e been doing there? Who were the others? What
had any of them--or all of them--wanted? For Santoine, the answer to
these questions transcended now every personal interest. So, in his
uncertainty, Santoine had drawn into himself--withdrawn confidence in
his thoughts from all around, from Donald Avery, even from his
daughter--until the answer should be found. His blind eyes were turned
toward the ceiling, and his long, well-shaped fingers trembled with the
intensity of his thought. But he realized, even in his absorption,
that his daughter had drawn away from him. So, presently, he stirred.

"Harriet," he said.

It was the nurse who answered him. "Miss Santoine has gone downstairs.
What is it you want of her, Mr. Santoine?"

The blind man hesitated, and checked the impulse he had had.
"Nothing," he replied.

CHAPTER XIX

PURSUIT

Harriet Santoine, still clad only in the heavy robe over her nightdress
and in slippers, went from her father's bedroom swiftly down into the
study again; what she was going to do there she did not definitely
know. She heard, as she descended the stairs, the steward in the hall
outside the study calling up the police stations of the neighboring
villages and giving news of what had happened and instructions to watch
the roads; but as she reached the foot of the stairs, a servant closed
the study doors. The great, curtained room in its terrifying disorder
was brightly lighted, empty, absolutely still. She had given
directions that, except for the removal of Blatchford's body, all must
be left as it was in the room till the arrival of the police. She
stood an instant with hands pressed against her breast, staring down at
the spots upon the floor.

There were three of these spots now--one where Blatchford's body had
lain. They were soaking brownly into the rugs but standing still red
and thick upon the polished floor. Was one of them Eaton's?

Something within her told her that it was, and the fierce desire to go
to him, to help him, was all she felt just now. It was Donald Avery's
and her father's accusation of Eaton that had made her feel like this.
She had been feeling, the moment before Donald had spoken, that Philip
Eaton had played upon her that evening in making her take him to his
confederate in the ravine in order to plan and consummate something
here. Above her grief and horror at the killing of her cousin and the
danger to her father, had risen the anguish o