsehood. Yet the evidence
was convincing; not only was she capable of un-
truth, but of murder.
Had she been of some exotic type, he would
have found it easier to give credence to the evi-
dence he held. He had met no murderesses in
his newspaper career, but mentally he always pic-
tured them as being flashing-eyed creatures who
carried with them the subtle suggestion of in-
trigue. Lydia Gryce seemed as frank as a sum-
mer morning.
“To warn you,” he told her. “I do not fully
know the reasons for your activities. But I do
know where those activities will lead you, Miss
Gryce. A woman was executed for treason in
France quite recently.”
“For treason? You tell this to me, Mr.
Deems?”
“We always seem to be fencing, don’t we?”
he said.
“Then why not come out into the open,’
she


122 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



countered. “You speak to me of treason. You
dare to threaten me with its consequences. I
warned you some time ago of what the conse-
quences of disloyalty might be to you, Mr.
Deems.”
He smiled. “And yet I never guessed that
those consequences might be visited upon me by
you. I did not then conceive you in the role of
a placer of bombs.”
“I had not conceived of myself in such a
role,” she told him.
There was something incredible in her non-
chalance. “I wonder,” she said, “that you dare
to come here knowing how dangerous I am.”
“It’s because I wanted you to explain.”
“And yet a moment ago you told me that it
would be useless for me to tell you that you are
mistaken.”
“To tell me, yes; but to explain ’
“And if I ask you to explain?” Fire shone
now from the eyes that had been so cool. “You
who have lied to me; who pretended that the man
Boga-n was dead; that he had been all the time
a stranger to you! You, who under an assumed
name have hidden away from your old associ-
ates; who have been conspiring with the man Ro-
gan, who calls himself Graffe now, his real name,
against your own country!”
,


TANGLED THREADS 123


“You know that Graffe is Rogan?”
She laughed. “I know a great many things,
Mr. Deems. I know a great deal of what you
and Rogan and others have been doing. When
I know a little more about your doings I shall
cease fencing, Mr. Deems. In the meantime
give me credit for being as well able to take care
of myself as you seem to think you are. And I
beg of you not to waste more of my time and
your own in silly threats. Blackmail is not quite
worthy, even of a traitor.”
“Neither is attempted murder,” he said.
Her brows grew closer together. “Are you
really serious in your belief that I left a bomb
in your room?” she asked,
“Will you give me your word of honour that
you did not do so?” he countered.
“Certainly.”
“Then why did you go to my room?”
“Because I was a fool,” she told him. “Be-
cause I had some faith in your decency; because
I thought I had been mistaken in you; because I
I thought that possibly we were both misled.”
Cautiously be weighed his next words. There
was the matter of a certain pledge made to R0-
gan that stood in the way of that absolute frank-
ness that her scornful tone urged upon him. “I


124- THE EYES OF THE BLIND



might perhaps convince you that those thoughts
were right,” he said,
Forgotten for the moment was all the evidence
against her; everything that his own eyes, that
the mouth of Rogan had told him, he was pre-
pared to dismiss.
“Convince me 1” He could hardly believe that
a dimple had ever been in the check of her; that
the clear voice had ever sounded mirthful. “You
are not as careful a scoundrel as your friend,
Regan, Mr. Deems. I wonder that under his
tuition you have not acquired caution. To leave
in one’s room the written evidence of one’s guilt!”
He smiled. Then his smile faded as he re-
membered again his pledge to Rogan.
“That written evidence is the reason for your
distrust of me?”
The laugh this time was impatient. “Either
you are a very great fool, Mr. Deems, or you
think that I am. In either case discussion brings
us nowhere. Neither threat of blackmail nor
attempt against my father will stop me.”
“I don’t seem to remember having mentioned
your father, Miss Gryce,” he said.
She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m tired of
talking with you, Mr. Deems. Have you any
other silly accusations that you care to make?”


TANGLED THREADS 125


“None,” he said.
She rose from the chair in which she had been
seated. Like a whipped schoolboy Deems
walked out of the house.


CHAPTER TEN
INCRIMINATING EVIDENCE
RoaAN’s face was grave. “You aren’t telling me
this with the hope that I will pat you on the back,
Deems ?” he asked,
Deems shook his head. “Not quite that; but
you don’t blame me, either, do you?”
“I surely do,” replied Rogan. “This isn’t a
game of chess, Deems. It’s serious business.
_ It’s more than that—it’s the life of America.
That sounds pretty biggity and up-stage, but I
mean it. You know what de Grecque and Gryce
are trying to do and yet you let a pretty face he-
wilder you. You didn’t by any chance happen
to tell her that you were in the Secret Service,
did you?”
Deems flushed. “I’m not an ass,” he snapped.
“You bray uncommonly like one,” said Bo-
)gan. “I don’t mind a man falling for a pretty
doll; I fall for them myself outside of business
hours. But if you watch me closely, keeping
your eyes glued to what a college professor might
call my peregrinations, you’ll notice that my busi-
126


INCRIMINATING EVIDENCE 127



ness hours take twenty-four hours a day these
times. A man who gives up government secrets
to anybody is playing with fire, and that fire goes
by the name of treason.” -
“I didn’t tell her anything,” Deems defended.
himself,
Rogan sneered. “You just asked her why she
_ tried to blow you to kingdom-come; that’s all.
I suppose you expected her to reply that inside
the bomb there was a little note—‘Yours with
love’~—something like that, eh ?”
Deems’s flush became deeper. “I went to her
because I’m quite certain that she didn’t plant
those bombs.”
“You were pretty sure of it when we talked it
over a. little while ago,” jeered Rogan.
Deems lowered his eyes; he was furiously
ashamed of the red upon his cheeks. “If you
would talk with her, Rogan, you’d change your
mind about her.”
Rogan eyed the younger man; into his glance
crept sympathy. “You’re not a fool, Deems.
In fact, you’re a mighty bright youngster.
That’s why I have patience with you. Besides,
this war is changing things a whole lot. A lot
of people that six months ago, or six weeks ago
even, would have died before doing anything
dishonourable, have become perverted in their


128 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


views. They’ve let an idea, an insane, dishon-
ourable idea, get the better of them. This coun-
try has grown to greatness because we stuck to
the correct principle: let the majority rule. And
the majority has been right so far. But now, in
the biggest crisis that the country has ever faced,
a comparatively few people have become obsessed
with the idea that the majority is wrong. The
last ten years seem to have bred a gang of pro-
fessional ‘antis.’ Your girl and her father belong
to this group. I don’t say that either of them
are consciously pro-German; but any one who is
anti-war just now is pro-German, Whether he
knows it or not. I don’t think I need to talk to
Miss Gryce. I realise that you need more evi-
dence than I. That’s natural; you’re in love
with her. But even you must be convinced
now.”
Deems shook his head. Rogan stared at him.
“But she admitted that she’d been to your
room. And didn’t Minna see her leave the
bomb here?”
“Minna saw the bomb on the floor after she
had left,” corrected Deems. “According to
what Minna says, she was busy with some books
when a young woman entered and asked for Mr.
Grafl'e. When Minna told her that you were
out, the young woman left. Then Minna saw


INCRIMINATING EVIDENCE 129



the thing on the floor. She didn’t see Miss
Gryce put it there.”
“What are you driving at?” demanded Ro-
gan.
Deems’s jaw set stubbornly. “There are other
people just as anxious as Miss Gryce could pos-
sibly be to read our obituaries. Isn’t it quite pos—
sible that de Grecque and the Booklovers’ Club
tumbled to me this afternoon? And they aren’t
the kind to let the grass grow under their feet.
Minna hasn’t the best eyes in the world. Some
one else might have slipped in and left the
bomb.”
“Yes, and Hughes might be President—but he
isn’t,” jeered Rogan. “As for Minna’s eyes—
she got the number of the taxi in which the girl
drove away. Thank God she didn’t tell it to the
policeman. She got her nerve back before she
had time to do that.”
Deems looked curiously at the Secret Service
man. “Where’d have been the harm in her tell-
ing?”
“You haven’t seen any advertisements in the
newspapers telling my business, have you?” said
Rogan sarcastically. “This is my own little af-
fair. I hardly care to advertise that there are
reasons why pro-Germans should wis'h to put
poor old Heinrich Grafl‘e out of business.”


130 THE EYES OF THE BLIND

“What did you tell the police?” asked Deems.
“That I couldn’t understand the reason for
the bomb being placed there. But I gave them
the name of a young German whom I happen
to know has been in Germany three months. I
shouldn’t wonder if the police get the idea that
I’ve been a bit of a rake in my day. I think they
imagine that the young lady despaired of drag-
ging me to the altar. They’ll be a month tracing
her from address to address, and when they’ve
decided I’m a liar I’ll be able to tell them the
truth!”
“And in the meantime? If it was Lydia
Gryce who tried to kill us both, why won’t de
Grecque and his gang know that Graffe is Ro—
gan, and that Curtiss is Deems?”
Rogan’s eyes grew puzzled. “That’s one of
the chances we take, young feller,” he said.
“Gryce is with de Grecque; the girl is in with
her father; we know all that. But there is some-
thing else to it. They don’t work together, for
some reason or other. And when I find that rea-
son I think I’ll have ended my work. For a
while, at any rate.”
“And you have no idea what that reason is ?”
questioned Deems.
Rogan shook his head. “I was beginning to
think that maybe the girl was working against


INCRIMlNATING EVIDENCE 133



“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
Rogan laughed. “I’m not sure how safe this
Grafl'e alibi is going to be. I fooled the police,
but—de Grecque and his gang are different. I’m
not even sure that de Grecque won’t recognise
me as Rogan. But—I have my summons; I
can’t ignore it. They’ll know about the bomb
business—the papers have printed it. But—it’s
all in a lifetime. And if my lifetime isn’t long
——you’ll know where to take what information
you have. It isn’t evidence, but—it may help.
And I wouldn’t go back to Irving Place at all.
You’d have to pick your baggage up with a dust-
pan, anyway,” he grinned. “And the police will
be interested in Mr. William Curtiss.”
There was dismissal in his tones. There was
nothing sentimental about Rogan. There was
much that Deems would have liked to say, but he
couldn’t find words wherewith to express him-
self. If Rogan did not reappear at his book-
shop, then Rogan would be dead, and that’s all
there was to it. Both of them knew it, but be-
yond his statement that it might be Deems’s last
chance to shake hands, Rogan made no further
reference to his danger. They shook hands, and
Deems left the bookshop.
Ordinarily, it would be impossible for a pri-
vate citizen to obtain the name and address of a


134- THE EYES OI" THE BLIND



chauffeur late at night without the gravest rea—
sons. But a newspaper man has many priv-
ileges. And although the Record knew that
Deems had disappeared without notifying his.
employers, the Record had not blazoned the fact
to the world. There was no reason why it
should. -
So that Deems was quite safe in telephoning
Sergeant Moriarity.
“VVhat’s the name of the owner of license num-
ber 1040-967, Sarge?” he asked.
“WVhat’s the matter, me lad? Run over ye?”
Deems laughed. “On a story, Sarge. Chas-
ing a man through a building. Left my taxi out-
side. Got back two hours later and he was
gone.”
"I suppose it made him sick watching the me-
tre go up wid no chance of collectin’,” chuckled
the sergeant. “Are ye afraid that he’ll be down
to the ‘house’ askin’ us to locate a handsome
young scoundrel what bilked him of his fare?”
“I want to beat him to it. I’d like to pay
him,” replied Deems.
“Fair enough—and rare enough,” commented
the officer. “Hold the wire a minute, lad, and
I’ll look it up.”
A moment later and Deems was bound for
Bleecker Street. The number the complacent


INCRIMINATING EVIDENCE 135



sergeant had given him was easily found. And
the bartender of the saloon that was the ground
floor office of the Raines-Law hotel admitted that
one Randolph Fallon resided there.
“But I don’t think he’s fit to see any one now,
sir.” The “sir” was a tribute to the bill that
Deems slid into his hand. “What’s he done?
Run over somebody?”
Deems shook his head. “No; just a matter of
business.”
The bartender looked impressed. “Then he
ain’t been gettin’ rid of hot air, then, with his talk
to-night of big money?”
“I don’t know; what did he say?” asked
Deems.
“Damn little; but he talked a lot. Sold his
taxi—fact! Got three-hundred bucks for it, and
started blowin’ in the wad. I thought he was
crazy and tried to stop him, but he gave me the
laugh. Said he was through workin’. Said he
was rich. I thought he’d been drinking, but he
didn’t act that way. Was cold sober, too, when
he sold his flivver.”
“I take it that he isn’t sober now, then?” said
Deems.
“You take it correct,” grinned the bartender.
“He’s lighted up like Sunday in the park. I


136 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


shooed him upstairs an hour ago. I don’t think
he’s able to talk.”
“I’d like to try him,” said Deems.
“Number 24,” said the bartender. “Run
along up there. His door ain’t locked. No
need for it; I got most of his roll in the safe down
here. Don’t want a regular customer robbed.
Not when he’s just got rich and may be able to
spend,” he grinned.
Deems returned the grin with one of his own
heart-warming smiles, and the bartender’s lin-
gering doubts vanished. He graciously accom-
panied Deems to the foot of a flight of stairs.
“I’d like to go up with you,” he said, “only these
burglars down here’d rob the place. If he ain’t
able to talk holler to me, and I’ll lend you a
bung-starter.”
But the bung-starter wasn’t necessary. Ran-
dolph Fallon had become degenerate, sodden.
But to-night his brain seethed with excitement,
and a seething brain does not react the same al-
ways, to alcohol. Last night, one-half of what
he had drunk to-night would have rendered him
unconscious; to-night, though indubitably drunk,
he was fairly rational and quite awake.
“I’m from the Record, Mr. Fallon,” said
Deems.
Fallon stared at him. Liquor had glazed his


INCRIMINATING EVIDENCE 187



eyes, and he did not recognise his visitor. But
fear sharpened his liquor-dulled wits.
“What you want with me?” he growled.
Deems stared at the man curiously. The name
of Randolph Fallon had sounded vaguely famil-
iar to him. Now as he looked upon the wreck
of what had once been a man, he recognised the
taxi-man.
“Want with you? That depends, Mr. Fallon.
You used to be on the Record, eh, Mr. Fallon?”
“Well, what of it?” snapped Fallon.
“Nothing much, except—you know how much
the Record will spend for news, if the news is
important.”
“Well?” Fallon’s tones were not encourag-
mg.
“The Record wants to know something about
the passenger you carried to-day,” said Deems,
gently.
“What passenger? How can I remember any
partic’lar person?”
“Oh, but you’d remember this person,” 'said
Deems. “A girl. You took her to Graffe’s
book-store on Lexington Avenue. Also to a
lodging-house on Irving Place.”
“How do you know that I did?” demanded
Fallon. He was suddenly cold sober.
“She says so,” replied Deems. '


138 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


“IV ell, where do I come in, then?” asked the
former newspaper man.
“We want to know if she carried anything into
either of those places. A bomb, for instance?”
Fallon shook his head. “Cer’n’ly not. What
do you take me for? Wouldn’t I have gone
straight to headquarters if I’d seen her do any-
thing like that?”
“Not if she paid you not to,” hinted Deems.
“Who says she paid me?” cried Fallon.
“I understand that you’ve sold your car and
state that you’ve become rich,” insinuated Deems.
“Do you mind telling me where you got your
money?”
Into Fallon’s eyes came black despair. “Why
should I?” he whimpered. The surly fight had
gone out of him.
“Because the Record will pay for news, while
the police will not.”
“How much?” asked the blackmailer. “I
oughta known better. I oughta got cash from
her. \Vhat good is her check now? I mighta
known that I was born unlucky. I never did
have a chance in my life that burn luck didn’t
queer it.”
“Then she gave you a check? And she did
carry something into Graffe’s shop?”
“And into the other place. too. The place that


INCRIMINATING EVIDENCE 139



7,
young Deems Recognition stood in his
eyes—“You’re Deems. Oh, my God! I didn’t
know what she was doing. I only guessed it
afterward. How could I tell that she had a
bomb in her hand-bag? And I haven’t cashed
her check, either. I never intended to cash it.
I only took it—I intended to show it to the po-
lice as evidence against her—but I got to drink-
ing, and—they can’t do anything to me—I got
the check—here it is—they can’t do a thing to
me—I was getting the goods on her, making her
confess, intending to sell it to a newspaper and
then tell the police—and they can’t do anything
to me, can they?”
His voice rose to a frightened scream, but
Deems hardly heard him. He was looking at
the check. If Lydia Gryce had paid this sod-
den wreck ten thousand dollars to keep him quiet,
then—why—for the first time her offence, in all
its enormity, came to him. She had tried to com-
mit murder! She had tried to murder him,
Deems, the man who—Fallon stared at him, his
mouth open. There wasn’t any reason why a
newspaper man should laugh himself sick be-
cause a woman had attempted to kill him. He
did not know that Deems was laughing at the
death of hope within himself. It was better to
laugh than to cry. What a prince of patience


14-0 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



Rogan was! Well, he would not try the Rogan
patience any longer. He would do his best to
bring to justice all who conspired against the
country, even though among the number was
the girl whom he had fatuously thought he loved.
Thought that he loved! It was the mockery of
the gods that now, in the moment when his last
hope had vanished, he should know that he loved
her!


CHAPTER ELEVEN
LYDIA TRAPPED
THERE were circles under Gryce’s eyes. His
broad nostrils, that could quiver over such mat-
ters as the aroma of a cigar, the fragrance of a
well-laden table, twitched now from nervousness.
The wide mouth was set harshly, and his eyes
were fretful.
“I warn you, Lydia,” he said, “that you are
reaching the limits of patience.”
“I might say the same thing to you, Father,”
she retorted.
“And cease to be my well-bred daughter,” he
told her.
“The truth not being well-bred, you mean?”
“Insolence, I meant, Lydia. Since when has
the daughter been set above the father? Since
when do children sit in judgment upon their par-
ents?”
“Right never ceases to sit in judgment upon
wrong, Father.”
He hurled his book from him. “Lydia, I am
a busy man. I have not only my own business
141


14-2 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



affairs to administer, but I play, if I may say
so, a most important part in greater matters. I
have managed to achieve success; men pay heed
to what I say. And yet my daughter dares to
criticise. Criticise? Scold is the word. I can
not even have a peaceful hour with a book. “’hat
has happened to you, Lydia? You never used
to talk like a priggish professor. ‘Right never
ceases to sit in judgment upon wrong.’ My
God, Lydia, are you thinking of taking a pul-
pit?”
“Even that, Father, if I thought I could drive
from the minds of people the ideas that you
try to instill in them.”
He glared at her. “You can’t even frame a
sentence that doesn’t sound like the heroine of a
Third Avenue melodrama.” His voice suddenly
lowered. It became beseeching, pleading. “Lis-
ten, little girl; try to get rid of that notion
that I’m not pro-American. Open your eyes.”
“Open your eyes!” she cried. “They are
blind; blind to everything that is vital.”
“Because, at the age of fifty-five, after a fairly
ripe experience, I do not agree with my daugh-
ter, who is somewhat less than twenty-five?”
“Because you do not agree with the President;
with the best thought of the nation,” she said.
“The best thought being exemplified by young


LYDIA TRAPPED 148



girls like yourself, driven insane by years of read-
ing of slaughter in Europe. until you have come
to think that slaughter is the natural, the inev-
itable thing. You mention the President; after
all, he simply follows the will of the people. He
does not profess to do more. And can he know
better than I the will of the people? Are his
sources of information any greater? I doubt
it.”
“He gets his information from honest men,”
she said.
“And I?”
“From traitors,” she blazed.
Her father gazed at her. “Lydia, I have
borne with much from you. I wonder if I have
not borne with too much. Patience ceases to be
a virtue after a while. I have told you that when
you adduced proof concerning Senator Ran-
dall———”
“Or de Grecque,” she interrupted.
“Or de Grecque,” he echoed.
“You will act upon that proof?” she ques-
tioned.
“You know that I will.”
She nodded. “I am quite sure of that. You
are—it does sound melodramatic, the way I’ve
been speaking, Father, but—I’ve been doing


LYDIA TRAPPED 145



know how far the members of that club would
care to go.”
He laughed. “'W'ell, they found out. There
was not a treasonable word uttered. There was
a resolution passed, commending Senator Ran-
dall for his efforts for peace, and another reso-
lution pledging the support of the club to the
Government.”
“With the joker in the end,” she said. “A
request to the President that he attempt further
negotiation with Germany.”
“Exactly as I advocated in my speech,” he
said complacently. “we are at war with the
German Government, not the German people.
I hoped that the President would recognise this
fact, and would endeavour so to negotiate with
the German Government that its people would
recognise the fact, and ”
“I heard you,” she interrupted.
“But you were not there, Lydia.”
“I was in a room up-stairs, Father; you asked
for evidence against the Comte de Grecque and
Randall. I have no evidence against Randall
as yet. It may be that I shall never get any
against him. He is clever, and he cares for his
safety. He will be beaten next fall, but whether
or not we can land him in jail ”
Gryce’s frovm stopped her. “You were in a


146 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



room up-stairs? But the Booklovers’ banquet
was in a restaurant building. What were you
doing up-stairs, Lydia.”
“Listening, Father. Did you ever hear of the
dictaphone?”
His hands dropped upon his stout thighs. His
jaw dropped. “You! Up-stairs! A dicta-
phone! Lydia, are you insane?”
She shook her head. “You will not think me
so when I have finished, Father.”
“Then hurry up and finish,” he cried.
“I heard your speeches; I heard the other
speeches; I heard the resolutions and the applause
and all the sickening rest of it. And then—the
Comte de Grecque did not leave with you, Father.
No; he was one of the honoured guests who re-
mained behind. Let me tell you why. Because
he is the lowest traitor of them all, Father.
France has honoured him, has enriched him, but
—-the taint of German birth is his.”
“Lydia, you are insane,” said Gryce. “De
Grecque was born in——”
“Germany,” she stated. “Oh, it is not known,
not even in France.”
“Not known; when his title is
“Not his, Father! If I should tell you that
the real Comte de Grecque is in a German
prison—”
’9


LYDIA TRAPPED 14-7




“Lydia, my dear ”
“Incredible, I know. But wait. The de
Grecques are an old, but not well-known fam-
ily. The Comte de Grecque joined the army at
the outbreak of the war. He was wounded and
invalided, and later sent to this country on diplo-
matic service. At least, the French Government
thought that it sent de Grecque. But the real
de Grecque was a German prisoner. The de
Grecque we know is a German officer. He wore
the Comte de Grecque’s uniform when he was
picked up on the battlefield. Also, he was
wounded, and the real de Grecque had been seen
to fall in a charge. A long chance, yes. But—-
there were plenty of Germans who would take
such a chance. This man took it; he was not
discovered. None of the real de Grecque’s regi-
ment were in the military hospital where he was
taken—the Germans have done enough things
like this, Father. It is not incredible even. And
he used what treacherous influence he could ex-
ert to be sent abroad. The chance of discovery
was slight over here.”
“And yet you discovered this—mare’s nest?”
Gryce’s voice was sneeringly incredulous. “May
I ask how?”
“You may ask, Father, but I can not answer.
But believe me.”


HS THE EYES OF THE BLIND



“Believe you? You might as well ask me to
believe that the earth is flat.”
She smiled. “Wait. You left the banquet
to-night. De Grecque remained behind. So did
I, in an up-stairs room. And I heard—Father,
can’t you understand? The German plight is
desperate now that we have entered the war.
But if we remain passive, lethargic, Germany
may win. If we refuse to send troops
abroa ”
“As we will, if the papers I control have any
power at all,” he cried.
“I have not finished yet,” she reminded him.
“Go on with your dream, Lydia.”
She flushed. “If you could have heard them
talk. It is owned by Germans, the Royal Res-
taurant.”
“WVhich is why they permitted you to place a
dictaphone in one of the rooms, eh ?”
“You don’t believe me?” she asked.
“Believe you? Lydia, I thought you were in-
sane a while ago. Now—”
“If I tell you that one of the waiters in the
Royal is an Alsatian—though his employers do
not know that he is a loyal Frenchman ”
“Lydia, you can’t be insane.” Against his
will Gryce was yielding to her argument.
“Insane? Father, after you left, de Grecque


LYDIA TRAPPED 149



and others held a private meeting. The proposed
draft legislation was discussed. They laughed at
you. They said you were completely under their
influence. And de Grecque spoke of a paper
that you had signed.”
“A paper?” Gryce shook his head. “I know
of no paper that I have signed.”
“No?” The girl lowered her eyes; a tinge of
something that might have been contempt showed
in them. “It does not matter. But de Grecque
said that if you wavered he could show that
paper, that it would compel you to stick with
them.”
“De Grecque said that?” Gryce seemed in- .
credulous.
This time the girl looked at him. The con-
tempt left her eyes; puzzlement took its place.
“I heard him,” she said. “And de Grecque
said that he had talked with you of the folly of
war; that he had approached you from the stand-
point of high morality; that he had appealed to
your reverence for Christ, your hatred for the
great soldiers of history. There was no question,
he said, but that you would use all your power to
render the United States inactive in this war.”
“That is true,” he admitted.
“But it would not be true if you knew that you
were being used by pro-Germans, by traitors,”


150 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



she cried. “If you knew that Germany’s only
hope of victory was that we should be inactive;
if you knew that Germany had already settled
upon the amount of indemnity that, having de-
feated the Allies, it would demand, and exact,
from us.”
“No-o, in that case, if I thought that de
Grecque were dishonest, that those lined up with
me were dishonest ”
“And they are! There is no pacifist element
in the country to-day that is not pacifist because
of cowardice or selfishness. You are fooled, Fa-
ther. You are honest. But the rest—they want
to use you.”
He stared at her. Lines of worriment ap—
peared on his forehead.
“But, Lydia—the Government recognises de
Grecque—how do you happen to know ”
“If you just won’t ask me yet,'Father!”
“But I insist,” he said.
She shook her head. “I can’t tell you. To-
morrow—I can tell you, to-morrow!”
“Do you mean to tell me that—you are work-
ing for ”
“I can’t tell you—anything,” she replied.
He looked at her. It was all unreasonable.
How could a girl, his own daughter, be aware of
things that—de Grecque an imposter? His


LYDIA TRAPPED 151



whole world turned upside down. How could
the daughter of Stephen Gryce know of matters
that had been withheld from him? It was—ri-
diculous. And yet there was nothing ridiculous
in the girl’s manner. He had never seen her so
intent, so apparently mistress of herself. Sud-
denly Gryce felt old; he had lived rapidly; not in
the sense that he had dissipated in loose living;
but he had enjoyed the bodily comforts and he
had worked strenuously. How he had worked!
Too hard! Had he failed to see things prop-
erly? Could it be possible that, in his concen-
tration upon work, he had lost something of his
old gift for reading people? Could any one im-
pose upon him? And were his ideas all wrong?
Absurd! And yet—but there could be no quali-
fication. War was wrong. Peace was right.
His jaw set stubbornly. Still, Lydia had prom-
ised to reveal certain things to-morrow. Out of
the mouths of babes— If it were true that pro-
Germans were using him, that could not affect
the soundness of the principle that war was wrong
and peace was right, but still— If the very
people who agreed with him that war was wrong
were planning to make war against this country
of his, when the time should be propitious
Lydia had been in bed an hour when a knock
upon her door aroused her.


LYDIA TRAPPED 153



“Charge of doing bomb work, young lady.
They want to see you down at headquarters.
Ready?”
She eyed him. “Suppose you show me your
warrant,” she suggested.
He sneered. “Don’t need a warrant. At-
tempted murder justifies arrest without one.
‘Ve got the goods on you. Will you be nice and
ladylike and come quietly?”
Ferguson, the butler, had followed his mis-
tress into the room.
“You make him show his warrant, Miss
Lydia,” he cried.
The spokesman of the four officers took a step
toward the old man. “You want to come along,
too?”
Ferguson whitened; but he held his ground.
Lydia moved toward the door; one of the police-
men stepped between her and the one way of
egress from the room. He laid a hand upon her
shoulder.
Old Ferguson leaped at him. He went down
before a wicked blow in the face.
“Don’t,” cried Lydia. The man who had
struck the butler withheld the second blow aimed
at the old man as he stumbled to his knees,
“I’ll go,” said the girl quietly.


CHAPTER TWELVE
LYDIA GAINS AN ALLY
DE GRECQUE eyed the trembling waiter.
“It is unnecessary to remind you of that which
happens to traitors, eh?” he said.
The little black-haired man met de Grecque’s‘
gaze defiantly.
“You talk of traitors?” he sneered.
De Grecque smiled. His eyes, blazing with
excitement, seemed to roll in their sockets; and
yet they never left the face of the little waiter.
“I am a German,” he stated.
“And I am an Alsatian,” declared the waiter.
“IVho is the subject of the Fatherland,” de
Grecque reminded him.
The waiter shrugged his shoulders.
“And there is the matter of an oath, also,” con-
tinued de Grecque.
The waiter laughed. “The recording angel,
H err de Grecque, enters the violation of an oath
made to Germany upon the credit side of his
ledger.”
“So? Our cock crows proudly,” he said to
154 '


LYDIA GAINS AN ALLY 155



his companions. “I wonder if that crow would
not change to a bleat?”
The mild-faced secretary of the Booklovers’
Club wiped his glasses.
“Why waste time upon him?” he asked. “We
have found him out; why not end the matter here
and now?”
A murmur of assent came from the throats of
the rest of the pedantic-seeming group. De
Grecque stilled the murmur with an angry excla-
mation.
“Listen, Hennig,” he said, “we will do with-
out the bombast. It is more pleasant to a man
to know that the recording angel is still recording
than to know that he has closed his book.”
“I am not afraid to die,” said the waiter.
De Grecque nodded. “But your wife? Your
daughter?”
I-Iennig laughed. “My wife and daughter?
What about them?”
De Grecque’s smile grew broader. He made
no answer. Slowly Hennig’s face whitened.
He looked nervously about the small room, on
one of the upper floors of the Royal Restaurant.
But he was one against half a dozen, and the
half dozen were armed.
“You know nothing of my wife and daughter,”
he declared. But the defiance had oozed from


156 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


his voice, and drops of sweat were upon his fore-
head.
“No?” said de Grecque. “Perhaps we know
more than you do, Hennig. You have thought
to hide from us the fact that you are married
and a father.” He shook his head slowly. “It
is no compliment that you pay us, Hennig, think-
ing that we should have no interest in your pri-
vate life.” His voice was mocking. “Are we
not representatives of the Fatherland? And
does not the Fatherland interest itself even in
the tiniest detail of the lives of its sons? You
have not appreciated us, Hennig—Your wife
and daughter—When we began to hold our meet-
ings here, Hennig, we went most thoroughly into
the affairs of the Royal Restaurant. You were
among those retained. Why not? You pro-
fessed to have been born in Bavaria; you have
been for a long time most outspoken in your
hatred for Germany’s enemies. But when the
United States entered the war we became even
more careful. We discovered, Hennig, that you
were married. There was nothing in that to ex-
cite suspicion. The fact that you had never
mentioned it meant nothing. But when a week
or so ago we learned that you had moved your
wife and daughter, still saying nothing, to an-
other apartment—”


LYDIA GAINS AN ALLY 157

Hennig’s lips even were white now. “You do
not know where,” he said hoarsely.
“N0 ?” De Grecque walked across the room.
He picked up a telephone. He asked for a
number.
“Mincer? De Grecque talking. You have
Mrs. Hennig there? Put her on the ’phone,
please.” He turned to the waiter. He beck-
oned him to take the telephone. Shaking in
every muscle, Hennig took the receiver from the
hand of de Grecque. He held it to his car a mo-
ment. “Yes, Frieda; yes, it is I, Ernst, talking.
No, they will do you no harm. Strange? I
know, Frieda, but they are”—-— he choked over
the next word—“friends of mine. I will explain
it when I come home. The little girl is asleep,
yes? That is good.”
He hung up the receiver and turned piteously
to de Grecque. “You would not harm them,” he
said pleadingly.
De Grecque shrugged his shoulders. “How
much have you told them, Hennig?”
“Nothin’, I swear,” said the waiter.
“And yet you swore an oath to Germany,”
smiled de Grecque. “Listen, Hennig, there is
a way out for you. This dictaphone—” He
pointed at the instrument that had been torn from
its place on the wall—~—“You put it there?”


LYDIA GAINS AN ALLY 159



Until to-night there has been nothing wrong in
what you have done. But that a young woman
should dine alone in a private dining-room here
excited interest. It is well when one is treacher-
ous even to stop keyholes, Hennig. One of your
fellow-waiters was interested in your doings.
As a matter of fact, he suspected merely that the
young lady might be not too proud to be friendly
with a waiter. Though you look nothing of a
Don Juan, Hennig. But lovers do not sit apart
all the time. Also it would have been well had
the young lady thought to eat the food she or-
dered. And after she had left and the room
cleared—behind a picture is a good place to hide
a dictaphone, if one does not attract notice by sit-
ting too close to the picture.”
His voice had been almost pleasant, almost
bantering, but now it became harsh. “Hennig,
I give you one minute to tell me the name of that
woman.”
As he spoke he reached out his hand for the
telephone; he let it rest on the instrument while
he looked at the pallid waiter. Hennig was no
coward. He had been willing enough to die
rather than betray Lydia Gryce. But his wife
and daughter. His loyalty to them. His fears
for them. Besides, Miss Gryce was the daugh-
ter of a multimillionaire; these men here would


160 THE EYES OF THE BLIND




not dare do violence to her; her father’s wealth
and power would protect her. But no one in
the world could protect the wife and daughter of
Ernst Hennig save Hennig himself. He knew
quite well that, no matter what protestations de
Grecque might make, his wife and daughter
might be killed. But there was just a chance
that de Grecque, if he gave his word, would keep
it. Hennig seized upon that chance. He told
them the name of the woman who had been lis-
tening to the dictaphone.
De Grecque passed a shaky hand across his
forehead. “Lydia Gryce!” he cried. He looked
around at his companions.
“Stephen Gryce’s daughter!” exclaimed the
mild-faced secretary.
“Why not ?”
De Grecque looked at the man who asked the
question. “Do you know anything about her?”
he demanded.
“It was a woman who tried to blow up my
book-store,” answered the other.
De Grecque’s nostrils twitched as he stared at
the clean-shaven man. “You mean, Graffe, that
Miss Gryce is this woman?”
“I can think so, can’t I? This girl, this Gryce
girl, apparently isn’t on her father’s side.”
De Grecque spat upon the floor. “His side!


LYDIA GAINS AN ALLY 161

The ranting fool doesn’t know where he stands!
VVe’re trying to show him. But if his daughter
—but that’s absurd, Graffe. Why should she
want to put a bomb in your shop?”
“Why should she bribe this little rat, Hennig,
here, to sell us out?” was Graffe’s counter.
De Grecque pursed his lips. “That is true.
But—what does it lead to—this talk? Suppose
you do think that Gryce’s daughter—”
Graer eyed him insolently. “Don’t lose your
nerve,” he said. “Suppose policemen from head-
quarters arrest Miss Gryce for attempted mur-
der—young Curtiss, you know, lived in that
house on Irving Place that she blew up; that
makes two counts against her.”
“You are insane, Graffe,” cried de Grecque.
“To go to the police would be to lose everything.”
“I know that,” answered Graffe. “But I
don’t have to go to police headquarters to get
police uniforms, do I?”
De Grecque’s nervous eyes 'ceased rolling; ad-
miration shone from them. Then dismay showed
in them again. “But her father! If she’s been
listening here she’s probably told him—~” He
looked around at his companions; he spread his
hands wide—“everything.”
“But telling it to Gryce isn’t the same thing as
telling it to the police,” said Graffc. “And her


162 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



father—call him on the ’phone. Tell him that—”
He stopped and appeared to be in deep thought.
“Tell him that you have just learned that an
agent of the Department of Justice has applied
for warrants for the arrest of the members of the
Booklovers’ Club on the charge of seditious ut-
terances to-night at the dinner here. Tell him,
that you have been appealed to by the secretary
of the club to furnish them with counsel immedi-
ately. Ask Gryce, as one interested in the pur-
poses of the club, to come at once to your hotel,
to confer about the matter.”
“But the hour! It’s after midnight,” pro-
tested de Grecque. “If he refuses to come, what
then?”
Graffe whistled. “If he refuses to come it
will probably mean that to-morrow morning his
daughter, if she has heard enough through that
dictaphone to justify it, will be at the Federal
Building asking for your arrest, for the arrest
of all of us. She may have gone there already.
But if she hasn’t, and we can get her father out
of the house, I can get her to-night.”
“What good will that do ?” demanded de
Grecque.
Insolence was again in Grafie’s voice. “What
good does it do to threaten this waiter? I sup—
pose your idea is to wait for the storm to break?”


LYDIA GAINS AN ALLY 163


“Not at all,” protested de Grecque. He
glared at the frightened Hennig. “My idea was
to settle with Hennig first, and then to send some
one to settle with her. But if Hennig is lying—”
Indecision was, paradoxically, the strongest
thing about him now.
“And the easiest way to find out is to do as I
say,” said Grafi'e. “If the girl denies having
placed the bombs—I can tell if she is lying or not.
And if she did, there is no reason to doubt Hen-
nig. Telephone Gryce.”
It amounted to an order, but de Grecque
showed no resentment. He called up Gryce,
talked as Grafi' e had directed, and made the ap-
pointment.
“Did he mention his daughter?” asked Gralfe,
as de Grecque hung up.
De Grecque shook his head. “N 0. But he
seemed reluctant to come. For one so enthusi-
astically on our side but a few hours ago he
seemed—cold.”
“It’s pretty late,” Grafi'e reminded him. “N 0
man likes to get up in the middle of the night.”
He looked at the anxious faces of the group.
“The girl probably would recognise any one of
you,” he said. He spoke to de Grecque. “Shall
I take Curtiss with me?”
De Grecque shook his head. “What you told


164 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



us about him speaks well for his trustworthiness,
but this is too delicate a matter. I will send thel
men with you.”
Grafi’e shrugged. “So long as they aren’t
afraid of such a job, it doesn’t matter. But
we’d better start. It’s a long chance anyway.”
De Grecque went to the telephone again. He
spoke rapidly for a minute. Then he turned
back to Grafl’e. “They will meet you at your
shop in ten minutes. How soon can you have
police uniforms?”
“I have them now,” said Graffe. Once again
admiration shone in the eyes of de Grecque.
A roadster, enclosed, and a limousine stood
before the Gryce residence. The chief of the
four men who had arrested her showed Lydia into
the roadster. He stepped in beside her. With-
out a word he started the car. At the first cor-
ner he turned north. Lydia stiffened. “Police
headquarters are down-town, aren’t they?” she
asked.
The man beside her glanced over his shoulder;
through the gloom the lights of the limousine
were plainly visible.
“You see that car behind us, Miss Gryce?
Well, the men in it can’t hear what I’m saying.
But if you and I don’t come to an understanding


166 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


“Will you believe me if I deny it ?” she queried.
“I wouldn’t have five minutes ago, but—I’m
beginning to get the Deems point of view. And
I’m not a young man either, Miss Gryce. But
if you didn’t—this is life or death, Miss Gryce.
You’re beginning to understand who and what
I am, aren’t you ?”
“I know that you’re not a policeman,” she
said. “But if you’re not an ally of de
Grecque——”
He cut her short with a laugh. “Miss Gryce,
there are several angles to this affair, and I guess
we haven’t been working for the same one. You
don’t stand with your father. That dictaphone
business proves that. But the bomb—will you
explain?”
“I can’t,” she said. “And you—the State De-
partment no longer has a Rogan on its list of
employés.”
“But it may have later on, just the same as it
used to,” he said.
He read the sudden understanding in her face.
“But that paper that you left in Mr. Deems’s
room—my father—I don’t understand why—”
For a moment, to their imminent danger, he
forgot to guide the car. “Do you mean to tell
me that you haven’t that paper?” he asked.
“I have never had it,” she answered.



LYDIA GAINS AN ALLY 167



He looked at her. He drew something from
his pocket. “Miss Gryce, if I take you where
I’m supposed to, you’ll never leave it alive, and
if I don’t take you—what have you on de
Grecque ?” he demanded suddenly.
“Not enough,” she replied.
“Neither have I,” he told her. “It’s up to us
both to keep on working, and, now that we un-
derstand each other not to waste time fighting
each other; de Grecque is a bad one, Miss Gryce.
When he’s scared, he gets rattled, and that’s the
most dangerous kind; the kind that forgets its
finesse and thinks only of killing. While he
tried to make up his mind to-night I made it up
for him. Otherwise, instead of getting you out
of the house, de Grecque would have sent his men
to do the sort of thing your groom did to Clancy
of the Recor V.”
For all her courage she shuddered slightly,
“Now listen, DIiss Gryce, I’m going to put a
bullet Where it won’t do me any particular dam-
age. I’ll stop the car. You know how to run
it, of course.” He went on as she nodded her
assent: “This roadster can lose that limousine.
You make your getaway. They’ll stop to pick
me up. Don’t go back to your house. Spend
the night with friends or at a hotel. Don’t go
:to the police. We’d have nothing really to tell


CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A STRANGE MESSAGE
'THERE was a policeman doing perfunctory guard
duty in front of Heinrich Grafl'e’s bookshop on
Lexington Avenue. The arc-light beneath which
he stood revealed him clearly. To Deems the
officer seemed typical of the present American
spirit. An outrage had been attempted against
the premises which the officer guarded, not half
a day ago; it was quite within the bounds of
probability that a second attempt might be made;
one would think that ordinary caution would
cause the policeman to select a less conspicuous
spot, a spot where he afforded a less perfect tar-
get. But as he leaned against the post that sup-
ported the light his whole manner seemed to say,
“It can’t happen to me.”
So, with the most desperate foe it had ever
faced aligned against it, America looked more or
less complacently at the ruih that foe had
wrought to others and said, “It can’t happen to
me.”
And yet, within America’s very gates vicious
169


170 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


propaganda, aimed to destroy the structure of
the nation, was being almost openly carried on.
A few days ago Deems would have dismissed, as
the ravings of a maniac, the words of a person
who would have told him the things that he now
knew to be facts. But to-night—even a gently
bred girl, daughter of an American of American
stock, to whom this Country had given the oppor-
tunity to achieve place, power and fortune, had
become so infected by the vicious germs of dis-
loyalty that she did not hesitate even at murder
in the furthering of her activities against the land
of her birth. '
His lips were set in a grim line as he paused
a block away from the policeman. There were
things higher even than love; and a love such as
his, inspired by a woman like Lydia Gryce, must
be stamped out of his heart.
He had walked in a semi-daze from the saloon
on Bleecker Street, where he had left Randolph
Fallon, only half conscious of whither he was
bound. Love is a guest who comes not at invi-
tation, nor departs upon request. It is easier to
say, “I will have done with her,” than it is to live
up to the resolve.
It was an easy matter for Deems, at last con-
vinced that Lydia Gryce was not merely a trai-
tor, not merely a murderess, but both of these,


A STRANGE MESSAGE 171



and God only knew what besides, to determine to
think of her only as the vicious, unspeakable thing
that she was. But the memory of her eyes, her
smile, her mocking voice!
But these things were camouflage, behind
which lurked the real woman, the woman who,
through motives incomprehensible, had sold her
soul to the enemies of America. And the real
woman was one whom it was his duty to bring to
justice.
To Rogan, then, to tell his chief that there
would be no longer even unspoken objection to
the part he played, Deems was bound.
But the sight of the policeman on the corner
halted him. It was quite probable that the man
would accost any who tried to enter, openly, the
bookshop. Questions might prove embarrass-
ing. And arrests upon suspicion were not in-
frequent, as Deems’s newspaper experience had
taught him. It was just as well to round the
block and enter the bookshop from Rogan’s
apartment on a side street.
He did so, undisturbed by the officer. Minna,
who was more than a clerk to Rogan, was in the
tiny living-room of the apartment of which she
_was housekeeper.
“He has not returned,” she told Deems. “He
has gone to the Booklovers' Club.”


172 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


“He has not telephoned?” asked Deems.
The stout, Teutonic woman shook her head.
“For why should he ?” she asked placidly.
Deems stared at her with something of admira-
tion in his eyes. Most women would be reduced
to hysteria by the experience that Minna had
passed through this evening, but she was appar-
ently not discomposed at all. Rogan had done
wisely in choosing this woman for the position of
trust that she held.
But he himself was not as calm as she. Rogan
had dared greatly in going to the Booklovers’.
If de Grecque should happen to recognise him!
And there was no reason why Rogan should not
have returned by now. Ostensibly he had been
summoned to go into more detail concerning the
new recruit, William Curtiss. That should not
have taken him until now. And Rogan had
spoken as though he held some premonition that
to-night might see the end of his labours. He
had told Deems, if Rogan’s end should come, to
go to the proper authorities and lodge what in-
formation he had against the Booklovers.
But—all along Rogan had been insistent that,
aside from the aid that Deems gave him, he
should play a lone hand. At times, this insist-
ence upon secrecy irked Deems; it gave rise to
vague suspicions that his love for Lydia Gryce


A STRANGE MESSAGE 178



had fostered. But now that Rogan had been
proved entirely correct, suspicion, if his uncer-
tainty could possibly have been called that—it
had been a. most impalpable feeling—had van-
ished. Rogan was justified in playing the game
his own way; results had proved that.
And if Deems should rush to the Federal au-
thorities, merely because Rogan had not arrived
home at a certain hour of the night! He shook
his head. It would not do. He might jeopard-
ise some of Rogan’s plans. And these plans
were subtly laid, long laboured over. Rogan
was clever, uncannin so. Until Deems had seen
the lifeless body of his chief he would hesitate to
believe that Rogan was dead.
But—Rogan had not come home, and he had
gone upon a mission of some risk. Also, it was
as well that Rogan should know of the absolute
proof of Lydia Gryce’s guilt at the earliest pos-
sible moment. Not that Rogan had ever seemed
to doubt that guilt, but its certainty might in
some way affect his plans.
It was late, the Booklovers might all have de-
parted from their gathering place. But a great
dinner had been planned for to-night, and some
of the plotters might remain behind. At any
rate, Deems could not sleep to-night until he had


174 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



seen Hogan. He started for the Royal Restau-
rant.
He was under no illusion as to the risk he ran.
If Hogan had been discovered to be an agent of
the Government then Hogan was dead. His
failure to come home indicated such a discovery.
At least, it indicated this to Deems, whose men—
tal processes, whose calmness of judgment, were
more upset than he realised.
And if Rogan had been found out, then short
shrif t would await the man whom Rogan had rec-
ommended to the Booklovers. But—and Deems
shrugged his shoulders as he crossed Madison
Square—that was a risk that might well be run.
As a matter of fact, though he was not con-
scious of it, his heart invited such risks. Love is
what makes life precious; love had left the heart
of Deems, he thought, and life was of little value.
Moreover, there had suddenly welled up within
him an afiection for Rogan. It was born, partly,
of the fact that together they ran risks; partly
of the fact that together they were serving their
country; and partly of the fact that Deems had
begun to pity the secret agent.
There was no whine in the soul of Rogan.
Ever he carried with him the knowledge that his
heart was weak, that death might overtake him
in his next stride. And yet, when once death


A STRANGE MESSAGE 175



had cast its chill shade over him, Rogan had
turned up smiling, with merely a casual reference
to his ailment. No self-pity in the Rogan heart.
It was this that accounted in a measure for
Deems’s regard for the man. Most men, sufl'er-
ing under Rogan’s affliction, would nurse them-
selves, avoid all risks and excitement. But
Rogan invited them.
To let Rogan face alone whatever he might be
facing at the Royal Restaurant would not come
within Deems’s scope of what he ought to do.
On the west side of B‘Iadison Square he found
a night-hawk taxicab, and ten minutes later he
had been dropped within half a block of the
Royal Restaurant. An employé still remained
within the dimmed building that housed the
Booklovers’ Club. He was the waiter who had
ushered Deems into the meeting this afternoon.
“Everybody gone, sir,” he told Deems.
“Mr. Grafi' e, too?” asked Deems,
“Everybody, sir,” replied the waiter. “They
left an hour or more ago.”
He was not rude, but plainly he desired no
conversation. How deeply the man might be
concerned in the affairs of the Booklovers,
Deems could not guess. But patently, he was
not desirous to talk even with the man whom he
had led into the meeting this afternoon. For he


A STRANGE MESSAGE 179



from the taxi that had, with seeming deliberation
run into the other, emerged two men. The occu-
pant of the first machine had stepped out upon
the sidewalk. A big, burly man, he neverthe-
'less went to his knees before the rush of the two
men from the second machine.
And as one of the latter raised his hand above
his head Deems saw why the big man had so
quickly succumbed. For the attacker held in
his hand a short, bulky weapon that Deems
thought must be some sort of a black- ack. And
then he was close upon them. His rushing steps
sounded loudly upon the pavement. A cry of
warning from his companion caused the man with
the black- ack to turn. His blow was promptly
larinched at Deems.
Under it Deems dived; his hands gripped the
knees of the man in a foot-ball tackle, bringing
him to the ground, Deems uppermost. A light-
ning smash upon the wrist broke the man’s hold
of the weapon. Over his shoulder Deems saw
the drivers of the two taxicabs engaged in silent
struggle, while the big man who had been felled,
having gained his feet, was putting up a des-
perate fight against the second of the two who
had got out of the rear of the second taxi.
And then his attention was fully engaged by
the man with whom he was locked in combat.


180 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



Deems knew a little of wrestling, but his foe knew
more. Grip as Deems might, the other broke
his hold. The man gained his feet at the mo-
ment that the big man, the object of this noc-
turnal assault, had broken free from his oppo-
nent. Likewise, the two taxi-men, exhausted by
their brief battle, were standing apart, and were
watching each other cat-like.
Deems climbed to his knees. Breathing
heavily, he welcomed the rat-a-tat upon the pave-
ment of a policeman’s night-stick. From his
kneeling position he dived again at the man who
wielded the black-j aek. But the would-be-killer
avoided him by a sidestep. The man cried out
hoarsely—in German, Deems would have sworn.
Then there was a rush for the taxi that they had
abandoned. They were in it, all three of them,
and careening crazily around a corner before the
coming policeman could stop them, or before
Deems, his wind almost now restored, could
move.
And then he recognised the man whom he had
undoubtedly, by his intervention, saved. It was
Stephen Gryce, the father of Lydia, his erstwhile
employer, the potential, if not actual traitor,
whom he and Rogan had been endeavouring to
trap. And even as Gryee’s identity was known
to him he remembered where he had seen the face


AMERICAN. AFTER ALL 183



“May I inquire how?” he asked,
“It will tend to crystallise the opposition to
war, to the part that our Government evidently
intends to play in the war,” replied-the publisher.
“Let the Government show its hand! If honest
criticism is treason we want to find it out; we
want to show the people of this country whither
the war is leading them. I shall not mind if I,
too, am indicted.”
“I should mind it very much,” said de Grecque.
“Why? We are both innocent of treason,”
said Gryce.
De Grecque blew a smoke ring; meticulously
he brushed ashes from his sleeve.
“We might not be able to prove it,” he sug-
gested.
Gryce’s broad face broadened. “That’s ab-
surd, de Grecque! Not one word of mine, not
one line printed in my newspapers, muld pos-
sibly be termed treasonable. An open differ-
ence with the policy of the Government yes.
But treason—no one but a fool would make such
a false statement.”
De Grecque’s rolling eyes fastened themselves
upon the face of his visitor.
“I have never before been termed a fool,” he
said slowly.
Gryce laughed embarrassedly. “I don’t ap-


184- THE EYES OF THE BLIND


ply the term to you, my dear fellow,” he said; “I
referred to the possible person who might make
such a charge against me.”
“You think that you could face such a charge
successfully then?” queried de Grecque.
Gryce’s eyes opened wide. “You talk as
though you really believed that the Government
would be insane enough to make such an attack
on me.” His forehead wrinkled for a moment,
then it cleared as he smiled. “It’s late at night
and you are seeing bogies, de Grecque. The
Government will hesitate a long time before it at-
tacks me. Moreover, it will have to have evi-
dence. And that it can never have because none
exists.”
De Grecque nodded thoughtfully. “There is,
of course, the working agreement between you
and myself,” he suggested.
Gryce laughed loudly. “An agreement that
we would both do what we could to save a war-
torn World from further sacrifice. Even had
every word uttered between us been overheard
and noted by Federal agents, the Government
would hesitate to term that treason. Be sane,
de Grecque. To question the patriotism of a
man like you, or one like myself—nothing but
patriotism, a desire to save useless bloodshed, has
inspired us both.”


AMERICAN, AFTER ALL 185


He tossed his cigar into the fireplace and rose
to his feet. “Let us wait,” he said, finality in his
tones, “until the warrants have been served. It
will be time enough then. In the meantime,”
and he yawned, “sleep will do us no harm.”
He looked about him for his hat. But de
Grecque remained seated. .
“Just a little longer, Gryce,” he said. His
voice was suddenly harsh, menacing, all suavity
gone from it.
Gryce’s eyebrows lifted. Those who knew
him well knew that facial movement indicated
resentful surprise, and resentful surprise, in
Gryce, was ordinarily followed by violent out-
burst. But he merely bowed slightly.
“Why is it, Gryce, do you think, that I came
to you with my suggestions that America play a
passive part in this world-war?”
“Why?” Resentment left Gryce’s eyes; more
than surprise, wonderment was in them now.
“Because you knew my feelings, I suppose,
Comte de Grecque.”
“And yet—there was danger in what I sug-
gested to you,” said the other.
“Danger? The danger of popular misunder-
standing, that was all.”
“You play poker quite a bit, don’t you?” asked
de Grecque.


186 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


The irrelevance annoyed the publisher.
“Well?” i
“The bluff, as it is called, is an important part
of the game, eh? Suppose, Gryce, that you and
I quit blufling?”
The publisher looked around; he was close to
his chair, and he sat down again. He met the
rolling eyes of de Grecque fairly.
“Two or three people in recent years have had
the nerve to talk to me in the tone you are using,
de Grecque,” he said gently. “One of them was
an ambassador from a South American country.
He didn’t like certain editorials in my papers.
He was recalled. Another was a senator. He
is in private life to-day. Another was a mi]-
lionaire railroad man. He’s doing time in At-
lanta.”
“And you think to frighten me?” sneered de
Grecque.
Gryce waved his hands. “Not at all; I’m
merely telling you, de Grecque. We are friends,
you and I, but friendship depends upon respect.
You will, if you care to continue our friendship,
put back into your voice that respect that has
been there until now.”
“I was speaking of that part of the game of
poker which is known as blufling, Gryce.” De
Grecque spoke as though he had not heard the


AMERICAN, AFTER ALL 187


publisher’s interruption. “It is all very well, up
to a certain point, to use camouflage. But there
comes a time, between men, when there must be
no uncertainty of mutual purpose. I did not ap-
proach you, Gryce, merely because I knew of
your pronounced views against war.”
Gryce waited for him to continue. De
Grecque lifted his shoulders. “You insist?” he
asked. “Very well,” as Gryce made no reply.
“That letter which you wrote to Senator Randall.
You remember that, eh? I am sorry that you
force me to mention it.”
Gryce reached for his cigar-case. He failed
to offer one to de Grecque. Carefully he clipped
the end and he was most fastidious in applying
the match. Then, “To which letter do you refer,
de Grecque? I have had much correspondence
with Randall, correspondence covering several
years.”
“To the important letter that you sent him
on the night that war was declared against Ger-
many,” said de Grecque.
“You are quite positive of the date?”
De Grecque smiled. “Quite,” he stated.
“And the nature of the document in question?”
Gryce’s voice was sardonic.
De Grecque lowered his voice. “Is it neces-
sary that I remind you ?” he asked.


AMERICAN, AFTER ALL 189


that you were anti-French ; you merely claimed to
be, as I was, anti-war.”
“We are men,” snapped de Grecque. “Why
quibble? Does it matter—these motives of
mine? I knew you; you must have guessed at
me. And listen, Gryce!” His voice rose shrilly.
“Your daughter—what manner of men are you
Americans? She is your daughter, and yet you
permit her to plot against us. To-night she———”
“Was listening at a dictaphone in a private
room of the Royal Restaurant, eh?” interrupted
Gryce.
De Grecque’s eyes narrowed. “You knew it,
Gryce ?”
The publisher puffed at his cigar. “No, I did
not know it, de Grecque. Not at the time. But
to-night, when she came home, she told me.”
“Yes?” said de Grecque softly.
“That’s why I happened to be awake when
you telephoned a while ago, de Grecque. What
she said was insane, but—well, she isn’t insane.”
“And she told you why she happened to be
doing this?”
“She will tell me in the morning,” said Gryce.
“And then ?”
Gryce inhaled; his huge chest stood out bigger
than ever.
“Why, then, de Grecque, if I find out that I’ve


190 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



been led by the nose to the brink of treason by a
lot of pro-German traitors, if I find that my
daughter has come nearer the truth through her
_ emotions than I have through my brains—why,
then, de Grecque, some one will face a firing-
squad.”
De Grecque nodded. “A right-about, you
would call it, eh?”
“With the accent on the right,” said Gryce.
“If I’ve been a blind fool—de Grecque, you may
be a sincere and honest man. To~night I do not
think so. I think that my blind eyes are seeing.
I think that my soul is hearing a cry to which
my ears have been deaf.”
“Which is very pretty,” said de Grecque.
“Loftiness of speech always appeals to me. But
—y0u are forgetting the letter which I men-
tioned a while ago. You speak of firing-squads.
Would not one of them reserve a few moments
for the author of that letter?”
“Unquestionably,” assented Gryce.
“And still you speak in threats. I do not un-
derstand you, Gryce.”
“Nor do I understand you,” said Gryce.
“Then I shall make myself very clear,’ said
de Grecque. “That letter, the letter which you
wrote to Senator Randall, is in my possession.”


AMERICAN, AFTER ALL 191



“Would you mind letting me look at it?” asked
Gryce,
“So that you could destroy it?”
Gryce shook his head. “I give you my word,
de Grecque, that I will not touch it. I am
merely curious to see a forgery that has been im-
posed upon so shrewd a man as the Comte de
Grecque, late of the German army, and so capa-
ble a spy that he is entrusted with so difficult a
role as the one you have chosen to play.”
If de Grecque was startled he did not show it.
Once again he smiled. “Now we are approach-
ing an understanding. It is threat against
threat, eh? I expose you and you will return the
compliment. But, Gryce, I am not a silly old
man; I am of the German army, and we Germans
do not fear to die.”
“Very good,” said Gryce, “I do fear to die.
I shall dread death until I have paid in double
measure the trick that has been practised upon
me. It is not pleasant to know that one has been
a fool, deluded, blinded. It is not pleasant to
know that one’s honest views haVe been seized
upon by spies who would ruin the country I love.
My daughter has been right. I have been wrong.
I am a silly old man, de Grecque—but—if I told
you that I still packed a punch, you would not
understand me. Well, that is slang. And I



AMERICAN, AFTER ALL 193


His almost-insane eyes rolling until their
whites showed predominantly, his teeth bared,
de Grecque staggered against a table. For a
moment the two men faced each other. Then,
before Gryce could raise the weapon, de Grecque
was out of the room.
Evidently he had turned a corner in the hotel
corridor and used the stairs as a means of descent,
Gryce decided. He kept up the chase only to
the first corner, then ran back to de Grecque’s
rooms. He called up the office, and warned
them to detain the fugitive. But twenty minutes
later it was certain that de Grecque had managed
to escape by a side entrance. He could not be
found in the hotel.
The house detective, learning that Gryce had
been attacked, offered to escort the publisher
home. But Gryce waved aside the offer. He
would take care of himself, he proudly decided.
By Godfrey, he hadn’t lost the—er—old pep,
yet!
Nor, on second thought, did he think it wise
to inform the hotel people the reason for de
Grecque’s assault upon him. 1To set the. police
on the trail before he had conferred with Lydia
might be to interfere with her plans. How,
’he could not imagine, but she had not been able
to explain to her own father her mysterious



194 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



actions. Anyway, the matter could wait fifteen
minutes, and it was a shorter journey than that
from the Hotel Gerald to his own home.
He was a power, was Gryce, in many ways.
To his intimation that nothing need be said to
the police of the affair in the rooms of the Comte
de Grecque, the night clerk nodded humble as-
sent; Stephen Gryce was too important a figure
not to be heeded.
Outside, Gryce found a taxicab. It was not
until he found himself staring into the eyes of
Deems that Gryce found time to regret his fail-
ure to accept the hotel detective’s offer of escort.
One more man might have meant the capture of
the assailants, might have been added proof
against de Grecque; for that de Grecque was re-
sponsible for this attack Gryce did not doubt for
a moment.
The policeman who had been running at the
beginning of the struggle, and his companion
called by the rat-a-tat of the night-stick, did not
detain Gryce long. An ordinary attempt at
hold-up they concluded it was, and Gryce said
nothing to enlighten them. Then, having left
the officers at his front door, Gryce put his arm
through Deems’s.
“I want to have a confab with you, yoimgster,”
he said.


AMERICAN, AFTER ALL 195



Together they entered the publisher’s man-
sion. Once again Deems’s mind was too con-
fused for him to utter protest. Lydia Gryce
was a traitor, her father was a traitor, and yet——
the very men with whom he believed Gryce to
be in league had furnished the men who had tried
to kill the publisher to-night. There was no end
to contradiction. Silently he followed Gryce.
The aged man-servant whom he knew from his
previous visits to the house, headed the group of
servants in the hall. Ferguson acted as spokes-
man.
“Mr. Gryce! Miss Lydia—officers came and
took her. They accused her of murder—she is
in jail—_”
His jaw almost on his chest Gryce stared at
his butler. The telephone rang. Mechanically,
still staring at Ferguson, he picked up the instru-
ment from the table on which it stood.
“Hello,” he said.
“Father, this is Lydia. Has Ferguson told
you? They Weren’t policemen. And I got
away. I’ve been afraid to come home. They
might be watching the house. I’m at a tele—
phone in a lunch—room up-town, on Seventh Ave-
nue, near One Hundred and ”
Her voice suddenly ceased. “Where, Lydia,
where?” cried Gryce.


196 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


She did not answer. Practically Gryce moved
the receiver up and down.
“Central, I’ve been cut off. Ring back that
number!”
Five minutes, the sweat pouring from his fore-
head, he waited. Then Central told him.
“The party hung up, and the line don’t
answer.”


CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE caooxan TRAIL
THROUGH all the ages weaklings have sought,
outside of themselves, surcease from the ills of
humanity. The great philosophers have taught
and retaught that within ourselves only may we
find solace for our agony, but only the great, the
strong, have been susceptible to their teachings.
Randolph Fallon was not great or strong.
When trouble, a minor trouble, first came to him,
his spirit was not big enough to meet it; he turned
to liquor; And rarely does one who has turned
to liquor for aid relinquish that aid. Fallon was
weak.
At first, his weakness did not become master
of the man. But sooner or later the undefeated
champion, John Barleycorn, “gets” whoever
dares to pit himself against it. It got Fallon.
And swift was his descent into degradation.
Sloppy sentimentalists love to maintain that
the average victim of alcoholism, or other drug,
never had a “chance.” But chance has little to
do with the unfortunates of Fallon’s stamp.
197


198 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



Fallon was a spiritual coward. He had become
a drunkard because he was incapable of gritting
his teeth when Fate was apparently unkind and
of forcing Fate to be kind.
Like every other drug-fiend, he had convinced
himself that life had been unfair to him. He be-
lieved that the universe had conspired against
him, was bent on dragging him down.
And now, as he looked about the shabby room
above the Bleecker, Street saloon, the universe
was personified in Bob Deems. Through the
sodden brain of Fallon surged the hatred of the
lost for the saved. But for the young man of
the Record staff, Fallon would have been the
possessor of ten thousand dollars. With ten
thousand dollars. . . . The things that he might
have done with it! The ease, the luxury. . . .
Deems had taken these things away from him,
Fallon, who was rightfully entitled to them.
Had it been perfectly safe, had there been assur-
ance of no requital demanded, Fallon would
gladly have killed Deems before the latter could
have left his room.
But spiritual cowardice is often but the com-
plement of the physical—Deems left Fallon’s
room unharmed. And the coward thvnks more
of his own safety than he does of revenge.
Liquor-soaked though he was, something more


THE CROOKED TRAIL 199



powerful even than alcohol worked upon Fal~
lon’s brain—fear. A crime had been committed
to-day; Fallon, witness of that crime, had ac-
cepted blackmail from the criminal. Once
Deems showed that ten-thousand-dollar check,
which Lydia Gryce had given to the driver of the
taxicab, to the police, Fallon would be headed
for Sing Sing. Unless, of course, Fallon should
manage to disappear.
To disappear, then, was Fallon’s one thought.
Downstairs, in the custody of the bartender, was
the balance of the money that Fallon had re-
ceived from the sale of his taxicab. He would
get that, cross over into Jersey, catch a train in
the morning. Fluently he cursed as he dragged
himself across his room to the door. He had
been getting along well. His earnings as a taxi-I
man had been sufl‘i'cient to enable him to stupefy
his brain of nights, and that was all that Fallon
asked of the world. All that he had asked lately.
To-night, of course, he had once again dreamed
great dreams. With money he would have lei-
sure. Deems had taken from him his one last
chance of rehabilitation. Fallon was not capable
of understanding that rehabilitation must come
from himself, not through adventitious aid.
The bartender was loath to surrender the


=;_—r_ff-_
’ 1mg caooknn TRAIL 201


The bartender shrugged. It was none of his
business. If Fallon wished to make a fool of
himself the bartender should worry! He gave
the taxi-man his money. With a grunt Fallon
took it and left the saloon.
Over on \Vest Broadway was the elevated
track. As rapidly as he could, Fallon made his
way east. The sooner he got away from this
neighbourhood the better for him. The police,
informed by Deems, would be on his trail. And
it was because he walked so fast that just as he
was about to mount the “L” steps, he caught
sight of the loitering Deems.
Deems, engrossed in his mental agony at cer-
tainty of Lydia Gryce’s treachery, was almost
aimless in his progress. And fear had quickened
the wits of Randolph Fallon. It was not so
many years past that Fallon had been a good
newspaper man, and that meant that he had been
a shrewd observer. All of his powers of observa-
tion had not left him.
His foot paused on the first step of the flight
leading to the elevated platform. It would be
interesting to know whither Deems was bound.
The Record man was headed north now. Every-
thing considered, it was rather surprising that
he had been able to catch sight of Deems at all.
Of course, Deems, after leaving Fallon, might


202 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



have delayed to telephone. But there was that
about his walk which led Fallon to believe other-
wise. A man on important business does not
loiter, and Deems was loafing along.
Fallon had never been honest to the bone of
him. Liquor had robbed him of what judgment
of character he had once possessed. No longer
did he believe in the honesty of others. There
had been a time when, though crooked himself,
he had trusted others. Now he doubted every
one.
Young Deems was a clever young chap; no
question about that. And a clever man would
perceive the possibilities for wealth in the in-
formation that Deems possessed of Lydia
Gryce’s guilt. \Vhy, Deems was a Record man,
and Stephen Gryce owned the Record! Fallon
sneered at himself. “That a fool he had been
to think himself in any danger from the police!
Gryce would protect his daughter from scandal
and jail. Even young Deems, intended victim
of the girl’s murderous intention, had been
“reached” by the publisher. Fallon could see
what Deems had done. In some manner Deems
had discovered the identity of Lydia Gryce; he
had learned from the girl that Fallon had black-
mailed her; he had gone to Fallon. Why, there
wasn’t a single bit of evidence against the girl


THE CROOKED TRAIL 203


now! Only Fallon’s word for it that she had
been the woman to visit the Lexington Avenue
bookshop and the Irving Place lodging-house.
Fallon could see two angles to the affair now.
Deems, in consideration of money from Gryce,
might have got the check back from Fallon in
order that evidence against Gryce’s daughter
would not exist. Or, and this held appeal to
the crooked heart of Fallon, Deems might wish to
do a little blackmailing himself. The Gryce
girl’s check, shown to her father, would convince
the publisher of her guilt. He might write his
own check for several times the amount that his
daughter had paid for hush money.
Indignation possessed Fallon; the righteous
indignation,of a man deceived. He would go
to the police . . . that indignation did not hold
him long. If Deems denied visiting him, or, at
any rate, denied having received the girl’s check
from him, and the girl denied ever having visited
the two places where she had been to-day, Fal-
lon’s word would not have much weight. His
ability to frighten Lydia Gryce did not mean
that he would be able to convince the police of
her guilt.
Deems was playing his own game. What an
idiot Fallon had been to think that a Record re-
porter would want evidence, for publication, of


204 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



the criminality of the daughter of the owner of
the Record! Fallon had been rattled, dazed,
drunk. Even to himself the taxi-man would not
admit that his fear had governed his actions and
obliterated his common-sense.
But what was Deems’s game? It would be
just as well for Fallon to find that out. Indeed,
it was vital that Fallon find it out. After all,
flight from New York was the last thing that
Fallon cared for. With money he could have
turned his back on the metropolis forever with-
out regret. The metropolis, he felt, had used
him unkindly; he would gladly revenge himself
by having no more to do with it. But with only
the proceeds of the sale of his taxi. . . .
It was not hard to shadow Deems. Even the
legs of Fallon, shaky from dissipation, were not
taxed by the pursuit. He was within a half
block of Deems when the latter hesitated at sight
of the policeman on guard near Heinrich
Graffe’s bookshop, and he was inside a taxi
when Deems rode, a bit later, to the Royal Res-
taurant. He was still behind Deems when the
newspaper man engaged in struggle with the as-
sailants of Gryce, and with eyes that shone with
hatred watched the reporter and publisher enter
the Gryce mansion.
For a moment Fallon hesitated. But coward-


206 THE EYES OF THE BLIND

=

man. And his nerve called for stimulant.
Hatred and excitement had muflled the call un-
til now, but he could not concentrate longer with-
out stimulant. So he walked rapidly east until,
ofi’ Third Avenue, he came to the side door of a
saloon.
Admitted, he ordered whiskey. He gulped
the first one but the second he consumed more
slowly. He had been intoxicated already to-
night; now he was fairly sober; he wished to re-
main so.
And as he drank he studied the situation.
Lydia Gryce had tried to kill Robert Deems.
Lydia Gryce had given him, Randolph Fallon,
a check for ten thousand dollars to insure his si-
lence. Deems had taken the check away from
Fallon, had paid some apparently unimportant
visits and then, by accident, had apparently saved
the life of Stephen Gryce. He was now, and
had been ten minutes ago, closeted with Gryce
in the millionaire’s home.
Exactly what did it all mean? Could it be
that Deems had “planted” the assault upon
Gryce in order that he might win the publisher’s
regard by a well-timed rescue? And then, to
clinch that regard, did Deems intend to tell of
the attack made upon him by Gryce’s daughter,
surrender the check, the evidence of her guilt,


THE CROOKED TRAIL 207


and. . . . ? Fallon shook his head. It was too
much for him. He was forced to admit that the
affair was too deep for him.
He ordered a third drink of whiskey, and he
used this as he had the first—he gulped it down.
Long ago he had known how to judge the ef-
fect of liquor upon himself. But that was before
liquor had openly become his master; it was when
he had thought, like all drunkards in their early
- stages, that liquor was his slave.
Excitement and fear had conspired to delude
him into the belief that he was sober. But this
third drink rendered him intoxicated again. And
in certain stages of intoxication he was braver
than in others.
Deems had robbed him of hope. Deems was
probably cashing in on Gryce’s gratitude by now.
Fallon would do what a little while ago he had
been afraid to do; he would go directly to Gryce
and demand the return of the check that had
. been taken from him. More than that! Ten
thousand dollars was picayune money; he’d de-
mand fifty, and he’d get it, too.
He rose unsteadily to his feet and walked from
the saloon. He did not know that the money
he had displayed when paying for his drinks had
excited the cupidity of men who had done mur-
der for a tenth of the SL111] that he had upon his


208 THE EYES or THE BLIND '


person. Quite unaware that he was followed he
set out again in the direction whence he had come,
toward the home of Stephen Gryce.
At Fourth Avenue those who followed fell
back for a few yards. Their victim was too un-
suspecting; perhaps his drunkenness was feigned,
to lead them on to their own destruction. For
even a drunken man is too wise to step into the
shadow of a doorway where he invited attack.
It would be the part of discretion to wait a mo-
ment. Half way down the block they waited.
Moreover, they wished no witnesses.
As for Fallon, he stared, from the vantage of
his doorway, across the street to where, in the
glare of an electric light, a girl tinkered with the
engine of her runabout.
She was a handsome girl, so far as could be
told from that distance, and any one would have
admired the workmanlike manner in which she
raised the hood and handled her tools. But not
even the oddity of a girl fixing an engine at this
time in the morning accounted for Fallon’s in-
terest. The girl was Lydia Gryce.
It was dark where he stood; she was in the
light. She could not possibly see him, and he
was certain that he saw her. The fact thatvhis
brain was obsessed with her and her father and
young Deems could not account for his recogni-


THE CROOKED TRAIL 209


cf g


tion. It was the girl whom he had driven this
afternoon, the girl who had written him a check
for a small fortune this evening.
What she was doing here; why she had no
chauffeur with her—those were matters that
could wait. Meantime—no, he would not accost
her. That wouldn’t do. But he’d follow her.
He stepped out from the shelter of his doorway.
His lifted finger halted a night-hawk taxi.
When Lydia Gryce, her engine attended to,
started off again, Fallon was right behind her.
His taxi-man was disgusted. The runabout
sped only a couple of blocks; then it was halted.
Its occupant descended from the machine and
entered, evidently with a latch-key, a small house.
It looked as though once it might have been a
stable, remodelled by some one to whom econ-
omy and art were more than mere acquaintances.
Fallon dismissed the taxi-man. He stood a
moment, beset by indecision, upon the pavement.
But Lydia Gryce was only a girl. Moreover,
she had been afraid of him only a few hours ago.
Doubtless she would give him another check.
The threat that had been effective before would
be no less effective now. Only—and this called
for thought—even a frightened girl will refuse a
blackmailer who calls too often or too soon.
There must be some explanation as to the reason


210 THE EYES OI“ THE BLIND



for this second demand upon her. And the
truth would not do. If Lydia Gryce knew that
Deems and her father were with her. . . . It re-
quired thought. Fallon regretted his three
drinks in the back room of the Third Avenue sa-
loon.
He needed to think, and to think quickly as
well as clearly. He felt in his waistcoat pocket.
It was there, the prescription, compounded
mainly of morphine, that a doctor had given him
a year ago. Sparingly did Fallon use this rem-
edy for “katzenjammer.” Liquor had him in its
power; he had sense enough left to dread the mor-
phine habit. But this was an exceptional occa-
sion. He must think.
He retraced his steps toward Fourth Avenue.
An all-night drug-store awaited him there. He
entered; the druggist read the prescription, eyed
the man who presented it, shrugged, and
Fallon gulped down the drink prepared for him.
His heated imagination made him believe that
its effect was instantaneous. He seemed to have
regained clarity of thought at once. He left the
drug-store almost immediately.
And so it was that those who had followed him
from the back room ran across him again.
Having seen him pause a few moments in a
doorway, suspicion had held them back. And


CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“HEMMED IN”
STEPHEN GRYCE had not become publisher of a
chain of newspapers without learning to control
himself. His first impulse, when Central told
him that the line did not answer, was to order a
car, and race up-town, to look into every lunch-
room on Seventh Avenue, from One Hundredth
Street north. But, aside from the perspiration
that streamed down his forehead, and the anx-
ious look in his ordinarily too-complacent eyes,
it was the normal Stephen Gryce, cool, master
of the situation and himself, that turned to Fer-
guson:
“Tell it to me, Ferguson, from the begin-
ning,” he said quietly.
His own calm soothed Ferguson.
“There ain’t much, Mr. Gryce,” said the man-
servant, “to tell you. Some policemen came here
just after you went out to-night. They asked
for Miss Lydia, sir. And they arrested her as
soon as she came downstairs. They said there
was a charge against her of doing bomb-work.
212


“HEMMED IN” 213


She asked them for their warrant. One of the
men told her that they didn’t need a warrant.
I advised her to insist. Then they reached for
her, and 1—1 interfered, and they knocked me
down—and she told them she’d go. And she
did. She got into a small car with one of the
men—the leader, he seemed to be—and the other
men followed her in a big car. And—that’s all,
Sir.”
Gryce nodded his head slowly. The man who
succeeds greatly must have the faculty of ra-
tionally treating every situation as it arises. So
Gryce, apparently, treated this one. Most
fathers would, as Deems phrased it in his
thoughts, have “hit the ceiling.” But Gryce was
the coolest man in the room, outwardly.
“And Lydia just said that they weren’t po-
licemen,” he said thoughtfully. “They charged
her with—bomb-work, you called it?”
Ferguson nodded assent. Over Gryce’s ordi-
narily ruddy face spread pallor. He had seen
enough of de Grecque to-night. . . . Lydia had
been right all along. He, simple-minded fool.
. . . But self-recrimination could' wait. He
turned to Deems.
“What’s Commissioner Grant’s private num-
ber? Happen to know?” he asked.
Deems did know. In every newspaper office


214- THE EYES OF THE BLIND



is a list of the numbers of those telephones which
are not to be found in the ordinary telephone di-
rectory. And among those written in Deems’s
note-book was that of Police Commissioner
Grant. But he did not reach for his note-book.
“Why do you want it?” he countered.
Gryce stared at him. The veins on his fore-
head were slightly swollen. It was only by the
mightiest effort that he was retaining self-con-
trol, and the slightest opposition was almost
enough to render him frantic with wrath. But
this young man whom he employed had but a
few moments ago saved the publisher’s life.
Gryce held back his fierce retort.
“I’m going to do a fairly obvious thing,
Deems,” he said. “I’m going to have the Com-
missioner detail every man on his force—”
“Suppose, Mr. Gryce, that you give me a mo-
ment alone,” suggested Deems.
Puzzlement was in the publisher’s eyes. But
young Deems’s work was known to him; the
youth was nobody’s fool; he could wait a. mo-
ment.
In the little reception room off the hall Deems
faced the big man. Silently he handed Gryce
the check that Lydia Gryce had given Fallon,
and that Fallon had surrendered to him. Gryce
looked at it. He turned it over in his hands.


“HEMMED IN" 215

“Well, what of it?” he demanded.
“Fallon used to be on the Record, I think,
l\Ir. Gryce.”
“Well? Is that any reason ”
“He’s now driving a taxicab. But his news-
paper experience taught him the value of news;
even the value of the suppression of news.”
Gryce’s big fists doubled. “Deems, get down
to cases! My daughter ”
“I will,” said Deems. “To-day Fallon drove
your daughter to a bookshop on Lexington
Avenue. She left a bomb there. He also drove
her to my lodgings on Irving Place; she left a
bomb there. It exploded, wrecking the build-
ing—”
Gryce took a step toward the reporter; his
right fist was raised menacingly.
“Young man,” he said softly; “if you aren’t
very careful ”
“I’m telling you the truth, sir,” cried Deems.
“The absolute truth! And Fallon got ten thou-
sand dollars from your daughter—”
“You mean that she submitted to blackmail?
luy daughter? Why, you—I get it,” he sud-
denly sneered. “Maybe you think that you can
put something over, too? What’s your price?
Your little game?”


216 THE EYES ()1" THE BLIND



“I took the check away from Fallon,” replied
Deems, flushing.
“To get a bigger one from me, eh?”
Deems bit his lip. “Let’s not quarrel, Mr.
Gryce.”
“Not quarrel? When you insinuate—insinu—
ate hell! You have the nerve to tell me that my
daughter tried to kill you! My daughter, whom
I love!”
“No more than I do,” said Deems.
As though the newspaper man were some curi-
ous insect, not necessarily repulsive, but absurd, ,\
Gryce stared at his employé until the flush of
Deems seemed to burn. Suddenly Gryce
laughed.
“You love her, eh? That’s why you accuse
her of mur—”
“That’s why I don’t want you to telephone the
police,” interrupted Deems hotly. “I don’t
want you to start something that can’t be finished
right. And just now, I don’t know—”
“You don’t know, eh? Well, I know,” roared
Gryce. “I know that my little girl has been
trapped by a bunch of traitors, a gang of trea-
sonable snakes that I’ll put on the griddle if it’s
the last act—”
He stopped short; over Deems’s face had
spread bewilderment, honest bewilderment.


“HEMMED IN" 9.17



1
“I suppose,’ went on Gryce, after a second,
“that you’re surprised to hear me talk this way?
I suppose that the whole country has me written
down as a damned pro-German? Well, the coun—
try will think difierently in another day. And
de Grecque and the rest of his Scheming
bunch—” }
“De Grecque!” Deems eyed the publisher.
“Look here, Mr. Gryce, do you mean what you
are saying about de Grecque ?”
“Mean it? D’ye think I’d lie?”
Deems shook his head. “N-o, I don’t suppose
so,” he admitted.
“You don’t suppose so?” Gryce took another
step toward the reporter. Then his body seemed
to sag; the fire went out of his glance. “I de-
serve it, I reckon. I’ve been so badly fooled;
I’ve been so blind—I can’t blame you for doubt-
ing me, when de Grecque himself threatened to
expose me, tried to scare me by saying that he
had a letter I’d signed—”
“And he hasn’t? You’re sure?”
Gryce shrugged. “I suppose, in justice to
you, I’ve got to take this sort of thing, hear this
sort of questioning. You have every right to
doubt me—if you know what sort de Grecque
is. And how do you know?” he demanded.
Deems shook his head impatiently. “That


218 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



doesn’t matter now. That paper de Grecque
said you signed ”
“I never signed a paper in my life that I’m
not willing the whole world should read,” cried
Gryce.
“But your daughter sai
“My daughter said what?” But eVen as he
uttered the question Gryce remembered that
Lydia had mentioned that paper, too, and there
had been in her eyes something close to contempt
when he denied knowledge of the document.
“Deems, how do you happen to know what my
daughter said? What made you think that I’d
ever signed an incriminating document? My
God, de Grecque seemed to think I had, though
he couldn’t produce the paper.” He passed his
hand across his forehead.
Deems was a young man, but his experience
was vast. Few people had managed to deceive
him. And Gryce—the man was most palpably
honest. Despite all that he had suspected, all
that Rogan had suspected, their suspicions had
been unfounded. Gryce was no traitor. Deems
made no effort to hide the expression on his face,
and Gryce, himself shrewd save when his en-
thusiasm led him too far, saw the younger man’s
bewilderment.
“How do you come into this, Deems?” he de-

”


220 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



of Lydia Gryce. There could be no answer to
that proof. And yet—it was not proof. There
could be no proof against Lydia Gryce!
“You think she’s a murderess and still you tell
me that you love her? And where do you get
off to love her?” Gryce cried. “Has she ever
looked at ”
Deems grinned. “Just now,” he said, “sup-
pose we postpone that argument. No, she
doesn’t dream of how I feel. And you’re not
ever to tell her. I’m presumptuous—Mr. Gryce,
she just told you that the men who took her
away were not policemen. Yet they knew of the
bomb business. Call your butler in here.”
Gryce stepped to the door; in a moment the
white-faced Ferguson was in the room. Gently,
lest he confuse the old man, with a tact that made
Gryce’s respect for the young man grow, Deems
questioned the man-servant. And at the end of
the questioning he had come to the only possible
conclusion.
The leader of the men who had abducted Lydia
Gryce was Rogan! Ferguson could not have
been mistaken; he described Rogan too well.
Further—who else knew of Lydia’s guilt in the
bomb matter? There was little chance that de
Grecque could have known of it. It was Rogan
who knew of it, Rogan who had seized the girl,


“HEMMED IN" 221



Rogan who had betrayed Deems! And it all
fitted in with certain dormant suspicions that
Deems had held.
\Vhy had Rogan been so unable to tell Deems
his real aims, and who was behind him in those
aims? More than once Deems had been doubt-
ful of the Secret Service man. It was absurd
that Rogan should be a traitor-why had he en-
listed Deems’s aid? And yet
“I know the man who took Miss Gryce away,”
he told the publisher.
“You know a lot,” said Gryce. “Suppose you
begin to tell me something of what you know.”
Rapidly Deems talked. Gryce was loyal. It
amounted to no breach of faith for him to tell
Gryce everything now, especially since Rogan’s
status was now doubtful. And tensely the pub
lisher listened.
He inhaled deeply as Deems finished. His
mouth, always firm, but of late years holding a
hint of tolerance that might have led to weak-
ness, was harsh, forbidding, now.
“I’ve been the blindest fool that ever lived,
Deems,” he said. “I admit it. I’m going to
admit it to the whole world. But that I should
have been thought capable of treason ”
“When the life of a nation is at stake, Mr.
Gryce,” Deems reminded him, “people haven’t


222 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



time to split hairs, to analyse what lies behind ap-
pearances. It’s a case of ‘with us’ or ‘against
us.’ ”
Gryce nodded. “And now—because I was
blind—my little girl is—this man Rogan? You
think he might be treacherous?”
Deems shrugged. “God knows, Mr. Gryce.
He took her from here—”
“And she got away,” interrupted Gryce.
“And no de Grecque—”
The telephone, jangling in the hall, stopped
him. He answered it himself, brushing by Fer-
guson. It was de Grecque talking.
“Are you willing now to come to terms with
me?” demanded (le Grecque.
“To terms with you? I’ll see you damned for-
ever first,” cried Gryce.
“So? And your daughter? What about her?
Suppose I—do things to her, Mr. Gryce, that
will not look well?”
Gryce’s rage choked him.
“You touch her,” he spluttered, “and ”
In his impotence the threat was left unuttered.
De Grecque, at the other end of the wire, laughed.
“You will do—what, l\Ir. Gryce? Shall I
tell you? Then I will; you will do nothing, Mr.
Gryce. Now listen. I have not too much time
to waste on you. I want to know ”


“HEMMED IN" 223



“Put my daughter on the ’phone,” cried Gryce.
“It is not necessary. You know that she is
here,” answered de Grecque.
Deems, watching eagerly, could see the ex-
pression of relief on the publisher’s face.
“Know it? I have only your word for it, de
Grecque, and the word of a mangy rat is—the
word of a mangy rat.”
“Your daughter will pay for that,” said de
Grecque.
Gryce laughed. “She isn’t with you,” he
cried. “If she were you’d be torturing her now.
That would be about your size, de Grecque.
Now, listen; you can’t make any terms with me.
I know your whole crowd. And the name of
every last one of them, and proofs of what you
intend, will be in the hands of the police to-night.
That’s all.”
He hung up before Deems could stop him.
“Is that wise ?” demanded Deems.
“Why not?” retorted Gryce. “Lydia isn’t
with them. I know de Grecque; he was bluff-
ing.”
“Then where is she? WVhat made her ring
ofi’?”
Gryce shrugged. “God knows. But—de
Grecque hasn’t her yet.”


‘22; THE EYES OF THE BLIND



“But if he should—if some of his crowd are
taking her to him——”
Appalled, Deems’s voice died away, for
Gryce’s face was set like granite.
“Even so, Deems. The sins of the father—I
have sinned. Not intentionally, but—to be a
fool is to be a sinner. In effect I have been dis-
loyal, for I have consorted with, encouraged
traitors. To make terms with de Grecque would
mean that I permitted evil to be done to my coun-
try. And not even for Lydia, and I love her
better than life, would I permit my country to
sufi' er. What’s Commissioner Grant’s number?
The police must find her. As for the check she
gave Fallon, your evidence against her—she’ll
explain that. My girl is no criminal. And she
isn’t insane, either. What’s the number ?”
Deems gave it to him. Gryce advanced to the
’phone again. He spoke to the girl who an-
swered. And then the fingers that gripped the
receiver tightened until the cords of his wrist
stood out rigidly. For de Grecque spoke to him.
“Mr. Gryce, eh? Perhaps now you will re-
consider your determination to treat with me,
eh? Or perhaps you consider it accident that I
answer the telephone? So. Try again then,
Mr. Gryce.”
Dumny Gryce hung up. He walked to his


“HEMMED IN” . 2“
5
la



library, followed by the wondering Deems. Here
was his private wire, the wire that connected only
with the Record office. From the Record office
he could be connected with Commissioner Grant.
But even as the hook clicked as he picked up
the receiver, he heard again the voice of de
Grecque.
“You are beginning to understand, are you
not, Mr. Gryce, that those who oppose us must
reckon with us, eh? You would communicate
with your office. Mr. Gryce, you communicate
with no one in this world, except with my con-
sent.”
Once again, without argument, Gryce hung
up the ’phone. He was a doer, not a talker.
Time enough to talk to de Grecque when he
had won the fight.
“Deems,” he said, quietly, “they’ve cut ofl" our
’phone connections. Which makes me think:
Lydia may not have been captured by them. She
got away once, evidently. Perhaps de Grecque’s
people cut in on our wires while she was talk-
ing to me. The girl who told me that the party
didn’t answer—same voice as the girl who an-
swered just now when I asked for Grant’s num-
ber. In with de Grecque. Lydia—she’s safe.
I know she’s safe. As for us———”
He stood a moment looking down at the floor.


226 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



Then he lifted his head. f‘De Grecque will stop
at nothing. He’s tried murder twice to-night;
he’ll try it again. Suppose—” He walked to
the library window. He knelt upon the floor.
IIe made a gesture to Deems. Even in this mo-
ment of stress Gryce could appreciate Deems’s
quick wit, for the young man understood in-
stantly. He turned off the electric lights. In
the darkness the two men knelt by the window.
They could see, clearly enough outlined by the
street-lamps, a group of men on the corner. An-
other group stood on the far corner. They
seemed idlers, chatting sociably. But men do
not gather, just off Fifth Avenue, long after
midnight, merely to chat idly.
“De Grecque doesn’t give up easily, Deems,”
said Gryce.
There was no fear in the big publisher’s voice;
the hand that he laid upon Deems’s shoulder
trembled not at all. And in the darkness Deems
could see that Gryce’s eyes glistened. Deems
understood now the meaning of the phrase, “the
light of battle.”
Errors the big publisher had made; there was
no denying that, and little extenuating it. But
the error that had brought Deems into intrigue
against him had been an error of the head.
Gryce’s heart was in the right place.


“HEMMED IN” 227



“Youngster,” said Gryce, “there’s just a
chance that de Grecque is going to get away with
it. Armed?”
Deems’s fist snuggled tenderly about the auto-
matic in his pocket.
“Yes, air,” he declared. “Eight shots. I
ought to get one before they pot me, eh? And
you?”
Gryce shook his head. Then, suddenly, he
gufl’awed. “Took a gun away from de Grecque
and carried it all through a lovely scrap, and for-
got itl But I have it now.”
He produced, from the pocket where he had
thrust it, de Grecque’s weapon. He examined
the mechanism. “Six bullets,” he announced,
“and once, a long, long time ago, son, I could
hit the side of a barn door. We ain’t dead yet,
youngster.”
“Not so’s you’d notice it,” chuckled Deems.
He was infected with the other’s enthusiasm.
For a pacifist, Gryce was certainly pugnacious.
Gryce answered his unspoken comment.
“Funny, I’ve always been against bloodshed,”
he said, “against other people shedding blood,
anyway. As for myself—son, if I knew where
Lydia is—knew that she is safe—I’d begin to
perk up and enjoy this little party.”
And then he rose suddenly to his feet. Unmo-


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DE GRECQUE ENTERS
FALLON looked about him. His surroundings
were not as unfamiliar as he might have wished;
a cell in a police station. He had spent nights
in them before this, and been, to his own figur-
ing at least, none the worse for the experience.
But suddenly, through his bruised head there
percolated remembrance of the circumstances
leading to this incarceration. He sat bolt-up-
right upon the hard bunk. Swiftly he felt in
his pockets; they were empty, and black despair
settled upon him. But only for a moment. The
police might have rescued him—he remembered
a rush of stealthy feet and a blow upon his head
——before the thugs had been through his pock-
ets. His money might be in the custody of the
police, as was his body.
For a moment, on his brief way to the cell
door, he paused. It might be that he had been
arrested for blackmailing Lydia Gryce. But it
couldn’t be that. He’d been slugged and
“rolled” also, perhaps, by thugs.
230


DE GRECQUE ENTERS 231



He shook the cell door. To the warder who
threatenineg approached him he made complaint
about his missing money.
“Think we nicked you, eh ?” snarled the war-
der. “Fine compliment you’re paying us. You
need a jolt on the jaw to knock sense into you.
I’ve a mind to hand it to you. Git back on your
bunk.”
Meekly Fallon obeyed. He’d been robbed,
then. But why should he, the victim of foot-
pads, be locked in a cell? Indignation pos-
sessed him. He’d demand his freedom. But
freedom wasn’t much to a man who was penni-
less. Penniless! His means of livelihood was
gone; the world had nothing for him save—re-
venge. That was what it held for him, and by
eVerything unholy he’d have it.
He forgot the threats of the warder, and once
again he shook the door of his cell until prison-
ers in adjoining cells lifted their sleepy voices in
protest. The warder came running.
“We’ve got a special ‘tremens’ treatment
here,” he said, angrily, “and you’re just the baby
we’ll try it out on. We use a hose and it works
fine. Come on and try it.”
“Don’t kid me,” said Fallon. He had been a
good newspaper man in his day and he knew po-
licemen. He knew how readily many of them


2.12 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



yield to the authoritative manner. “I’ve just
remembered how I happened to land here. You’ll
have a fine time explaining to the Commissioner
why you put the victim of an assault in a cell.”
“Assault?” The warder laughed. “You call
that love-tap an assault. If you hadn’t been
boiled to the eyes you’d never felt it.”
“Never mind that talk,” snapped Fallon. “I
want to be taken to Headquarters at once.”
“Is that so? Don’t want us to wake up the
Commish for you, do you ?” he was heavily sar-
eastic.
“You’ll find out that they’ll wake up the
Commissioner for me before I get through,”
snapped the former newspaper man. “Come on',
hustle with your key.”
“Yay-ah? And just why?”
“Why? Because I’ve got the dope on who
planted those bombs on Lexington Avenue and
Irving Place yesterday afternoon.”
“Even so, I guess it can wait till 'mornin’,”
said the warder.
Fallon yawned. “Have it your way, my man.
It’s a pretty fair job, this. Lots of nice graft
from prisoners for slipping them something on
the side. Much nicer than being a bull in the
Bronx. And that’s where you’ll be, my friend,


DE GRECQUE ENTERS 233



if I don’t get the ear of the officer at the desk in
about three minutes.”
The warder eyed his prisoner closely. Appar-
ently Fallon was a disreputable drunk, who had
been slugged by highwaymen. But he talked
authoritatively, and—there’d been gossip in
every precinct in the city this past evening, gos-
sip that said that Germans were responsible for
the bomb outrages of yesterday. If this man
knew what he was talking about. . . . \Vell,
he could take a chance with the Lieutenant at
the desk.
The Lieutenant listened to the warder. The
police, the Federal Government, everybody who
by any possibility could have been expected to
put a stop to the bomb outrages, the arson, the
sabotage of the past year or two, had been con-
demned by the press and public until the situa-
tion had become unendurable. This drunken
man might be a raving maniac, but, if he did
know something. . . .
But Fallon refused to talk to any one at the
police station. Headquarters and the Commis-
sioner were his ambition. And he so impressed
the Lieutenant that a special trip to Headquar-
ters was made.
At this hour of the night not even a Deputy
Commissioner was to be found, but Fallon fi-


DE GRECQUE ENTERS 237


ters with a crazy yarn about your daughter.
Says she was connected with some bomb outrages
on Irving Place and Lexington Avenue to-day.
Says she gave him ten thousand to keep his mouth
shut and that a reporter from your paper got the
check away from him. Talks like a hop—head,
but—your daughter there? May I speak with
her a moment? Thank you . . . Miss Gryce?
Captain Farley talking. Merely wanted abso-
lute corroboration of the fact that a man down in
my office was lying. He said that you weren’t
at home but were at a house on Forty-seventh
Street. Been home all evening, eh? Well,
sorry to disturb you, Miss Gryce. Put your
father on again, please. . . . Mr. Gryce? Sorry
to annoy you. Your daughter has been home
all evening, eh? And was with you all after-
noon, eh? Well, I guess your word and hers
are good against a dirty drunken hound like
this rat I got here. Only called you up because
I was afraid he’d get to some newspaper and
make talk. Thought I’d nail him right off. Will
you come down in the mornin’ and make a charge
against him? . . . Let him go? I wouldn’t do
that if I were you, Mr. Gryce. These chaps
ought to get the limit the law allows. Teach
’em better; set a good example. Too much
blackmail these days. . . . Let him go? . . .


DE GRECQUE ENTEI-tS 239

earning a living, such as it was. To-day, this
morning, he was flat broke, his means of liveli-
hood gone, and—there was no recourse. Stephen
Gryce was a power in the city and country. He
made mayors and unmade governors. A captain
of detectives would take the word of Stephen
Gryce against that of Randolph Fallon. If only
he hadn’t mentioned the ten thousand dollars
blackmail check given him by Miss Gryce. Then
Farley might have believed him and he could
have had, at least, the beginnings of revenge.
As it was. . . . He was lucky to leave Head-
quarters at all, and he knew it, and showed it in
the manner in which, crabwise, he sidled from the
room.
He had not even a penny in his pocket; the
thugs who had assaulted him had “cleaned” him
completely. He must walk. But where to?
He stood in front of Headquarters a full three
minutes, revolving plans. And then an idea
came to him. Gryce had lied to Captain Far—
ley; he knew that. Of course, Lydia Gryce
might have gone home in the hours that had
elapsed since he saw her descend from the road-
ster and enter the house on Forty-seventh
street. That was, if it really had been Lydia
who talked with Farley. But Gryce had lied
when he told the detective captain that she had


2&0 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



been with him all afternoon. It might be that
Gryce still lied. And if Lydia Gryce was not
at home—well, earlier by a few hours he had tried
to think of some shrewd plan and failed. But
bluntness might win. Lydia Gryce had yielded
to threat before; she might do so again.
It was a long walk uptown; he was tired from
excitement, from fear, and the wearing emotion
of hate. But greed gave him strength. Stead-
ily he progressed up-town, and, in his intentness
upon his errand, he was unaware that he had
been followed from the very moment that he left
Headquarters. The limousine that had been
slowly passing by as he stood upon the steps had
not attracted his attention, and if it had the at-
tention would have been casual. And so he did
not notice that two men emerged from it half a
block away; he did not know that they followed
him all the tirescune miles uptown.
He had not remembered the number of the
Forty-seventh Street house, but he remembered
its appearance. And he no longer needed drugs
wherewith to clear his brain. He could think
now; his narrow escape from a cell had fright-
ened him into clarity of thought.
There came, at first, no response to his rings,
but insistently he pressed the button. And fi-
nally the door swung cautiously open. Fallon


DE GRECQUE ENTERS 241



pressed his foot against it, but the chain that
protected it would not give. Through the crack
Fallon spoke.
“I want to see Miss Gryce, Miss Lydia
Gryce,” he said.
“Miss Gryce ?” It was a very sleepy old col-
oured servant who answered. “Who you-all
think you are, comin’ round this time 0’ th’ mawn-
in’ asking for Miss Gryce? N0 sech person
here.”
“No? If she doesn’t answer to me, she’ll an-
swer to a policeman,” threatened Fallon. “You
tell her that Randolph Fallon, the man she saw
yesterday afternoon, wants to see her quick.
Don’t stall with me; I know she’s here.”
The coloured woman hesitated. “You wait
here,” she said, after a moment. And she
slammed the door, bruising Fallon’s foot in the
action.
Fallon hit his lip. It was not, physically, his
lucky night, but still—money would assuage
bruises. And he had forgotten the slight injury
a moment later when the servant returned and
grudgingly bade him enter.
Lydia Gryce had been sleeping soundly when
the servant awakened her. It was the second
time within six hours that she had been awakened
from slumber, but she looked as charming as


2&2 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


though she had had the full quota of sleep that
doctors prescribe for all healthy adults who would
remain healthy. But her charm, to Fallon at'
any rate, was modified by the contempt in her
glance.
“Well?” she said.
“It isn’t well; as well as you’d like it, Miss
Gryce,” said the taxi-man. “I’m sorry to dis-
turb you, but—business is business, ain’t it?”
“What business have we with each other? I
thought that was all settled,” she replied.
“So did I, but—I lost that check you gave me,
Miss Gryce, and I want another.”
She eyed him; he was lying, but—that did not
matter.
“How did you know where to find me?” she
asked.
He blinked owlishly. “That’s telling. What
do you care? I’m wise, I am. Do I get that
check?”
She shrugged. “I shall have the other one
stopped, you understand?”
“Sure thing. Ain’t I told you that I lost it?”
“Yes, you told me,” she said, listlessly. Again
she stared at him. In the house with her was
only the negro maid, an old, feeble woman. As
for herself—she was strong, but—Fallon, de-
spite the dissipation of years, still retained his


DE GBECQUE ENTERS 243



strong frame. Lydia could not know that all
his muscle had degenerated into flabby fat. And
yet, it was vital that the man be kept here. In
another day her plans would mature, must ma-
ture, unless they were doomed to failure. And
failure she could not believe was to be her por-
tion.
Yesterday evening, it had not mattered so
much. To get rid of the man and to insure his
silence—that had been enough. But this morn-
ing—dawn was close at hand—Fallon must not
be permitted to leave here. He had, in some
unexpected fashion, found her secret hiding
place, the hiding place that she thought to be se-l
cure. If he knew of it—every action of hers
would be investigated by those who were ene-
mies, not alone of her, but of her country. If
Fallon should present this check at the bank,
emissaries of de Grecque would know of it, would
follow him—Fallon must not leave here.
And yet, how was she to prevent him? Help-
lessly she stared at him. After all that she had
endured, to have her work jeopardised by a man
like this! She regretted the fact that she was
unarmed. Had she only a revolver! He must be
a coward. She looked about the room helplessly.
“Come on, Miss Gryce, I want that check,”
insisted Fallon.


DE GRECQUE ENTERS 245



to the police, Mr. Fallon. I shall not mind.
But to-night ”
The words died away on her lips. For it was
not Rogan, the man who at risk of a wound to
himself had efi'ected her rescue last night, who
entered the room. It was de Grecque.
Smiling evilly he stood in the doorway.
“Continue, Miss Gryce, continue, I beg of
you,” he said. He rubbed his hands together.
“This gentleman with you—he practices black-
mail, eh? And you—you occasionally submit to
it, eh? But not too often. But continue. ‘To-
night,’ you were saying. Go on, Please.”
Dumny she stared at him. As for Fallon,
subtly he sensed the menace of the stranger’s
presence. Maybe his game was not up after all.
“I can tell you a lot about this lady,” he said,
“if you’ll make it worth my while.”
De Grecque merely looked at him. Before
that look Fallon went dumb. He moved not a
muscle as de Grecque advanced toward the girl.


— THE CROOKED TRAIL TURNS STRAIGHT 2-17


down upon the canons of New York, chilled the
room.
Again the rolling eyes of de Grecque went up
and down her body. Had he licked his lips he
would have added nothing to the expression upon
his face.
“You have nothing to say, eh? Well, that is
as well. For it is a woman’s place to listen when
a man speaks.” He utterly ignored the pres-
ence of Fallon. For all that de Grecque knew,
Fallon was armed; yet so contemptuous was he
of the other man that he paid him not the slight-
est heed. He was, Lydia felt, like the serpent
who, having mesmerised one bird, continues with
his design upon another, confident that the first
.will neither attack nor escape.
And, indeed, Fallon seemed hypnotised.
After his first speech, quelled by de Grecque’s
glance, the taxi-man stood like an image, save
for his eyes that wandered from her face to the
face of de Grecque and helplessly back again.
De Grecque leaned against a table. For a
moment his eyes left Lydia’s face while they wan-
dered about the room. It was a pretty apart-
ment; taste had made the-small room cozy, charm—
ing.
“A nest,” said de Grecque, “wherein two per-
sons might find happiness, eh, Miss Gryce?”


THE CROOKED TRAIL TURNS STRAIGHT 249



too. But politics rule, not common sense. But
you—you have common sense. You will be
guided by it. You will join me.”
“You say so,” she rejoined.
He lifted his shoulders. “You are not the
type, Miss Gryce, to be upon a losing side.”
“You mean that I have not the resolution to
suffer?”
He smiled deprecatingly. “I would not pay
you so poor a compliment, Miss Gryce. But——
you are ambitious—greatly so. You have risked
everything to serve your country. A woman
takes risks, not as a man does—because it is part
of the game, but because she is ambitious.”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid that you
Germans misunderstand us, men and women
both,” she told him.
“Perhaps. Yet we have spent years study-
ing you, and we Germans are good students.”
“I believe you studied Belgium, too,” she re-
torted. “And England. Those powers would
not fight.”
His eyes were malevolent. “There is no Bel-
gium now,” he answered. “There will be no
England.”
“And yet, greatly to Germany’s discomfort,
there is an England just now.”
“It will be crushed, I assure you, Miss Gryce.


THE CROOKED TRAIL TURNS STRAIGHT 251



sit in the White House. I could name him if I
chose. To be his wife—”
He paused, smiling. Slowly his smile van-
ished. The girl made no direct reply, but de
Grecque read his answer. His whole manner
changed. Suavity left it; he was no longer per-
suasive, ingratiating.
“I have made an offer, Miss Gryce. You
have rejected it. There will be no more offers.
Germans never sue for anything; they take that
which they want. I make demands now. And
yet, I would not be too harsh with you. Your
life is of some value, yes? Suppose I give you
it. Germany owns it; it is forfeit a dozen times.
And yet, the life of one woman is of no great
importance. You have been working against
me, Miss Gryce. I would know for whom.”
“I should think that the keen German mind
could guess,” she mocked.
He bowed. “The keen German mind does
not guess, l\Iiss Gryce. For your country. But
the person—the person who suspected me, who
told you to block me—I would have his name.”
“But you do not really expect to get it from
me,” she said.
Again he bowed, and there was less of mock-
ery in it.
“I honour your great courage, Miss Gryce.


THE CROOKED TRAIL TURNS STRAIGHT 253


daughter. Gryce, I have found her. She will
talk with you.”
He put his hand over the mouthpiece and
turned to Lydia.
“You will be quite careful what you say, my
dear. And, if you love your father, and would
ever see him again, you will advise him to aban-
don whatever plans he may have made against
me.”
Lydia walked to the telephone. A moment
she stood in thought, hardly hearing her father’s
anxious queries. Then, swiftly, she spoke:
“In the desk in my room, father; in the lower
right-hand drawer! The long, flat envel-
ope—”
De Grecque’s hand upon her shoulder tore
her away from the instrument. As she reeled
against the wall something glowed in the eyes of
Fallon, something that had not been there for
many years.
De Grecque snatched up the receiver. “It
doesn’t matter, Gryce,” he cried, “what your
daughter just said. You will have no chance to
do anything with it, whatever it may be. But
you have a chance to save her—and yourself.
Gryce, you know that your house is surrounded;
that your telephone is cut ofl’; that you can not
summon help. The end is near, Gryce. Will


256 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



sure”-—he wet his lips—“that this man Curtiss is
really named Deems? Not Deems of the Rec-
0rd?”
“That’s the guy,” said Fallon. “I used to
work on the Record; that’s how I know him.”
De Grecque reached out his hand; he seized
Lydia by the arm.
“This Deems—does this man tell the truth?
Was it a man named Deems that you tried to
kill?”
She tried vainly to wrench herself free. Once
again something glowed in the eyes of Fallon.
“I do not understand,” she said. “I tried to
kill no one.”
De Grecque released her. He studied her a
moment. “Somewhere,” he said, “I have seen
—-you know Rogan? But, of course you do.
You admitted me because I sent in his name.
. . . Deems.” His voice died away, yet his lips
moved. Then his voice was audible again.
“I begin to see much,” he said. “I begin to
understand. . . . You will come with me, Miss
Gryce. And you will come silently. If you
raise your voice————”
She shook her head. “I shall not leave here,”
she declared.
He smiled. Again his hand reached forth and
seized her. He shook her. And for the third


258 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


“No, she won’t,” said Fallon. Through
bleared eyes he looked at de Grecque. Pain-
fully he spoke. “I’m what you call me, all
right,” he said slowly. “I’m a rat. But I’m
an American. Miss Gryce, what’s this man’s
game, anyway? Treason, or what?”
“Treason,” she answered. Into her eyes
sprang hope. Fallon was strong-looking of
frame. If he had the courage. . . . And Fal-
lon had it. Rat-souled he was; blackguard,
scoundrel, blackmailer, drunkard. But once he
had been decent; decent people had been his as-
sociates; good blood ran in his veins. The Fal-
lons had furnished no informers in the old gen,
erations in Ireland, nor any traitors t0 Amer-
ica among the new generations.
“I don’t stand for that,” said Fallon. He
drew himself up and glared at de Grecque. It
was the glare, undoubtedly, of a drunkard, the
glare of the weak-souled. It was the sort of
look that would be bound to draw laughter from
the lips of the strong. And de Grecque was
strong.
“You don’t?” de Grecque laughed. “Don’t
interfere here, Fallon. There is more money for
you—”
“Money? I don’t want that kind of money.
I’m a crook, but I’m a clean crook, not a Ger-


THE CROOKED TRAIL TURNS STRAIGHT 259

man crook. Miss Gryce, I’m going to take you
to the police-station, where you can tell what this
bird’s been trying to do, and—”
Even when de Grecque drew his gun, Fallon
did not falter. He must have known that de
Grecque meant business; but he must also have
determined to die as he had not lived—well.
Brave deeds are not always the outcome of plan,
of thought, of determination. History is full of
paradox. Fallon, the rat-souled, was lion-
hearted now. Head up, facing de Grecque’s bul-
let, he charged. Honour, decency, self-control
—these meant nothing to Fallon. But some-
where down in his heart lurked a love for the
land that had given his ancestors refuge, and——
Fallon died for that land. Half an hour ago
Fallon himself would have willingly admitted
his cowardice, would have admitted that he would
not face death for his country. But this was
half an hour later, and he had seen a girl threat-
ened; had seen a girl smile at the threat of death.
De Grecque fired only once; he was too sure
of his aim to look, even, at the prostrate body
of Fallon. He was too busy muffling the scream
of Lydia.


THE SPY MACHINERY 261



gan’s identity. She had been wrong, then. Ro-
gan had not pretended, for some ulterior purpose,
to aid her escape, and in reality keep her under
surveillance. He had not turned her over to
de Grecque. He was loyal to her, and—she had
betrayed him.
For de Grecque had brushed past her into the
room. At a signal from him two men leaped
upon Rogan. His revolver was pulled from his
pocket, and he, unarmed, helpless, was hurled
into a chair and held there by his captors. And
over him stood de Grecque. Smilineg for a full
minute de Grecque stared down upon the heav-
ily-breathing Rogan.
“And so, at last, we meet again, Rogan,” he
said slowly. “You have been Heinrich Graffe,
you have been many people, many things, Ro-
gan, but—we meet at last.”
Rogan shrugged his shoulders. A moment
ago his eyes had held a prayer as they rested upon
the face of Lydia Gryce, but now they were cold,
icily defiant.
“The many things that I have been seem ama-
teurish with the things that the Graf von Schoen-
tal has been,” he said. “Also, though the Graf
von Schoental may think difierently, honourable
men will consider that I have played clean parts.”
De Grecque frowned. It was with difficulty


26~L THE EYES OF THE BLIND



derstand decency.” He turned to de Grecque.
“Suppose you assume that I’m a maniac, bent on
self-destruction, and let it go at that?”
“But listen,” said de Grecque. “What have
you to gain? Who is going to know that you
died for America? No one. Always, in the rec-
ords of your state department, the name of R0-
gan will be written down as one who, for money,
betrayed his native land. That record cannot
be erased. If it should become known I could
understand your refusing now, while there is yet
time, your lot with Germany. But to die for a.
country that will never know your sacrifice—”
“I’ll know it, won’t I?” demanded Rogan.
De Grecque laughed. “You are one of those
intellectual infants who believe in a life after
death. That would be scant comfort to me, Ro-
gan. The life after death is the memory one
leaves. And only the memory of the great, or
the infamous, endures. Yours will be the mem-
ory of the infamous. No matter what you have
tried to do now, there remains only the knowl-.
edge that you sold your country’s secrets five
years ago.”
“th the knowledge—the belief,” corrected
Rogan.
“A quibble. A belief that is firmly enough
fixed becomes knowledge in time, Rogan. Lis-


266 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



have thought—but you know what I have
thought. I shall not repeat again my offer. But
Germany comes first with me. There is a chance
for you. I was in possession of a certain letter
signed by your father. Had I it in my possession
I could make terms with him whether he willed
or no, whether or no he has changed his mind
since he wrote that note. If you know where that
letter is, if you can deliver it to me—Miss Gryce,
you will save your father’s life.”
The girl laughed at him. “The German mind
can not comprehend that there are people who
will not yield to threat.”
“And yet,” he said softly, “you screamed not
so long ago.”
She grew whiter. Her mouth set in a firm line.
She met his glance bravely.
“I have,” said de Grecque, “but to give a cer-
tain signal and your father dies.”
“There has been much of threat in your words,”
said Lydia, “but little of deeds. My father”—
her voice broke only momentarily—“can take
care of himself—and will. This is the city of
New York, and there are limits to what you can
do.”
“You think so? You would not, of course, be-
lieve me if I told you that your father can not
possibly leave his house? You told him to look


THE SPY MACHINERY 267



in a certain drawer—my dear Miss Gryce, I do
not mind looking in that drawer. He can not
deliver its contents to any one who can do me
harm. No power on earth can save your father
once I have given the word. But that Word—I
hesitate to give it.
“I will be frank with you. Germany does not
wish her hand forced. To do by diplomacy that
which it is amply able to do by force—that is the
road that Germany prefers to travel.”
“To lie rather than to fight,” jeered Rogan.
De Grecque’s face was impassive. “That is a
cheap retort, my friend. Since when has the
German shown himself afraid to fight?”
Rogan laughed. “Never—when the odds are
with him. But when the armies opposed to him
are equal—then, von Schoental, we shall know
the valour of the Germans.”
De Grecque shook his head. “You will never
know, Rogan. Unless—once more I make my
offer, and tell you why I make it. To keep your
country out of the war, save in word only—-
frankly, we Germans do not wish another active
enemy. If by propaganda, by instilling unrest,
by blocking legislation—that angers you. Be-
cause you are short-sighted. Germany will win
this war. We Germans know that; the world
knows it. Why make it more bloody? Why roll


268 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



up hatred? We wish no enmity from you; we
hold none toward you.”
“You simply kill your people because they are
in your way,” said Rogan.
“That is the literal truth,” said de Grecque.
“And we feel no shame therefor. But listen: to
kill Stephen Gryce—I do not wish to order that
done. He can be useful—also—we show our
hand. I am honest with you. His death works
us an injury, but—we must sufi' er that injury,
unless—”
He looked at Rogan. Then he looked at the
girl. IIis eyes hardened; his mouth grew
harsher. He walked to a telephone.
“So be it,” he said.
In a fire-house, not five blocks away from the
home of Stephen Gryce, men of unmistakably
Teutonic faces conversed nervously, in subdued
tones with each other. Several of them wore
crude bandages, and upon a couch one tossed
and groaned and muttered guttural German
prayers. Another lay very still.
In the dormitory up-stairs were half a dozen
men; they were stripped to their underclothing,
and their feet and hands were bound. Also they
were gagged. Over them stood a guard, and ever
and again he touched the bonds that held them,


THE SPY MACHINERY 269



assuring himself that the prisoners were no nearer
effecting release than when they had been over-
come.
Outside the door, lounging in apparent care-
lessness, but with every nerve quivering, stood
one of the men. He passed the time of night with
a policeman who passed by. The policeman
saluted carelessly. But the lounging man nodded
approvingly. Careless though the officer’s ges-
ture was, there was a snap to it that had only
been instilled by army training. And by Ger-
man army training.
Inside,-a man called softly to the lounger.
“Everything is all right, Conrad.”
Out of the side of his mouth Conrad answered.
“Brobner just passed by; he wears the police-
man’s uniform. No one seems to suspect. It is
all right.”
The man within swore softly. “Yes. All
right! Unless some prying fire ofi‘icial comes
around on inspection what then, my Conrad?”
The lounger drew himself up. “\Ve kill him——
and we die. It is for the Fatherland.”
“The Fatherland! Yes! But this is a plan——
it was to be used only when the great hour ap-
proached—not for six hours at least. Not until
our submarines were in the outer harbour; when
our air-planes were above the city; when our


THE SPY MACHINERY 271



suspects their aims, at least? Ridiculous. As
long as Gryce was in ignorance of our aims—all
right. Unsuspected a man could enter the house.
But now—he is armed, undoubtedly. The noise
-——there is only one way to drown the noise, and
that is this way. A fire—the engine coming——
anything may happen.”
“Unless he has begun firing from his window
now, to attract the attention of the police,” ob-
jected the other.
Conrad nodded. “But he will not do that,
Hans. Do you know why? Because he has
looked from his window; he has seen our men out-
side. He knows that a shot from him will be the
signal for a rush that he can not withstand. He
knows that. But while we delay—he knows that
we will die in our effort to kill him. But he feels
that every moment that we delay our attack im-
proves his chances. All men, cornered, feel that
way. It is human nature. Luck will turn. And
so he waits. Something may turn up. Besides,
it is quite incredible, according to these Yankee
ideas, that harm can really come to him in his
home. A siege of his house! Absurd! He can wait.
Only,” and Conrad chuckled grimly, “he does
not know how careful are the German plans.”
“And yet,” grumbled Hans, “I still maintain
that it is foolish of us. This plan—the police will


THE RECORD SCORES A BEAT 275



There aren’t so many years ahead of us, at best.
We shouldn’t mind death, you and I.”
Ferguson’s eyes glowed. “I’m scared, Mr.
Gryce! Awful scared! But I’m persuadin’ my-
self that I ain’t, and by and by I won’t be.”
Gryce laughed aloud. Somehow, in this mo-
ment that might prove to be almost the last, he
was renewing the moment of youth, when life
had held savour and yet was not precious; when
life had been wonderful and yet not at all re-
markable. He’d been getting flabby, of late
years. He shook his head. Pacificism was a men-
tal disease that affected the body. It made a man
flabby-souled. Everything that he possessed in
the world, all that he had achieved, had come to
him after struggle. Struggle was the law of the
world. And fighting was but the outgrowth of
that law. In the millennium, when there was no
evil, right would not have to arm itself against
wrong; but while evil existed, men must be pre—
pared to wage war against it. And he, flabby-
souled, had denied this elemental law! Well, he
would pay for his folly, even with his life, were
that final payment asked of him.
“More of ’em, eh, Deems?” he asked. “Well,
they pay us a high compliment.”
Deems grinned gaily back at him. Then he
sobered.


2.180 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


of so great value I have had you all brought here
alive. One of you must talk. The servant here
—I have questioned him; I do not believe that
he knows of it. But Gryce, Miss Gryce, Rogan
-—and you, Deems, know of it. Gryce denies
having written it. His daughter refuses to tell
me anything; Rogan sneers. But you—I pledge
my word, Deems, that whatever you ask in the
way of money, provided it is not too fantastic a
sum, whatever safeguards of secrecy you de-
sire—4”
“You may as well save your breath, de
Grecque,” interrupted Deems. “I haven’t the
paper. I don’t know where it is.”
“You had it,” exclaimed de Grecque, “and—
perhaps you think that there is a chance for you.
You should not think so; enough has happened
within the past hour to show you that there is no
limit to what will be done to regain that paper.
You, Gryce—you are unpopular now. Your
newspapers have attempted to hinder the prose-
cution of the war. That paper—no matter how
you change your views, how earnestly you pro-
fess that change, the American people will not
forget that you were guilty of treason. They will
destroy you. Even what has happened to-night
——it can be explained. Your Apaches here can


:__.__

284 THE EYES OF THE BLIND

himself. He could imitate, passably, Gryce’s
handwriting, but not well enough to stand a test.
He knew you’d find it out. But if the paper was
blank—he fooled you once, he could do it again.
He lost it. As you lost the forgery. Lost it to
me, who was also fooled ”
De Grecque’s shaking fingers tore the paper
up.
“Yes, I was fooled, made a dumb-head. But—
what does it get you?” Triumphantly his voice
rose, “Now that I know, Rogan, that I have noth-
ing to gain by letting you live—you fool!”
“Think so?” Rogan shook his head. “I’ve been
believing that Stephen Gryce here is one of the
biggest traitors unhung. I’m nobody much, and
when I’m dead I’ll amount to less, but if I died
without apologising to a decent man for think-
ing him what he wasn’t What does it get us?
Nothing. But you don’t imagine that we were
idiots enough to take any stock in your promise
to let any of us free. But cheer up, de Grecque.
I was fooled, too. I thought that Gryce had
written that letter.”
“So did I,” breathed Lydia. She looked at
her father. “Daddy!”
Gryce swallowed deeply. “S’all right, girlie.
I’ve been a fool, and—it won’t be hard. both of
us, eh?”


THE RECORD SCORES A BEAT 285

She smiled and shook her head. And then, as
she met the eyes of Deems, her smile faltered.
And Deems knew that the miracle of love had
happened to her, too. Death was not half as bad
as it might have been.
De Grecque’s harsh voice broke the silence.
“This is all very pretty,” he said. “Father and:
daughter forgiving each other, and—phaugh!”
His revolver gleamed suddenly in his hand.
“You are swine, you Yankees, swine. You fight
Germany—”
His last word was clipped off shortly. Outside
a newsboy was crossing Bryant Park; he was
shrieking at the top of his lungs: “German plot
exposed! French representative German spy!
Publisher of Record attacked, killed, maybe, but
story gets to Record! Record extra! Comte de
Grecque German spy ”
De Grecque’s hand went to his throat. “The
boy lies! There is no afternoon Record! He-——-”.
Over the face of Gryce spread a smile that was
gay as the smile of youth.
“De Grecque, you let my daughter telephone
me. You let her mention a drawer.”
“But you had no way of communicating—and
your house is burned to the ground ”
Gryce’s smile was now a grin. Death was a
half minute away, but he had scored the greatest


THE RECORD SCORES A BEAT 287



But the cry for help that trembled on his lips
was forced back. Already, silently, policemen
were mounting the stoop of the old-fashioned
house that faced Bryant Park.


CHAPTER TVVENTY—ONE
CAPT. FARLEY INVESTIGATES
DETECTIVE CAPTAIN FARLEY pressed the receiver
closer to his ear.
“What’s that again, Lieutenant?” he asked.
Lieutenant_Denton, himself fighting against
an excitement greater than that of the detective
captain, swallowed a moment before-he repeated,
more verbosely, the message that he had just
hurled against the bored ears of Farley:
“Officer Grander just reported. Fine cock-
and-bull story he had to tell. Assaulted,
drugged, uniform taken from him. Sounded like
a hop-head’s dream, but—Officers Reading,
Lavey and Sirroco reported the same thing
within ten minutes. All of them treated the
same way. The last three of them stationed near
the vicinity of Stephen Gryce’s home.”
“Yes—get to it,” snarled Farley.
“I got to take it easy, Captain,” remonstrated
the precinct commander. “I want you to get it
all—Grander’s beat included the Phoenix fire-
house. Like the other three, he came to a dark
288


CAPT. FARLEY INVESTIGATES 289



doorway. Well, he passed through Phoenix
Place on his way back here to the ‘house.’ No-
ticed something queer about the fire-house. No
signs of life. Head was splitting, too, and
thought he’d ’phone in—nobody about down—
I stairs, except two dead men. One of them
Grander recognised—Fireman Cassidy. Head
all battered up. Uniform stripped ofi him. The
other man was unknown to Grander. Killed
with axe wounds. Fire-axe, it might have been.
Looked like a German.
“Grander went upstairs. Found half a dozen
men; all of ’em tied up and gagged. Released
them—told story of a bunch of men rushing in
on them, attacking them; killing Fireman Cas-
sidy—overpowering bunch—stripping their
clothes—”
“Crazy!” breathed Farley.
“Yah, like foxes,” cried the Lieutenant. “For
Officer Reading passed by Stephen Gryce’s house
on way home. Burned—gutted. Firemen on
the job told him that they couldn’t understand
why Phoenix Place company wasn’t on the job.
For their apparatus was there, but—no men. By-
standers said Phoenix men had been there, had
broken into house—brought out Gryce and two
other men, apparently overcome by smoke—put


CAPT. ’FARLEY INVESTIGATES 291


but the man would have been submerged in his
thoughts.
But this new development! Everything that
appertained, however slightly, to Stephen Gryce,
was of potential value. The files of the depart-
ment were overhauled, and messenger sent post-
haste to the office of the Record. That messen-
ger telephoned his report. Fallon was known to
the editor sitting in on the “late trick”; he knew
that Fallon had recently been driving a taxicab.
And almost simultaneously Moriarity reported
the address of Randolph Fallon.
Half an hour later a plainclothesman was tele-
phoning all that he had learned of Fallon’s re-
cent activities. The sleepy clerk of the cheap
hotel had been frightened into loquacity by the
presence of the policeman.
Farley reviewed the information he had gath-
ered. Fallon, once a newspaper man, with a
grudge against Gryce because of his discharge
from the Record, had become a taxi-man. Last
night he had sold his taxi and annonnced that he
had become rich.
Now, Fallon was a drunkard, but—he had
been canny enough, drunkard though he was, to
ply a trade. It didn’t seem quite reasonable that
he’d have been fool enough to sell his means of
livelihood and blow in a goodly portion of the


CAPT. FARLEY INVESTIGATES 2‘93



would be a man’s-sized job. Farley was quite
aware of that. But the same methods that ap-
plied to the detection and apprehension of ordi-
nary criminals would apply in this case. There
was but the one rule of detection: overlook
nothing.
So Farley, leaning back in his swivel chair,
pondered the situation. Reports came to him
every minute almost, from the plainclothesmcn
combing the city. But he anticipated little result
from their labours. The man, or men, capable of
planning the attack upon the Gryce home were
not the sort of men who, their labours done, would
invite arrest by splurging in low cafés, by tell-
ing their achievements to loose women of the un-
derworld who would inform the police.
No, this was a case where the ordinary meth-
ods could not be relied upon, although they must
be used. He stirred restlessly. If he were a
genius, he would think at once of some method.
But he wasn’t. The telephone rang. That was
all he could do; answer the telephone, and give
perfunctory orders, orders that could just as well
have been given by any one on the Force.
The Commissioner arrived two hours before
his usual time.
“If you want, Captain,” he said, “you can go
home. You’ve been up all night.”


298 THE EYES OF THE BLIND


by the sight of his uniform, she could tell him
nothing.
He telephoned the nearest precinct and waited
until a uniformed policeman arrived to guard the
house. The coloured servant was not hurt; she
needed no medical attendance. She could con-
tinue on the routine of her life as usual. ’
But de Grecque or his gang might send some
one back here—it was not at all probable. But
it would do no harm to leave some one here.
On the street, Farley communcd deeply with
himself. Fallon had demanded money from
Miss Gryce, according to the coloured woman.
This bore out Fallon’s story to Farley. And, as
he had decided some little while ago, incredible
matters were not to be dismissed because incred-
ible.
He walked to the subway and took an express
train south. At Fourteenth Street he alighted
and walked up Irving Place. It was the matter
of a moment for him to ascertain the new address
of the landlady who had been the tenant of the
destroyed lodging house.
She was in the neighbourhood and was not
averse to recounting the story of her wrongs
again.
Farley, as Captain of Detectives, had read the
routine report of the matter. But now, knowing


300 THE EYES OF THE BLIND



Kinda fat, stodgy, blondish sort of woman—I
never saw her before. She insisted that Mr. Tay-
lor—he’s a. tenant on the fourth floor front of
my place that was—that Mr. Taylor had left
some washing with her. So I let her go up. She
came down in a minute leaving the washing be-
hind her. At least, I suppose she did. She didn’t
have the bundle—say, she was a kinda German
looking woman, at that.”
“Where has Mr. Taylor gone to live ?” asked
Farley.
“I dunno, but I know where he wor .”
Farley was in the subway again in five min-
utes. The morning was advancing, and he was
hungry; he was, therefore, not altogether sorry
that Mr. Taylor had not arrived at his place of
business when he reached there. Sleeplessness is
conducive to hunger, and Captain Farley had
been up all night. Ordinarily, he went home, like
the average citizen, to dinner at seven, but a re-
organisation of the department had made him,
for two weeks, work nights instead of during
the days. He had cursed this change many times
recently, but now he was grateful for it. It gave
him a chance to get in on something and distin-
guish himself.
But a man could be glad of his opportunity
and still be sleepy and hungry. He ate an enor-


CAPT. FARLEY INVESTIGATES 301


mous breakfast and then approached again Tay-
lor’s place of business.
Mr. Taylor was not averse to talking. The
vbomb incident at his boarding-place had varied
his drab days as a bookkeeper. He was supplied
with conversational material and mental specu-
lation for years to come.
But he knew nothing of any washerwoman.
He patronised a Chinese laundry and was per-
fectly contented. He was sorry not to be able
to help the Captain. In fact, if the Captain
would come around at lunch—the boss was awful
cranky, and he couldn’t take time off now—he’d
advance to the Captain certain theories that he’d
formed in regard to the bomb matter.
Captain Farley was grateful but—some other
time. He permitted Mr. Taylor to shake his
hand efi'usively and then he boarded a subway
train again.
Lydia Gryce had given Fallon a check. Far-
ley was quite com inced of that. But some one
else had had the opportunity to commit the very
crime for silence concerning which Lydia Gryce
had paid Randolph Fallon money.
Farley would form no snap judgments. Lydia
Gryce had been doing secret work for the Gov-
ernment. That was evident from what had been


DEEMS SEES 30$)


raving crazy before I’d got her down to Head-
quarters. 'I‘hat’s a common thing; a maniac will
hide his or her insanity up to a certain point; if
they aren’t caught, they’ll often lead sane-seem-
ing lives long after they’ve committed their
crimes. But accuse them and they break down.
But we don’t need her evidence. There’s enough
,without her.”
“But how did you come to discover her part in
the affair?” demanded Rogan. “She was my
clerk, my housekeeper—the last person I’d have
suspected. Why on earth did she do it? Crazy,
I know you say, but—what put it into her head?”
“She’s German. You knew that, of course.”
Farley smoothed the lapel of his uniform. These
were important people here, and he hoped that
he’d made a lasting impression. He had visions
of a private detective agency, and Stephen Gryce
would not be a had first client. Newspapers had
lots of investigating to do.
“I knew it, yes,” admitted Rogan. “But she
was so loyal ”
“I think she was, at that,” conceded Farley.
“She just went nutty, that’s all. Heard so much
bomb talk—I found out where she got them.
There’s a place on the East Side I’ve had my
eye on a long time. You can hire a murder for
twenty dollars, and get a bomb for a hundred,


DEEMS SEES 311



“She gave me the number of the taxi later,”
said Rogan.
“Exactly,” said Farley. “Part of her game of
innocence. She thought that that was safe
enough. Didn’t occur to her that the machine
might be traced. And, if it was, she’d swear that
Miss Gryce did it. A queer mixture of cunning
and ingenuousness, like every insane person.”
“But, Miss Gryce, why did you go to my
shop?” asked Rogan.
The girl coloured. Up to now she had been
silent, clinging closely to her father, avoiding
even the eyes of Deems.
“Hennig the waiter told me that a Mr. Curtiss
was at the Booklovers’. He described him and I
knew that it was Mr. Deems. At least,” and her
blush grew more profound, “I thought that it
was. I wanted to make sure. I followed him
from the Royal Restaurant, I saw him enter the
shop of Heinrich Grafi'e. This man Grafi'e, I
knew, was concerned, somehow or other, in the
Booklovers’ activities. I decided to investigate
hIr. Deems at once. When he left his lodging
house I entered it. The landlady let me into his
rooms. I found a manuscript there that made me
certain that he was a traitor. Then I went to
Graffe’s bookshop. I wanted to get a good look
at Graffe. But he was not in.


DEEMS SEES 319



without the battle against Wrong. As if Right
would be worth achieving unless there were strug-
gle for it. A world to which goodness had come
without effort would be a world redeemed, it is
true, but a world which had done nothing to de-
serve Redemption.
“Wrong is an existent force. It must be
fought against, must be stamped out. I have
been one of those who foolishly would have wel-
comed Wrong across my threshold. But my eyes
are opened for good now. I see that one must
not let Wrong in; one must destroy it outside.
To-day Wrong is armed against Right. Right
cannot try to convert Wrong. Right must slay
it. And so—great changes, changes such as the
wisest could not have foreseen, are ahead of us.
“Happiness, placid happiness such as we have
known in the past, can be for none of us who are
right-thinking. There must be suffering—there
must be agony. And so, those who have a chance
to snatch at happiness—‘the old order changeth’.
A week from now Deems may be embarked upon
a new career. I hope so.”
“I intend to, sir. That’s why—I asked you
not to mention ”
“Pooh,” said Gryce. “My daughter is a brave
girl. She will not hesitate to give her all. But
—I would not have her hesitate to take her all.




necenr topyngnteu “(1101] at a ropular rnce
These Well-known Novels Were Formerly $1.50 to $1.75
c=aoo=ou=ooc=oo=aon=ao=noe=o
MAN FROM BAR 20, THE. By Clarence E. Mulford.
A Bar 20 story by Mulford needs no introduction. The readers of Bar 20 and
Bit] ZQVIgttS§¥ will welcome this new story. As before, it is an exciting yarn of the
O ) .
PAWNS COUNT, THE. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Here is another Oppenheim book of international intrigue. Although the story
opens in London, it is in New York and Washington that 'most of the dramatic
events take place. The story moves swiftly with ample incident and romance and
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GIRL FROM hELLER’S, THE. By Harold Bmdloss.
In this vital story of pioneer grit, conquering the wilderness, Bindloss has
excelled his previous stories of the Northwest. It is a forceful story of swift
action. and of alert men and women turning failure into success in the bracing
atmosphere of the Great Northwest.
LAND-GIRL’S LOVE STORY, A. By Berta Ruck.
A “land-girl" is only another name fora “farmerette.” This popular author
tells one of her characteristically lively stories about two girls who became
“Land-Girls." The story moves quickly, is full of unexpected surprises, is very
funlny and as bright as any novel this author has written, which is saying a. good
dea
STRANGE CASE OF CAVENDISH, THE. By Randall Parrish.
This is a good, old wild west story, with a murder mystery for frond measure.
Mexicans. cowbuyS. a girl _reporter and a crook lawyer. It is rea ly a hilt-bang
story such as Randall Parrish can write. _
s
MOVING FINGER, THE. By Natalie Sumner Lincoln.
A mysterious tale that mystifies. The New York Times says: “Not once does
the suspense slacken; there is not a dreary page. Each incident is startlingly
vivid." To the lovers of a very mysterious mystery story, “The Moving Finger"
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EYES OF THE BLIND, THE. By Arthur Somers Roche.
If a book can .be_terrned a "high explosive.” surely this phrase may be applied to
this _8tory.. It is Just one thrill after. another. There is hardly a page that isn't
teeming with surprises and fairly quivering with excitement.
SIN THAT WAS HIS. THE. By Frank L. Packard.
This is a no'velmf “Old Quebec." The readers of “The jimmie Dale" stories and
“Greater Love Hath No Man" will welcome'another story by this fascinating
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SECOND BULLET, THE. By Robert Orr Chipperfield.
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