“Perfect rest for the present,” the doctor directed, talking more to Mrs. Martin than to the old man.  “Perfect rest, and then when his health is good, we shall see what can be done with that cataract.”

He was about to leave, when the old man reached up and restrained him, taking hold of the doctor’s wrist tightly, as if to pull him nearer in order to whisper to him without being overheard.  Kennedy was sitting in a chair near the head of the bed, some feet away, as the doctor leaned down.  Haswell, still holding his wrist, pulled him closer.  I could not hear what was said, though somehow I had an impression that they were talking about Prescott, for it would not have been at all strange if the old man had been greatly impressed by the alchemist.

Kennedy, I noticed, had pulled an old envelope from his pocket and was apparently engaged in jotting down some notes, glancing now and then from his writing to the doctor and then to Mr. Haswell.

The doctor stood erect in a few moments and rubbed his wrist thoughtfully with the other hand, as if it hurt.  At the same time he smiled on Mrs. Martin.  “Your father has a good deal of strength yet, Mrs. Martin,” he remarked.  “He has a wonderful constitution.  I feel sure that we can pull him out of this and that he has many, many years to live.”

Mr. Haswell, who caught the words eagerly, brightened visibly, and the doctor passed out.  Kennedy resumed his description of the supposed wireless picture apparatus which was to revolutionise the newspaper, the theatre, and daily life in general.  The old man did not seem enthusiastic and turned to his daughter with some remark.

“Just at present,” commented the daughter, with an air of finality, “the only thing my father is much interested in is a way in which to recover his sight without an operation.  He has just had a rather unpleasant experience with one inventor.  I think it will be some time before he cares to embark in any other such schemes.”

Kennedy and I excused ourselves with appropriate remarks of disappointment.  From his preoccupied manner it was impossible for me to guess whether Craig had accomplished his purpose or not.

“Let us drop in on Dr. Burnham since we are over here,” he said when we had reached the street.  “I have some questions to ask him.”

The former physician of Mr. Haswell lived not very far from the house we had just left.  He appeared a little surprised to see us so soon, but very interested in what had taken place.

“Who is this Dr. Scott?” asked Craig when we were seated in the comfortable leather chairs of the old-fashioned consulting-room.

“Really, I know no more about him than you do,” replied Burnham.  I thought I detected a little of professional jealousy in his tone, though he went on frankly enough, “I have made inquiries and I can find out nothing except that he is supposed to be a graduate of some Western medical school and came to this city only a short time ago.  He has hired a small office in a new building devoted entirely to doctors and they tell me that he is an eye and ear specialist, though I cannot see that he has any practice.  Beyond that I know nothing about him.”