wds
of the curious could be kept off; but others--neighbors, friends of her
father's or their wives or other members of their families--claimed
their prerogative of intrusion and question in time of trouble. Many
of those who thus gained admittance were unused to the flattery of
reporter's questions; and from their interviews, sensations continued
to grow.

The stranger in Santoine's house--the man whom no one knew and who had
given his name as Philip Eaton--in all the reports was proclaimed the
murderer. The first reports in the papers had assailed him; the
stories of the afternoon papers became a public clamour for his quick
capture, trial and execution. The newspapers had sent the idle and the
sensation seekers, with the price of carfare to the country place, to
join the pack roaming the woods for Eaton. Harriet, standing at a
window, could see them beating through the trees beyond the house; and
as she watched them, wild, hot anger against them seized her. She
longed to rush out and strike them and shame them and drive them away.

The village police station called her frequently on the telephone to
inform her of the progress of the hunt. Twice, they told her, Eaton
had been seen, but both times he had avoided capture; they made no
mention of his having been fired upon. Avery, in charge of the pursuit
in the field, was away all day; he came in only for a few moments at
lunch time and then Harriet avoided him. As the day progressed, the
pursuit had been systematized; the wooded spots which were the only
ones that Eaton could have reached unobserved from the places where he
had been seen, had been surrounded. They were being searched carefully
one by one. Through the afternoon, Harriet kept herself informed of
this search; there was no report that Eaton had been seen again, but
the places where he could be grew steadily fewer.

The day had grown toward dusk, when a servant brought her word that her
father wished to see her. Harriet went up to him fearfully. The blind
man seemed calm and quiet; a thin, square packet lay on the bed beside
him; he held it out to her without speaking.

She snatched it in dread; the shape of the packet and the manner in
which it was fastened told her it must be a photograph. "Open it," her
father directed.

She snapped the string and tore off the paper.

She stared at it, and her breath left her; she held it and stared and
stared, sobbing now as she breathed. The photog