Harley Kent shrugged. "Figure it out for yourself. There were only three
of us in the house--Donovan, the chauffeur, the maid, and myself. Two
days ago I forgot to take some papers to New York. I telephoned Donovan
to bring them in. They were in the safe and I had to give him the
combination. Well, I'm off for the village. I understand you were a
police surgeon before----" The man coughed.
"Yes," said Dr. Stone without emotion. "Before I lost my sight."
"Well, if you'd like to run over and get the feel of a case again----"
"It might be interesting," the doctor said slowly.
Harley Kent went down the steps, a door slammed, and the car rolled away.
Joe had a glimpse of the uniformed figure at the wheel, and spoke in a
hoarse whisper:
"Will Donovan be put in jail, Uncle David?"
"Perhaps." The hand came up from the dog's head and tapped the porch
railing thoughtfully. "What time is it, Joe? About eight?"
"Five after."
"Two hours," Dr. Stone said as though speaking to himself. Abruptly he
jerked his head. "Time we had breakfast," he added, and boy and dog
followed at his heels. Here, in the home of his widowed sister that had
sheltered him for five years, he knew his way perfectly, and there was
nothing to mark him out as blind as he walked boldly toward the dining
room. And yet at the last moment, his handicap touched him with
uncertainty. He had to put out his hand to make sure of the table and
then fumble for his chair.
Joe wondered about jails, and was sorry for Donovan. Twice the man had
picked him up on the road and carried him into the village, and once he
had spent a fascinating afternoon in the Kent garage holding tools while
the chauffeur worked on the car. Did they lock a prisoner in a cell and
keep him there night and day?