“The only explanation of the Pont St Lin swing-bridge disaster of ’75 was the reflection of a green bengal light on a cottage window.”
Mr Carlyle smiled his indulgence privately.
“My dear chap, you mustn’t let your retentive memory of obscure happenings run away with you,” he remarked wisely. “In nine cases out of ten the obvious explanation is the true one. The difficulty, as here, lies in proving it. Now, you would like to see these men?”
“I expect so; in any case, I will see Hutchins first.”
“Both live in Holloway. Shall I ask Hutchins to come here to see you—say to-morrow? He is doing nothing.”
“No,” replied Carrados. “To-morrow I must call on my brokers and my time may be filled up.”
“Quite right; you mustn’t neglect your own affairs for this—experiment,” assented Carlyle.
“Besides, I should prefer to drop in on Hutchins at his own home. Now, Louis, enough of the honest old man for one night. I have a lovely thing by Eumenes that I want to show you. To-day is—Tuesday. Come to dinner on Sunday and pour the vials of your ridicule on my want of success.”
“That’s an amiable way of putting it,” replied Carlyle. “All right, I will.”
Two hours later Carrados was again in his study, apparently, for a wonder, sitting idle. Sometimes he smiled to himself, and once or twice he laughed a little, but for the most part his pleasant, impassive face reflected no emotion and he sat with his useless eyes tranquilly fixed on an unseen distance. It was a fantastic caprice of the man to mock his sightlessness by a parade of light, and under the soft brilliance of a dozen electric brackets the room was as bright as day. At length he stood up and rang the bell.