She said, “Just a minute,” and went through a door into the inner office. A few minutes later, she popped out and said, “This way, please. Dr. Alftmont will see you now.”
I followed her in through an eye-testing room to where Dr. Alftmont sat behind a desk in a private office that radiated an atmosphere of quiet prosperity.
He looked up. He was Mr. Smith, our client.
Seen without his dark glasses, his eyes matched the rest of his face, a keen, incisive, hard grey. He said, “Good morning. What can I do for you?”
The nurse was hovering around, and I said, in a low voice, “I’ve been having a lot of eye trouble, doing quite a bit of night driving.”
“Where,” he asked, “did you get those dark glasses?”
I said, “They’re just a cheap pair I picked up in the drugstore. I’ve been driving all night. The daylight hurts my eyes.”
“Worst thing you can do,” he said, “driving all night. You’re young yet. Some day you’ll pay for it. Your eyes weren’t intended to stand any such strain. Come into the other room.”
I followed him into the other room. The nurse adjusted me in the chair. Dr. Alftmont nodded to her, and she went out.
“Now, just slip off those glasses,” the doctor said, “and we’ll have a look.”