th and hugged it to her. She whispered his name to
herself--Hugh--that secret of his name which she had kept; she gloried
that she had that secret with him which she could keep from them all.
What wouldn't they give just to share that with her--his name, Hugh!

She started suddenly, looking through the window. The east, above the
lake, was beginning to grow gray. The dawn was coming! It was
beginning to be day!

She hurried to the other side of the house, looking toward the west.
How could she have left him, hurt and bleeding and alone in the night!
She could not have done that but that his asking her to go had told
that it was for his safety as well as hers; she could not help him any
more then; she would only have been in the way. But now-- She started
to rush out, but controlled herself; she had to stay in the house; that
was where the first word would come if they caught him; and then he
would need her, how much more! The reporters on the lawn below her,
seeing her at the window, called up to her to know further particulars
of what had happened and what the murder meant; she could see them
plainly in the increasing light. She could see the lawn and the road
before the house.

Day had come.

And with the coming of day, the uncertainty and disorder within and
about the house seemed to increase.... But in the south wing, with its
sound-proof doors and its windows closed against the noises from the
lawn, there was silence; and in this silence, an exact, compelling,
methodic machine was working; the mind of Basil Santoine was striving,
vainly as yet, but with growing chances of success, to fit together
into the order in which they belonged and make clear the events of the
night and all that had gone before--arranging, ordering, testing,
discarding, picking up again and reordering all that had happened since
that other murder, of Gabriel Warden.

CHAPTER XXI

WHAT ONE CAN DO WITHOUT EYES

The blind man, lying on his bed in that darkness in which he had lived
since his sixteenth year and which no daylight could lessen, felt the
light and knew that day had come; he stirred impatiently. The nurse,
the only other occupant of the room, moved expectantly; then she sank
back; Santoine had moved but had not roused from that absorption in
which he had been ever since returning to his bed. He had not slept.
The connections of the electric bells had been repaired,--the wires had
been found pulled from their