Mr. Carlyle did not attempt to conceal his disappointment as he returned the coin to the bag and replaced the bag in the inner pocket.
I had been relying on you, he grumbled reproachfully. Where on earth am I to go now?
There is always the British Museum.
Ah, to be sure, thanks. But will anyone who can tell me be there now?
Now? No fear! replied Mr. Baxter. Go round in the morning
But I must know to-night, explained the visitor, reduced to despair again. To-morrow will be too late for the purpose.
Mr. Baxter did not hold out much encouragement in the circumstances.
You can scarcely expect to find anyone at business now, he remarked. I should have been gone these two hours myself only I happened to have an appointment with an American millionaire who fixed his own time. Something indistinguishable from a wink slid off Mr. Baxters right eye. Offmunson hes called, and a bright young pedigree-hunter has traced his descent from Offa, King of Mercia. So he quite naturally wants a set of Offas as a sort of collateral proof.
Very interesting, murmured Mr. Carlyle, fidgeting with his watch. I should love an hours chat with you about your millionaire customers some other time. Just now look here, Baxter, cant you give me a line of introduction to some dealer in this sort of thing who happens to live in town? You must know dozens of experts.
Why, bless my soul, Mr. Carlyle, I dont know a man of them away from his business, said Mr. Baxter, staring. They may live in Park Lane or they may live in Petticoat Lane for all I know. Besides, there arent so many experts as you seem to imagine. And the two best will very likely quarrel over it. Youve had to do with expert witnesses, I suppose?
I dont want a witness; there will be no need to give evidence. All I want is an absolutely authoritative pronouncement that I can act on. Is there no one who can really say whether the thing is genuine or not?
I dont want a witness; there will be no need to give evidence. All I want is an absolutely authoritative pronouncement that I can act on. Is there no one who can really say whether the thing is genuine or not?
Mr. Baxters meaning silence became cynical in its implication as he continued to look at his visitor across the counter. Then he relaxed.
Stay a bit; there is a man an amateur I remember hearing wonderful things about some time ago. They say he really does know.
There you are, explained Mr. Carlyle, much relieved. There always is someone. Who is he?
Funny name, replied Baxter. Something Wynn or Wynn something. He craned his neck to catch sight of an important motor-car that was drawing to the kerb before his window. Wynn Carrados! Youll excuse me now, Mr. Carlyle, wont you? This looks like Mr. Offmunson.
Mr. Carlyle hastily scribbled the name down on his cuff.
Wynn Carrados, right. Where does he live?
Havent the remotest idea, replied Baxter, referring the arrangement of his tie to the judgment of the wall mirror. I have never seen the man myself. Now, Mr. Carlyle, Im sorry I cant do any more for you. You wont mind, will you?
Mr. Carlyle could not pretend to misunderstand. He enjoyed the distinction of holding open the door for the transatlantic representative of the line of Offa as he went out, and then made his way through the muddy streets back to his office. There was only one way of tracing a private individual at such short notice through the pages of the directories, and the gentleman did not flatter himself by a very high estimate of his chances.
Fortune favoured him, however. He very soon discovered a Wynn Carrados living at Richmond, and, better still, further search failed to unearth another. There was, apparently, only one householder at all events of that name in the neighbourhood of London. He jotted down the address and set out for Richmond.
The house was some distance from the station, Mr. Carlyle learned. He took a taxicab and drove, dismissing the vehicle at the gate. He prided himself on his power of observation and the accuracy of his deductions which resulted from it a detail of his business. Its nothing more than using ones eyes and putting two and two together, he would modestly declare, when he wished to be deprecatory rather than impressive. By the time he had reached the front door of The Turrets he had formed some opinion of the position and tastes of the people who lived there.
A man-servant admitted Mr. Carlyle and took his card his private card, with the bare request for an interview that would not detain Mr. Carrados for ten minutes. Luck still favoured him; Mr. Carrados was at home and would see him at once. The servant, the hall through which they passed, and the room into which he was shown, all contributed something to the deductions which the quietly observant gentleman, was half unconsciously recording.
Mr. Carlyle, announced the servant.
The room was a library or study. The only occupant, a man of about Carlyles own age, had been using a typewriter up to the moment of his visitors entrance. He now turned and stood up with an expression of formal courtesy.
Its very good of you to see me at this hour, apologised Mr. Carlyle.
The conventional expression of Mr. Carradoss face changed a little.
Surely my man has got your name wrong? he explained. Isnt it Louis Calling?
Mr. Carlyle stopped short and his agreeable smile gave place to a sudden flash of anger or annoyance.
No sir, he replied stiffly. My name is on the card which you have before you.
I beg your pardon, said Mr. Carrados, with perfect good-humour. I hadnt seen it. But I used to know a Calling some years ago at St. Michaels.
St. Michaels! Mr. Carlyles features underwent another change, no less instant and sweeping than before. St. Michaels! Wynn Carrados? Good heavens! it isnt Max Wynn old Winning Wynn?
A little older and a little fatter yes, replied Carrados. I have changed my name you see.
Extraordinary thing meeting like this, said his visitor, dropping into a chair and staring hard at Mr. Carrados. I have changed more than my name. How did you recognize me?
The voice, replied Carrados. It took me back to that little smoke-dried attic den of yours where we
My God! exclaimed Carlyle bitterly, dont remind me of what we were going to do in those days. He looked round the well-furnished, handsome room and recalled the other signs of wealth that he had noticed. At all events, you seem fairly comfortable, Wynn.
I am alternately envied and pitied, replied Carrados, with a placid tolerance of circumstance that seemed characteristic of him. Still, as you say, I am fairly comfortable.
Envied, I can understand. But why are you pitied?
Because I am blind, was the tranquil reply.
Blind! exclaimed Mr. Carlyle, using his own eyes superlatively. Do you mean literally blind?
Literally I was riding along a bridle-path through a wood about a dozen years ago with a friend. He was in front. At one point a twig sprang back you know how easily a thing like that happens. It just flicked my eye nothing to think twice about.
And that blinded you?
Yes, ultimately. Its called amaurosis.
I can scarcely believe it. You seem so sure and self-reliant. Your eyes are full of expression only a little quieter than they used to be. I believe you were typing when I came Arent you having me?
You miss the dog and the stick? smiled Carrados. No; its a fact.
What an awful affliction for you, Max. You were always such an impulsive, reckless sort of fellow never quiet. You must miss such a fearful lot.
Has anyone else recognized you? asked Carrados quietly.
Ah, that was the voice, you said, replied Carlyle.
Yes; but other people heard the voice as well. Only I had no blundering, self-confident eyes to be hoodwinked.
Thats a rum way of putting it, said Carlyle. Are your ears never hoodwinked, may I ask?
Not now. Nor my fingers. Nor any of my other senses that have to look out for themselves.
Well, well, murmured Mr. Carlyle, cut short in his sympathetic emotions. Im glad you take it so well. Of course, if you find it an advantage to be blind, old man He stopped and reddened. I beg your pardon, he concluded stiffly.
Not an advantage, perhaps, replied the other thoughtfully. Still it has compensations that one might not think of. A new world to explore, new experiences, new powers awakening; strange new perceptions; life in the fourth dimension. But why do you beg my pardon, Louis?
I am an ex-solicitor, struck off in connexion with the falsifying of a trust account, Mr. Carrados, replied Carlyle, rising.
Sit down, Louis, said Carrados suavely. His face, even his incredibly living eyes, beamed placid good-nature. The chair on which you will sit, the roof above you, all the comfortable surroundings to which you have so amiably alluded, are the direct result of falsifying a trust account. But do I call you Mr. Carlyle in consequence? Certainly not, Louis.
I did not falsify the account, cried Carlyle hotly. He sat down however, and added more quietly: But why do I tell you all this? I have never spoken of it before.
Blindness invites confidence, replied Carrados. We are out of the running human rivalry ceases to exist. Besides, why shouldnt you? In my case the account was falsified.
Of course thats all bunkum, Max commented Carlyle. Still, I appreciate your motive.
Practically everything I possess was left to me by an American cousin, on the condition that I took the name of Carrados. He made his fortune by an ingenious conspiracy of doctoring the crop reports and unloading favourably in consequence. And I need hardly remind you that the receiver is equally guilty with the thief.
But twice as safe. I know something of that, Max Have you any idea what my business is?
You shall tell me, replied Carrados.
I run a private inquiry agency. When I lost my profession I had to do something for a living. This occurred. I dropped my name, changed my appearance and opened an office. I knew the legal side down to the ground and I got a retired Scotland Yard man to organize the outside work.
Excellent! cried Carrados. Do you unearth many murders?
No, admitted Mr. Carlyle; our business lies mostly on the conventional lines among divorce and defalcation.