more
utterly dependent on his eyes."

Whatever opinion Carrados might have held privately, his genial
exterior did not betray a shadow of dissent. For a full minute he
continued to smoke as though he derived an actual visual enjoyment
from the blue sprays that travelled and dispersed across the room. He
had already placed before his visitor a box containing cigars of a
brand which that gentleman keenly appreciated but generally regarded
as unattainable, and the matter-of-fact ease and certainty with which
the blind man had brought the box and put it before him had sent a
questioning flicker through Carlyle's mind.

"You used to be rather fond of art yourself, Louis," he remarked
presently. "Give me your opinion of my latest purchase--the bronze
lion on the cabinet there." Then, as Carlyle's gaze went about the
room, he added quickly: "No, not that cabinet--the one on your left."

Carlyle shot a sharp glance at his host as he got up, but Carrados's
expression was merely benignly complacent. Then he strolled across to
the figure.

"Very nice," he admitted. "Late Flemish, isn't it?"

"No, It is a copy of Vidal's 'Roaring Lion.'"

"Vidal?"

"A French artist." The voice became indescribably flat. "He, also, had
the misfortune to be blind, by the way."

"You old humbug, Max!" shrieked Carlyle, "you've been thinking that
out for the last five minutes." Then the unfortunate man bit his lip
and turned his back towards his host.

"Do you remember how we used to pile it up on that obtuse ass Sanders,
and then roast him?" asked Carrados, ignoring the half-smothered
exclamation with which the other man had recalled himself.

"Yes," replied Carlyle quietly. "This is very good," he continued,
addressing himself to the bronze again. "How ever did he do it?"

"With his hands."

"Naturally. But, I mean, how did he study his model?"

"Also with his hands. He called it 'seeing near.'"

"Even with a lion--handled it?"

"In such cases he required the services of a keeper, who brought the
animal to bay while Vidal exercised his own particular gifts ... You
don't feel inclined to put me on the track of a mystery, Louis?"

Unable to regard this request as anything but one of old Max's
unquenchable pleasantries, Mr. Carlyle was on the point of making a
suitable reply when a sudden thought caused him to smile knowingly. Up
to that point, he had, indeed, completely forgotten the object of his
visit. Now that he remembered the