sent?" he asked.

"Could I have materials for a whisky and soda to hand?" said Boyce.

"Of course," said I.

Marigold departed. Boyce said:

"If you're too ill to stand me, send me away. But if you can stand me,
for God's sake let me talk to you."

"Talk as much as you like," said I. "This is only one of my stupid
attacks which a man without legs has to put up with."

"But Marigold--"

"Marigold's an old hen," said I.

"Are you sure you're well enough? That's the curse of not being able to
see. Tell me frankly."

"I'm quite sure," said I.

I have never been able to get over the curious embarrassment of talking
to a man whose eyes I cannot see. The black spectacles seemed to be
like a wall behind which the man hid his thoughts. I watched his lips.
Once or twice the odd little twitch had appeared at the corners.

Even with his baffling black spectacles he looked a gallant figure of a
man. He was precisely dressed in perfectly fitting dinner jacket and
neat black tie; well-groomed from the points of his patent leather
shoes to his trim crisp brown hair. And beneath this scrupulousness of
attire lay the suggestion of great strength.

Marigold brought in the tray with decanter, siphon and glasses, and put
them on a table, together with cigars and cigarettes, by his side.
After a few deft touches, so as to identify the objects, Boyce smiled
and nodded at Marigold.

"Thanks very much, Sergeant," he said.

If there is one thing Marigold loves, it is to be addressed as
"Sergeant." "Marigold" might indicate a butler, but "Sergeant" means a
sergeant.

"Perhaps I might fetch the Colonel a more comfortable chair, sir," said
he.

But Boyce laughed, "No, no!" and Marigold left us.

Boyce's ear listened for the click of the door. Then he turned to me.

"I was rather mean in sending you in that password. But I felt as if I
should go mad if I didn't see you. You're the only man living who
really knows about me. You're the only human being who can give me a
helping hand. It's strange, old man--the halt leading the blind. But so
it is. And Vilboek's Farm is the damned essence of the matter. I've
come to you to ask you, for the love of God, to tell me what I am to
do."

I guessed what had happened. "Betty Connor has told you something that
I was to tell you."

"Yes," said he. "This afternoon. And in her splendid way she offered to
marry me."

"What did you say?"

"I said that I would give her my answer to-morr