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“Jack, I want advice; I’m troubled, old chap. Come into my room while I dress for dinner. Don’t shy and stand on your hind-legs; it’s not about Agatha Sprowl; it’s about me, and I’m in trouble.”

The appeal flattered and touched Coursay, who had never expected that he, a weak and spineless back-slider, could possibly be of aid or comfort to his self-sufficient and celebrated cousin, Dr. Lansing.

They entered Lansing’s rooms; Coursay helped himself to some cognac, and smoked, waiting for Lansing to emerge from his dressing-room.

Presently, bathed, shaved, and in his shirt-sleeves, Lansing came in, tying his tie, a cigarette unlighted between his teeth.

“Jack,” he said, “give me advice, not as a self-centred, cautious, and orderly citizen of Manhattan, but as a young man whose heart leads his head every time! I want that sort of advice; and I can’t give it to myself.”

“Do you mean it?” demanded Coursay, incredulously.

“By Heaven, I do!” returned Lansing, biting his words short, as the snap of a whip.

He turned his back to the mirror, lighted his cigarette, took one puff, threw it into the grate. Then he told Coursay what had occurred between him and the young girl under the elm, reciting the facts minutely and exactly as they occurred.

“I have the box in my trunk yonder,” he went on; “the poor little thing managed to slip out while Munn was in the barn; I was waiting for her in the road.”

After a moment Coursay asked if the girl was stone blind.

“No,” said Lansing; “she can distinguish light from darkness; she can even make out form–in the dark; but a strong light completely blinds her.”

“Can you help her?” asked Coursay, with quick pity.

Lansing did not answer the question, but went on: “It’s been coming on–this blindness–since her fifth year; she could always see to read better in dark corners than in a full light. For the last two years she has not been able to see; and she’s only twenty, Jack–only twenty.”

“Can’t you help her?” repeated Coursay, a painful catch in his throat.

“I haven’t examined her,” said Lansing, curtly.

“But–but you are an expert in that sort of thing,” protested his cousin; “isn’t this in your line?”

“Yes; I sat and talked to her half an hour and did not know she was blind. She has a pair of magnificent deep-blue eyes; nobody, talking to her, could suspect such a thing. Still–her eyes were shaded by her hat.”

“What kind of blindness is it?” asked Coursay, in a shocked voice.

“I think I know,” said Lansing. “I think there can be little doubt that she has a rather unusual form of lamellar cataract.”

“Curable?” motioned Coursay.

“I haven’t examined her; how could I– But–I’m going to do it.”

“And if you operate?” asked Coursay, hopefully.

“Operate? Yes–yes, of course. It is needling, you know, with probability of repetition. We expect absorption to do the work for us–bar accidents and other things.”

“When will you operate?” inquired Coursay.

Lansing broke out, harshly: “God knows! That swindler, Munn, keeps her a prisoner. Doctors long ago urged her to submit to an operation; Munn refused, and he and his deluded women have been treating her by prayer for years–the miserable mountebank!”

“You mean that he won’t let you try to help her?”

“I mean just exactly that, Jack.”

Coursay got up with his clinched hands swinging and his eager face red as a pippin. “Why, then,” he said, “we’ll go and get her! Come on; I can’t sit here and let such things happen!”

Lansing laughed the laugh of a school-boy bent on deviltry.

“Good old Jack! That’s the sort of advice I wanted,” he said, affectionately. “We may see our names in the morning papers for this; but who cares? We may be arrested for a few unimportant and absurd things–but who cares? Munn will probably sue us; who cares? At any rate, we’re reasonably certain of a double-leaded column in the yellow press; but do you give a tinker’s damn?”