The doctor was thoughtful.  “You’ll have to arrange that yourself,” he answered.  “Can’t you think up a scheme?  For instance, go to him with a proposal like the old schemes he used to finance.  He is very much interested in electrical inventions.  He made his money by speculation in telegraphs and telephones in the early days when they were more or less dreams.  I should think a wireless system of television might at least interest him and furnish an excuse for getting in, although I am told his daughter discourages all tangible investment in the schemes that used to interest his active mind.”

“An excellent idea,” exclaimed Kennedy.  “It is worth trying anyway.  It is still early.  Suppose we ride over to Brooklyn with you.  You can direct us to the house and we’ll try to see him.”

It was still light when we mounted the high steps of the house of mystery across the bridge.  Mrs. Martin, who met us in the parlour, proved to be a stunning looking woman with brown hair and beautiful dark eyes.  As far as we could see the old house plainly showed the change.  The furniture and ornaments were of a period long past, but everything was scrupulously neat.  Hanging over the old marble mantel was a painting which quite evidently was that of the long since deceased Mrs. Haswell, the mother of Grace.  In spite of the hideous style of dress of the period after the war, she had evidently been a very beautiful woman with large masses of light chestnut hair and blue eyes which the painter had succeeded in catching with almost life-likeness for a portrait.

It took only a few minutes for Kennedy, in his most engaging and plausible manner, to state the hypothetical reason of our call.  Though it was perfectly self-evident from the start that Mrs. Martin would throw cold water on anything requiring an outlay of money Craig accomplished his full purpose of securing an interview with Mr. Haswell.  The invalid lay propped up in bed, and as we entered he heard us and turned his sightless eyes in our direction almost as if he saw.

Kennedy had hardly begun to repeat and elaborate the story which he had already told regarding his mythical friend who had at last a commercial wireless “televue,” as he called it on the spur of the moment, when Jane, the aged caretaker, announced Dr. Scott.  The new doctor was a youthfully dressed man, clean-shaven, but with an undefinable air of being much older than his smooth face led one to suppose.  As he had a large practice, he said, he would beg our pardon for interrupting but would not take long.

It needed no great powers of observation to see that the old man placed great reliance on his new doctor and that the visit partook of a social as well as a professional nature.  Although they talked low we could catch now and then a word or phrase.  Dr. Scott bent down and examined the eyes of his patient casually.  It was difficult to believe that they saw nothing, so bright was the blue of the iris.