“Yes, the day after to-morrow, at ten a. m.”
“And the place?”
Doctor Vanderpool made a wry face.
“Grantley’s residence and ‘private hospital’ in the Bronx—the scene of your raid,” he said.
“Baldwin is evidently willing to take chances in order to recover his sight,” the detective said musingly, after another brief pause. “As you say, it is quite possible, theoretically at least, that Grantley has sufficient skill to do what the others have failed to do. He has certainly performed many surgical miracles. This seems to be another instance of a drowning man grasping at a straw. In his anxiety to see again, Baldwin does not care what liberties Grantley’s knife may have taken with the bodies of obscure persons living on the East Side, or how near he came to murdering us that night, after we had interfered with his bloody scientific pastimes. Your multimillionaire friend feels confident that Grantley would not dare try any tricks on him, and he is willing to overlook the unprofessional manner of the man’s approach. He is impatient toward restraint, used to having his own way in everything, and, fired by a new hope, he is harder to manage than ever. Is that the way you interpret the situation, doctor?”
“I could not hope to put it better.”
“That is the way I size it up—that part of it, anyway. As for the rest, however, you’ll have to give me a little time to think it over. I’m very glad you came to me. As you say, there may be something queer back of it. By the way, can you arrange an interview for me with Mr. Baldwin, in case I find it necessary to call upon him?”
“Certainly.”
“Very well. I may ask you to do so later on. In any case, I shall let you know as soon as I come to any decision.”
Doctor Vanderpool rose to go, and took his departure after a few more words, confident that he had placed the matter in the best possible hands.