“Just the same, I am sorry to say,” Garnesk replied glibly. “There is no sign at all of her sight returning. I can make nothing of it whatever.”
“Dear, dear, Professor!” Hilderman exclaimed, with a shake of the head. “That is very bad, very bad indeed. Haven’t you even any idea as to how the poor young lady lost her sight?”
“None whatever,” said Garnesk, with a hopeless little shrug. “I can’t imagine anything, and I’m not above admitting that I know nothing. There is no use my pretending I can do anything for poor Miss McLeod when I feel convinced that I can’t.”
“So you’ve given it up altogether, Mr. Garnesk?” Hilderman asked, as we strolled to the station.
“What else can I do?” the oculist replied. “I can’t stop up here for ever, much as I should prefer to stay until I had done something for my patient.”
“You have my sympathy, Mr. Ewart,” said Hilderman in a friendly voice. “It is a terrible blow for you all. I fervently hope that something may yet be done for the poor young lady.”
“I hope so too,” I answered, with a heavy sigh, but the sigh was merely a convincing response to the lead Garnesk had given me, for, as a matter of fact, I was quite certain that we had found the basis of complete cure.
“Yes,” Hilderman muttered, as if thinking aloud, “it is a very terrible and strange affair altogether. Have you had any news about the dog?”
“None whatever,” I replied, this time with perfect truth.