“I have no necessity for your aid,” I answered, somewhat bluntly. “Therefore any examination is entirely waste of time.”
“But surely the sight is one of God’s most precious gifts to man,” he answered, in a smooth, pleasant voice; “and if a cure is possible, you yourself would, I think, welcome it.”
“I don’t deny that,” I answered. “I would give half that I possess—nay, more—to have my sight restored, but Sir Leopold Fry, Dr Measom, and Harker Halliday have all three seen me, and agree in their opinion that my sight is totally lost for ever. You probably know them as specialists?”
“Exactly. They are the first men in my profession,” he answered. “Yet sometimes one treatment succeeds where another fails. Mine is entirely and totally different to theirs, and has, I may remark, been successful in quite a number of cases which were pronounced hopeless.”
Mere quackery, I thought. I am no believer in new treatments and new medicines. The fellow’s style of talk prejudiced me against him. He actually placed himself in direct opposition to the practice of the three greatest oculists in the world.
“Then you believe that you can actually cure me?” I remarked, with an incredulous smile.
“All I ask is to be permitted to try,” he answered blandly, in no way annoyed by my undisguised sneer.
“Plainly speaking,” I answered, “I have neither inclination nor intention to place myself at your disposal for experiments. My case has been pronounced hopeless by the three greatest of living specialists, and I am content to abide by their decision.”
“Oculists are liable to draw wrong conclusions, just as other persons may do,” he remarked. “In a matter of this magnitude you should—permit me to say so—endeavour to regain your sight and embrace any treatment likely to be successful. Blindness is one of man’s most terrible afflictions, and assuredly no living person who is blind would wish to remain so.”
“I have every desire to regain my sight, but I repeat that I have no faith whatever in new treatment.”