“Well, certainly, the idea——”
“Yes, the idea of a blind detective—the blind tracking the alert——”
“Of course, as you say, certain faculties are no doubt quickened,” Mr Carlyle hastened to add considerately, “but, seriously, with the exception of an artist, I don’t suppose there is any man who is more utterly dependent on his eyes.”
Whatever opinion Carrados might have held privately, his genial exterior did not betray a shadow of dissent. For a full minute he continued to smoke as though he derived an actual visual enjoyment from the blue sprays that travelled and dispersed across the room. He had already placed before his visitor a box containing cigars of a brand which that gentleman keenly appreciated but generally regarded as unattainable, and the matter-of-fact ease and certainty with which the blind man had brought the box and put it before him had sent a questioning flicker through Carlyle’s mind.
“You used to be rather fond of art yourself, Louis,” he remarked presently. “Give me your opinion of my latest purchase—the bronze lion on the cabinet there.” Then, as Carlyle’s gaze went about the room, he added quickly: “No, not that cabinet—the one on your left.”
Carlyle shot a sharp glance at his host as he got up, but Carrados’s expression was merely benignly complacent. Then he strolled across to the figure.
“Very nice,” he admitted. “Late Flemish, isn’t it?”
“No. It is a copy of Vidal’s ‘Roaring lion.’”
“Vidal?”
“A French artist.” The voice became indescribably flat. “He, also, had the misfortune to be blind, by the way.”