Wilder experienced a curious sensation of repugnance as he entered the presence of the blinded man. He was not usually troubled by such sensitiveness. But somehow he now realised more surely than ever contact with something inexpressively evil. The yellow face of the man was almost grey. But whether it was the result of any emotion of fear that had produced the noisome hue he could not tell. The man’s eyeless sockets seemed even more repulsive than when first he had looked upon them. Then there were his restlessly moving hands, which, in his blind helplessness, never for a moment seemed to remain quite still.
They were in the central hall of the house, that Eastern apartment so full of vivid memories for the whiteman. It was unchanged from that which he knew of it, even to the dust, and the sense of neglect and disuse that pervaded it. Wilder remembered acutely. His eyes passed over every familiar detail of the place and brought back to him a picture of the happenings of that night, when, unbidden, unwelcome, he had been a guest in the house.
The blinded man confronted him on his seat upon the cushioned divan beside the carved screen. And he spoke at once as Bill entered and moved over to the chair which was set before the bureau. Crysa went at once to her husband and took her place on the seat beside him.
“You come again?” he said in his low, harsh tones.
And the challenge warned Wilder of the amazing watchfulness which fear had inspired in these two. Crysa had said no word as she entered, yet this sightless man knew him and understood.
“Sure.”
Wilder spoke quietly.
“I’m here to help you,” he went on. “If you reckon to save the life remaining to you you’ll need to take my talk at its face value and make a quick get-away right off. I’ve just handed your wife, as quick as I could, the trouble beating up the river for you. Usak’s behind me with his gun. He’s crazy for your blood. An’ I’m crazy he shan’t get you. I took an almighty chance pushing up from the Caribou here because I handed your wife a promise I’d do the best I knew to save the murder that crazy Indian looks for. With winter closing right down no one can figger the chances of getting through back. Still, I handed my word, and it goes with me. The thing I can do is to get you down to Caribou if the winter don’t queer us. I can get you right on to your own country, which, seeing you are who and what you are, is the only thing. Maybe I’ll be going beyond the right I have in doing this, but I’ll do it because you’re blind and helpless, and because your wife seems to have suffered enough for being your wife. There’s going to be no argument as far as I’m concerned. That I’m a police officer cuts no ice. In this thing I’m just a plain whiteman who’s given his word, and it goes. Now, here’s the proposition so far as I’m concerned. I’m going right back to the landing, and I’ll wait around there till, the daylight goes. If you come along in that time with the truck you need for the journey—you needn’t worry with the food, I’ve got all we need—you have my promise I’ll get you safe through, if its humanly possible, to your own country. If I fail my life will pay just as surely as yours. You got my promise, a whiteman’s promise, and you’ve got to be satisfied with it if you fancy making a get-away. The moment night closes in I pull out, whether you come with with me or not. That’s all.”
The repulsion inspired by the blind man’s presence had a deeper effect on Wilder than he knew. He had planned his method, but his planning had not provided for the cold fashion in which he delivered his proposition. His tone was even more frigid than he realised. He rose from his seat to depart. And instantly the Count’s harsh voice stayed him.
“And how do I know Usak is on the river? How I know this is not a police trap?”