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The Blind Spot

by Austin Hall · English · Gutenberg #4920 · 603,621 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Blind Spot

Author: Austin Hall
        Homer Eon Flint


        
Release date: January 1, 2004 [eBook #4920]
                Most recently updated: August 10, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4920

Credits: Text file produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLIND SPOT ***




Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team






THE BLIND SPOT

By Austin Hall And Homer Eon Flint

Introduction By Forrest J Ackerman




INTRODUCTION

THE LURE AND LORE OF “THE BLIND SPOT”

BY FORREST J ACKERMAN

The Blind Spot opens with the words: “Perhaps it were just as well to
start at the beginning. A mere matter of news.” Suppose I use them in
the same sense:

A mere matter of news: The first instalment of this fabulous novel was
featured in Argosy-All-Story-Weekly for May 14, 1921. Described as a
“different” serial, it was introduced by a cover by Modest Stein. In
the foreground was the profile of a girl of another dimension--ethereal,
sensuous, the eternal feminine--the Nervina of the story. Filmy
crystalline earrings swept back over her bare shoulders. Dominating the
background was a huge flaming yellow ball, like our Sun as seen from the
hypothetical Vulcan--splotched with murky, mysterious globii vitonae.
There was an ancient quay, and emerging from the ultramarine waters
about it a silhouetted metropolis of spires, domes, and minarets. It was
1921, and that generation thus received its first glimpse of the alien
landscape of The Blind Spot and the baroque beauty of an immortal woman
of fantasy fiction.

The authors? Homer Eon Flint was already a reigning favourite with
post-World-War-I enthusiasts of imaginative literature, who had eagerly
devoured his QUEEN OF LIFE and LORD OF DEATH, his KING OF CONSERVE
ISLAND and THE PLANETEER. Austin Hall was well known and popular for his
ALMOST IMMORTAL, REBEL SOUL, and INTO THE INFINITE.

Then came this epoch-making collaboration. When Mary Gnaedinger launched
Famous Fantastic Mysteries magazine she early presented THE BLIND SPOT,
and printed it again in that magazine's companion Fantastic Novels.
These reprints are now collectors' items, almost unobtainable,
and otherwise the story has long been out of print. Rumour says an
unauthorised German version of THE BLIND SPOT, has been published in
book form. There is another book called THE BLIND SPOT, and also a
magazine story, and a major movie studio was to produce a film of the
same title. However, here is presented the only hard-cover version of
the only BLIND SPOT of consequence to lovers of fantasy.

Who wrote the story? When I first looked into the question, as a 15 year
old boy, Homer Eon Flint (he originally spelled his name with a “d”)
was already dead of a fall into a canyon. In 1949 his widow told me: “I
think Homer's father contributed that middle name”--the same name (with
slightly different spelling) that the Irish poet George Russell took
as his pen-name, which became known by its abbreviation AE. Mrs. Flindt
said of Flint's father: “He was a very deep thinker, and enjoyed reading
heavy material.” Like father, like son. “Homer always talked over his
ideas with me, and although I couldn't always follow his thoughts it
seemed to help him to express them to another--it made some things come
more clearly to him.”

Flint was a great admirer of H. G. Wells (this little
grandmother-schoolteacher told me) and had probably read all his works
up to the time when he (Flint) died in 1924. He had read Doyle and
Haggard, but: “Wells was his favourite--the real thinker.”

Flint found a fellow-thinker in Austin Hall, whom he met in San
Jose, California, while working at a shop where shoes were repaired
electrically--“a rather new concept at the time.” Hall, learning that
Flint lived in the same city, sought him out, and they became fast
friends. Each stimulated the other. As Hall told me twenty years ago of
the origin of THE BLIND SPOT:

“One day after we had lunched together, I held my finger up in front of
one of my eyes and said: 'Homer, couldn't a story be written about that
blind spot in the eye?' Not much was said about it at the time, but four
days later, again at lunch, I outlined the whole story to him. I wrote
the first eighteen chapters; Homer took up the tale as 'Hobart Fenton'
and wrote the chapters about the house of miracles, the living death,
the rousing of Aradna's mind, and so forth, up to 'The Man from Space,'
where once again I took over.”

To THE BLIND SPOT Hall contributed a great knowledge of history and
anthropology, while Flint's fortes were physics and medicine. Both had a
great fund of philosophy at their command.

When I met Hall (about four years older than Flint) he was in his
fifties: a devil-may-care old codger (old to a fifteen-year-old, that
is) full of good humour and indulgence for a youthful admirer who had
journeyed far to meet him. He casually referred to his 600 published
stories, and I carried away the impression of one who resembled both
in output and in looks that other fiction-factory of the time, Edgar
Wallace.

Finally: Several years ago, before I knew anything about the present
volume, I had an unusual experience. (At that time I had no reason to
think THE BLIND SPOT would ever become available as a book, for the
location of the heirs proved a Herculean task by itself; publishers had
long wanted to present this amazing novel but could not do so until I
located Mrs. Mae Hall and Mrs. Mabel Flindt.) While, unfortunately, I
did not take careful notes at the time, the gist of the occurrence was
this:

I visited a friend whose hobby (besides reading fantasy) was the
occult, who volunteered to entertain me with automatic writing and
the ouija-board. Now, I share Lovecraft's scepticism towards the
supernatural, regarding it as at best a means of amusement. When the
question arose of what spirits we should try to lure to our planchette,
the names of Lovecraft, Merritt, Hall, and Flint popped into my
pixilated mind. So I set my fingers on the wooden heart and, since my
host was also a Flint admirer, we asked about Flint's fatal accident.
The ouija spelled out:

N-O A-C-C-I-D-E-N-T--R-O-B-B-E-R-Y

There followed something about being held up by a hitch-hiker. Then Hall
(or at least some energy-source other than my own conscious mind) came
through too, and when I asked if he had left any work behind he replied:

Y-E-S--T-H-E L-A-S-T G-O-D-L-I-N-G

Later I asked his son about this (without revealing the title) and Javen
Hall told me of the story his father had been plotting when he died: THE
HIDDEN EMPIRE, or THE CHILD OF THE SOUTHWIND. Whatever was pushing the
planchette failed to inform me that when I found Austin Hall's son and
widow, they would put into my hands an unknown, unpublished fantasy
novel by Hall: THE HOUSE OF DAWN! Some day it may appear in print.

Meanwhile you are getting understandably impatient to explore that
unknown realm of the Blind Spot. Be on your way, and bon voyage!

FORREST J ACKERMAN, Beverley Hills, Calif.





PROLOGUE

Perhaps it were just as well to start at the beginning. A mere matter of
news.

All the world at the time knew the story; but for the benefit of those
who have forgotten I shall repeat it. I am merely giving it as I have
taken it from the papers with no elaboration and no opinion--a mere
statement of facts. It was a celebrated case at the time and stirred the
world to wonder. Indeed, it still is celebrated, though to the layman it
is forgotten.

It has been labelled and indexed and filed away in the archives of the
profession. To those who wish to look it up it will be spoken of as one
of the great unsolved mysteries of the century. A crime that leads two
ways, one into murder--sordid, cold and calculating; and the other into
the nebulous screen that thwarts us from the occult.

Perhaps it is the character of Dr. Holcomb that gives the latter. He was
a great man and a splendid thinker. That he should have been led into a
maze of cheap necromancy is, on the face, improbable. He had a wonderful
mind. For years he had been battering down the scepticism that had
bulwarked itself in the material.

He was a psychologist, and up to the day the greatest, perhaps, that we
have known. He had a way of going out before his fellows--it is the way
of genius--and he had gone far, indeed, before them. If we would trust
Dr. Holcomb we have much to live for; our religion is not all hearsay
and there is a great deal in science still unthought of. It is an
unfortunate case; but there is much to be learned in the circumstance
that led the great doctor into the Blind Spot.




I

RHAMDA AVEC


On a certain foggy morning in September, 1905, a tall man wearing a
black overcoat and bearing in one hand a small satchel of dark-reddish
leather descended from a Geary Street tram at the foot of Market Street,
San Francisco. It was a damp morning; a mist was brooding over the city
blurring all distinctness.

The man glanced about him; a tall man of trim lines and distinctness
and a quick, decided step and bearing. In the shuffle of descending
passengers he was outstanding, with a certain inborn grace that without
the blood will never come from training. Men noticed and women out of
instinct cast curious furtive glances and then turned away; which was
natural, inasmuch as the man was plainly old. But for all that many
ventured a second glance--and wondered.

An old man with the poise of twenty, a strange face of remarkable
features, swarthy, of an Eastern cast, perhaps Indian; whatever the
certainty of the man's age there was still a lingering suggestion
of splendid youth. If one persisted in a third or fourth look this
suggestion took an almost certain tone, the man's age dwindled, years
dropped from him, and the quizzical smile that played on the lips seemed
a foreboding of boyish laughter.

We say foreboding because in this case it is not mistaken diction.
Foreboding suggests coming evil; the laughter of boys is wholehearted.
It was merely that things were not exactly as they should be; it was not
natural that age should be so youthful. The fates were playing, and in
this case for once in the world's history their play was crosswise.

It is a remarkable case from the beginning and we are starting from
facts. The man crossed to the window of the Key Route ferry and
purchased a ticket for Berkeley, after which, with the throng, he passed
the turnstile and on to the boat that was waiting. He took the lower
deck, not from choice, apparently, but more because the majority of his
fellow passengers, being men, were bound in this direction. The same
chance brought him to the cigar-stand. The men about him purchased
cigars and cigarettes, and as is the habit of all smokers, strolled off
with delighted relish. The man watched them. Had anyone noticed his eyes
he would have noted a peculiar colour and a light of surprise. With the
prim step that made him so distinctive he advanced to the news-stand.

“Pardon me; but I would like to purchase one of those.” Though he spoke
perfect English it was in a strange manner, after the fashion of one
who has found something that he has just learned how to use. At the
same time he made a suggestion with his tapered fingers indicating the
tobacco in the case. The clerk looked up.

“A cigar, sir? Yes, sir. What will it be?”

“A cigar?” Again the strange articulation. “Ah, yes, that is it. Now
I remember. And it has a little sister, the cigarette. I think I shall
take a cigarette, if--if--if you will show me how to use it.”

It was a strange request. The clerk was accustomed to all manner of
men and their brands of humour; he was about to answer in kind when he
looked up and into the man's eyes. He started.

“You mean,” he asked, “that you have never seen a cigar or cigarette;
that you do not know how to use them? A man as old as you are.”

The stranger laughed. It was rather resentful, but for all that of a
hearty taint of humour.

“So old? Would you say that I am as old as that; if you will look
again--”

The young man did and what he beheld is something that he could not
quite account for: the strange conviction of this remarkable man; of age
melting into youth, of an uncertain freshness, the smile, not of sixty,
but of twenty. The young man was not one to argue, whatever his wonder;
he was first of all a lad of business; he could merely acquiesce.

“The first time! This is the first time you have ever seen a cigar or
cigarette?”

The stranger nodded.

“The first time. I have never beheld one of them before this morning. If
you will allow me?” He indicated a package. “I think I shall take one of
these.”

The clerk took up the package, opened the end, and shook out a single
cigarette. The man lit it and, as the smoke poured out of his mouth,
held the cigarette tentatively in his fingers.

“Like it?” It was the clerk who asked.

The other did not answer, his whole face was the expression of having
just discovered one of the senses. He was a splendid man and, if the
word may be employed of the sterner sex, one of beauty. His features
were even; that is to be noted, his nose chiselled straight and to
perfection, the eyes of a peculiar sombreness and lustre almost burning,
of a black of such intensity as to verge into red and to be devoid of
pupils, and yet, for all of that, of a glow and softness. After a moment
he turned to the clerk.

“You are young, my lad.”

“Twenty-one, sir.”

“You are fortunate. You live in a wonderful age. It is as wonderful as
your tobacco. And you still have many great things before you.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man walked on to the forward part of the boat; leaving the youth,
who had been in a sort of daze, watching. But it was not for long. The
whole thing had been strange and to the lad almost inexplicable. The man
was not insane, he was certain; and he was just as sure that he had not
been joking. From the start he had been taken by the man's refinement,
intellect and education. He was positive that he had been sincere. Yet--

The ferry detective happened at that moment to be passing. The clerk
made an indication with his thumb.

“That man yonder,” he spoke, “the one in black. Watch him.” Then he told
his story. The detective laughed and walked forward.

It was a most fortunate incident. It was a strange case. That mere act
of the cigar clerk placed the police on the track and gave to the world
the only clue that it holds of the Blind Spot.

The detective had laughed at the lad's recital--almost any one had a
patent for being queer--and if this gentleman had a whim for a certain
brand of humour that was his business. Nevertheless, he would stroll
forward.

The man was not hard to distinguish; he was standing on the forward deck
facing the wind and peering through the mist at the grey, heavy heave of
the water. Alongside of them the dim shadow of a sister ferry screamed
its way through the fogbank. That he was a landsman was evidenced by his
way of standing; he was uncertain; at every heave of the boat he would
shift sidewise. An unusually heavy roll caught him slightly off-balance
and jostled him against the detective. The latter held up his hand and
caught him by the arm.

“A bad morning,” spoke the officer. “B-r-r-r! Did you notice the Yerbe
Buena yonder? She just grazed us. A bad morning.”

The stranger turned. As the detective caught the splendid face, the
glowing eyes and the youthful smile, he started much as had done the
cigar clerk. The same effect of the age melting into youth and--the
officer being much more accustomed to reading men--a queer sense of
latent and potent vision. The eyes were soft and receptive but for
all that of the delicate strength and colour that comes from abnormal
intellect. He noted the pupils, black, glowing, of great size, almost
filling the iris and the whole melting into intensity that verged into
red. Either the man had been long without sleep or he was one of unusual
intelligence and vitality.

“A nasty morning,” repeated the officer.

“Ah! Er, yes--did you say it was a nasty morning? Indeed, I do not know,
sir. However, it is very interesting.”

“Stranger in San Francisco?”

“Well, yes. At least, I have never seen it.”

“H-m!” The detective was a bit nonplussed by the man's evident evasion.
“Well, if you are a stranger I suppose it is up to me to come to
the defence of my city. This is one of Frisco's fogs. We have them
occasionally. Sometimes they last for days. This one is a low one.
It will lift presently. Then you will see the sun. Have you ever seen
Frisco's sun?”

“My dear sir”--this same slow articulation--“I have never seen your sun
nor any other.”

“Hum!”

It was an answer altogether unexpected. Again the officer found himself
gazing into the strange, refined face and wonderful eyes. The man was
not blind, of that he was certain. Neither was his voice harsh or testy.
Rather was it soft and polite, of one merely stating a fact. Yet how
could it be? He remembered the cigar clerk. Neither cigar nor sun! From
what manner of land could the man come? A detective has a certain
gift of intuition. Though on the face of it, outside of the man's
personality, there could be nothing to it but a joke, he chose to act
upon the impulse. He pulled back the door which had been closed behind
them and re-entered the boat. When he returned the boat had arrived at
the pier.

“You are going to Oakland?”

It was a chance question.

“No, to Berkeley. I take a train here, I understand. Do all the trains
go to Berkeley?”

“By no means. I am going to Berkeley myself. We can ride together. My
name is Jerome. Albert Jerome.”

“Thanks. Mine is Avec. Rhamda Avec. I am much obliged. Your company may
be instructive.”

He did not say more, but watched with unrestrained interest their
manoeuvre into the slip. A moment later they were marching with the
others down the gangways to the trains waiting. Just as they were seated
and the electric train was pulling out of the pier the sun breaking
through the mist blazed with splendid light through the cloud rifts. The
stranger was next to the window where he could look out over the water
and beyond at the citied shoreline, whose sea of housetops extended and
rose to the peaks of the first foothills. The sun was just coming over
the mountains.

The detective watched. There was sincerity in the man's actions. It was
not acting. When the light first broke he turned his eyes full into the
radiance. It was the act of a child and, so it struck the officer, of
the same trust and simplicity--and likewise the same effect. He drew
away quickly: for the moment blinded.

“Ah!” he said. “It is so. This is the sun. Your sun is wonderful!”

“Indeed it is,” returned the other. “But rather common. We see it every
day. It's the whole works, but we get used to it. For myself I cannot
see anything strange in the 'sun's still shining.' You have been blind,
Mr. Avec? Pardon the question. But I must naturally infer. You say you
have never seen the sun. I suppose--”

He stopped because of the other's smile; somehow it seemed a very
superior one, as if predicting a wealth of wisdom.

“My dear Mr. Jerome,” he spoke, “I have never been blind in my life. I
say it is wonderful! It is glorious and past describing. So is it all,
your water, your boats, your ocean. But I see there is one thing even
stranger still. It is yourselves. With all your greatness you are only
part of your surroundings. Do you know what is your sun?”

“Search me,” returned the officer. “I'm no astronomer. I understand they
don't know themselves. Fire, I suppose, and a hell of a hot one! But
there is one thing that I can tell.”

“And this--”

“Is the truth.”

If he meant it for insinuation it was ineffective. The other smiled
kindly. In the fine effect of the delicate features, and most of all
in the eyes was sincerity. In that face was the mark of genius--he felt
it--and of a potent superior intelligence. Most of all did he note the
beauty and the soft, silky superlustre of the eyes.

We have the whole thing from Jerome, at least this part of it; and our
interest being retrospect is multiplied far above that of the detective.
The stranger had a certain call of character and of appearance, not
to say magnetism. The officer felt himself almost believing and
yet restraining himself into caution of unbelief. It was a remark
preposterous on the face of it. What puzzled Jerome was the purpose;
he could think of nothing that would necessitate such statements and
acting. He was certain that the man was sane.

In the light of what came after great stress has been laid by a certain
class upon this incident. We may say that we lean neither way. We have
merely given it in some detail because of that importance. We have
yet no proof of the mystic and until it is proved, we must lean, like
Jerome, upon the cold material. We have the mystery, but, even at that,
we have not the certainty of murder.

Understand, it was intuition that led Jerome into that memorable trip to
Berkeley; he happened to be going off duty and was drawn to the man by
a chance incident and the fact of his personality. At this minute,
however, he thought no more of him than as an eccentric, as some
refined, strange wonderful gentleman with a whim for his own brand of
humour. Only that could explain it. The man had an evident curiosity
for everything about him, the buildings, the street, the cars, and the
people. Frequently he would mutter: “Wonderful, wonderful, and all the
time we have never known it. Wonderful!”

As they drew into Lorin the officer ventured a question.

“You have friends in Berkeley? I see you are a stranger. If I may
presume, perhaps I may be of assistance?”

“Well, yes, if--if--do you know of a Dr. Holcomb?”

“You mean the professor. He lives on Dwight Way. At this time of the
day you would be more apt to find him at the university. Is he expecting
you?”

It was a blunt question and of course none of his business. Yet,
just what another does not want him to know is ever the pursuit of a
detective. At the same time the subconscious flashing and wondering at
the name Rhamda Avec--surely neither Teutonic nor Sanskrit nor anything
between.

“Expecting me? Ah, yes. Pardon me if I speak slowly. I am not quite used
to speech--yet. I see you are interested. After I see Dr. Holcomb I may
tell you. However, it is very urgent that I see the doctor. He--well, I
may say that we have known each other a long time.”

“Then you know him?”

“Yes, in a way; though we have never met. He must be a great man. We
have much in common, your doctor and I; and we have a great deal to
give to your world. However, I would not recognise him should I see him.
Would you by any chance--”

“You mean would I be your guide? With pleasure. It just happens that I
am on friendly terms with your friend Dr. Holcomb.”




II

THE PROFESSOR OF PHILOSOPHY


And now to start in on another angle. There is hardly any necessity for
introducing Dr. Holcomb. All of us, at least, those who read, and, most
of all, those of us who are interested in any manner of speculation,
knew him quite well. He was the professor of philosophy at the
University of California: a great man and a good one, one of those fine
academic souls who, not only by their wisdom, but by their character,
have a way of stamping themselves upon generations; a speaker of the
upstanding class, walking on his own feet and utterly fearless when it
came to dashing out on some startling philosophy that had not been borne
up by his forebears.

He was original. He believed that the philosophies of the ages are but
stepping stones, that the wisdom of the earth looked but to the future,
and that the study of the classics, however essential, is but the ground
work for combining and working out the problems of the future. He was
epigrammatic, terse, and gifted with a quaint humour, with which he
was apt, even when in the driest philosophy, to drive in and clinch his
argument.

Best of all, he was able to clothe the most abstract thoughts in
language so simple and concrete that he brought the deepest of all
subjects down to the scope of the commonest thinker. It is needless
to say that he was 'copy.' The papers about the bay were ever and anon
running some startling story of the professor.

Had they stuck to the text it would all have been well; but a reporter
is a reporter; in spite of the editors there were numerous little
elaborations to pervert the context. A great man must be careful of his
speech. Dr. Holcomb was often busy refuting; he could not understand the
need of these little twistings of wisdom. It kept him in controversy;
the brothers of his profession often took him to task for these little
distorted scraps of philosophy. He did not like journalism. He had a way
of consigning all writers and editors to the devil.

Which was vastly amusing to the reporters. Once they had him going they
poised their pens in glee and began splashing their venomous ink. It was
tragic; the great professor standing at bay to his tormentors. One and
all they loved him and one and all they took delight in his torture. It
was a hard task for a reporter to get in at a lecture; and yet it was
often the lot of the professor to find himself and his words featured in
his breakfast paper.

On the very day before this the doctor had come out with one of his
terse startling statements. He had a way of inserting parenthetically
some of his scraps of wisdom. It was in an Ethics class. We quote his
words as near as possible:

“Man, let me tell you, is egotistic. All our philosophy is based on ego.
We live threescore years and we balance it with all eternity. We are it.
Did you ever stop and think of eternity? It is a rather long time.
What right have we to say that life, which we assume to be everlasting,
immediately becomes restrospect once it passes out of the conscious
individuality which is allotted upon this earth? The trouble is
ourselves. We are five-sensed. We weigh everything! We so measure
eternity. Until we step out into other senses, which undoubtedly exist,
we shall never arrive at the conception of infinity. Now I am going to
make a rather startling announcement.

“The past few years have promised a culmination which has been guessed
at and yearned for since the beginning of time. It is within, and still
without, the scope of metaphysics. Those of you who have attended my
lectures have heard me call myself the material idealist. I am a
mystic sensationalist. I believe that we can derive nothing from pure
contemplation. There is mystery and wonder in the veil of the
occult. The earth, our life, is merely a vestibule of the universe.
Contemplation alone will hold us all as inapt and as impotent as the
old Monks of Athos. We have mountains of literature behind us, all
contemplative, and whatever its wisdom, it has given us not one thing
outside the abstract. From Plato down to the present our philosophy
has given us not one tangible proof, not one concrete fact which we can
place our hands on. We are virtually where we were originally; and we
can talk, talk, talk from now until the clap of doomsday.

“What then?

“My friends, philosophy must take a step sidewise. In this modern age
young science, practical science, has grown up and far surpassed us. We
must go back to the beginning, forget our subjective musings and enter
the concrete. We are five-sensed, and in the nature of things we must
bring the proof down into the concrete where we can understand it. Can
we pierce the nebulous screen that shuts us out of the occult? We have
doubted, laughed at ourselves and been laughed at; but the fact remains
that always we have persisted in the believing.

“I have said that we shall never, never understand infinity while within
the limitations of our five senses. I repeat it. But that does not imply
that we shall never solve some of the mystery of life. The occult is not
only a supposition, but a fact. We have peopled it with terror, because,
like our forebears before Columbus, we have peopled it with imagination.

“And now to my statement.

“I have called myself the Material Idealist. I have adopted an entirely
new trend of philosophy. During the past years, unknown to you and
unknown to my friends, I have allied myself with practical science. I
desired something concrete. While my colleagues and others were pounding
out tomes of wonderful sophistry I have been pounding away at the screen
of the occult. This is a proud moment. I have succeeded. Tomorrow I
shall bring to you the fact and the substance. I have lifted up the
curtain and flooded it with the light of day. You shall have the fact
for your senses. Tomorrow I shall explain it all. I shall deliver my
greatest lecture; in which my whole Me has come to a focus. It is not
spiritualism nor sophistry. It is concrete fact and common sense. The
subject of my lecture tomorrow will be: 'The Blind Spot.'”

Here begins the second part of the mystery.

We know now that the great lecture was never delivered. Immediately the
news was scattered out of the class-room. It became common property.
It was spread over the country and was featured in all the great
metropolitan dailies. In the lecture-room next morning seats were at a
premium; students, professors, instructors and all the prominent people
who could gain admission crowded into the hall; even the irrepressible
reporters had stolen in to take down the greatest scoop of the century.
The place was jammed until even standing room was unthought of. The
crowd, dense and packed and physically uncomfortable, waited.

The minutes dragged by. It was a long, long wait. But at last the bell
rang that ticked the hour. Every one was expectant. And then fifteen
minutes passed by, twenty--the crowd settled down to waiting. At length
one of the colleagues stepped into the doctor's office and telephoned to
his home. His daughter answered.

“Father? Why he left over two hours ago.”

“About what time?”

“Why, it was about seven-thirty. You know he was to deliver his lecture
today on the Blind Spot. I wanted to hear it, but he told me I could
have it at home. He said he was to have a wonderful guest and I must
make ready to receive him. Isn't father there?”

“Not yet. Who was this guest? Did he say?”

“Oh yes! In a way. A most wonderful man. And he gave him a wonderful
name, Rhamda Avec. I remember because it is so funny. I asked father if
he was Sanskrit; and he said he was much older than that. Just imagine!”

“Did your father have his lecture with him?”

“Oh, yes. He glanced over it at breakfast. He told me he was going to
startle the world as it had never been since the day of Columbus.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes. And he was terribly impatient. He said he had to be at the college
before eight to receive the great man. He was to deliver his lecture at
ten. And afterward he would have lunch at noon and he would give me the
whole story. I'm all impatience.”

“Thank you.”

Then he came back and made the announcement that there was a little
delay; but that Dr. Holcomb would be there shortly. But he was not. At
twelve o'clock there were still some people waiting. At one o'clock the
last man had slipped out of the room--and wondered. In all the country
there was but one person who knew. That one was an obscure man who had
yielded to a detective's intuition and had fallen inadvertently upon one
of the greatest mysteries of modern times.




III

“NOW THERE ARE TWO”


The rest of the story is unfortunately all too easily told. We go back
to Jerome and his strange companion.

At Centre Street station they alighted and walked up to the university.
Under the Le Conte oaks they met the professor. He was trim and happy,
his short, well-built figure clothed in black, his snow-white whiskers
trimmed to the usual square crop and his pink skin glowing with splendid
health. The fog had by this time lifted and the sun was just beginning
to overcome the chilliness of the air. There was no necessity for an
introduction.

The two men apparently recognised each other at once. So we have it from
the detective. There was sincerity in the delight of their hand-clasp. A
strange pair, both of them with the distinction and poise that come
from refinement and intellectual training; though in physique they were
almost opposite, there was still a strange, almost mutual, bond between
them. Dr. Holcomb was beaming.

“At last!” he greeted. “At last! I was sure we could not fail. This, my
dear Dr. Avec, is the greatest day since Columbus.”

The other took the hand.

“So this is the great Dr. Holcomb. Yes, indeed, it is a great day;
though I know nothing about your Columbus. So far it has been simply
wonderful. I can scarcely credit my senses. So near and yet so far. How
can it be? A dream? Are you sure, Dr. Holcomb?”

“My dear Rhamda, I am sure that I am the happiest man that ever lived.
It is the culmination. I was certain we could not fail; though, of
course, to me also it is an almost impossible climax of fact. I should
never have succeeded without your assistance.”

The other smiled.

“That was of small account, my dear doctor. To yourself must go the
credit; to me the pleasure. Take your sun, for instance, I--but I have
not the language to tell you.”

But the doctor had gone in to abstraction.

“A great day,” he was beaming. “A great day! What will the world say? It
is proved.” Then suddenly: “You have eaten?”

“Not yet. You must allow me a bit of time. I thought of it; but I had
not quite the courage to venture.”

“Then we shall eat,” said the other man. “Afterward we shall go up to
the lecture-room. Today I shall deliver my lecture on the Blind Spot.
And when I am through you shall deliver the words that will astonish the
world.”

But here it seems there was a hitch. The other shook his head kindly.
It was evident that while the doctor was the leader, the other was a
co-worker who must be considered.

“I am afraid, professor, that you have promised a bit too much. I am not
entirely free yet, you know. Two hours is the most that I can give you;
and not entirely that. There are some details that may not be neglected.
It is a far venture and now that we have succeeded this far there is
surely no reason why we cannot go on. However, it is necessary that I
return to the house on Chatterton Place. I have but slightly over an
hour left.”

The doctor was plainly disappointed.

“But the lecture?”

“It means my life, professor, and the subsequent success of our
experiment. A few details, a few minutes. Perhaps if we hurry we can get
back in time.”

The doctor glanced at his watch. “Twenty minutes for the train, twenty
minutes for the boat, ten minutes; that's an hour, two hours. These
details? Have you any idea how long, Rhamda?”

“Perhaps not more than fifteen minutes.”

“We have still two hours. Fifteen minutes; perhaps a little bit late.
Tell you what. I shall go with you. You can get on the boat.”

We have said that the detective had intuition. He had it still. Yet
he had no rational reason for suspecting either the professor or his
strange companion. Furthermore he had never heard of the Blind Spot
in any way whatsoever; nor did he know a single thing of philosophy
or anything else in Holcomb's teaching. He knew the doctor as a man
of eminent standing and respectability. It was hardly natural that he
should suspect anything sinister to grow out of this meeting of two
refined scholars. He attached no great importance to the trend of their
conversation. It was strange, to be sure; but he felt, no doubt, that
living in their own world they had a way and a language of their own. He
was no scholar.

Still, he could think. The man Rhamda had made an assertion that he
could not quite uncover. It puzzled him. Something told him that for the
safety of his old friend it might be well for him to shadow the strange
pair to the city.

When the next train pulled out for the pier the two scholars were
seated in the forward part of the car. In the last seat was a man deeply
immersed in a morning paper.

It is rather unfortunate. In the natural delicacy of the situation
Jerome could not crowd too closely. He had no certainty of trouble; no
proof whatever; he was known to the professor. The best he could do was
to keep aloof and follow their movements. At the ferry building they
hailed a taxi and started up Market Street. Jerome watched them. In
another moment he had another driver and was winding behind in their
wheel tracks. The cab made straight for Chatterton Place. In front of a
substantial two-story house it drew up. The two men alighted. Jerome's
taxi passed them.

They were then at the head of the steps; a woman of slender beauty
with a wonderful loose fold of black hair was talking. It seemed to the
detective that her voice was fearful, of a pregnant warning, that she
was protesting. Nevertheless, the old men entered and the door slammed
behind them. Jerome slipped from the taxi and spoke a few words to
the driver. A moment later the two men were holding the house under
surveillance.

They did not have long to wait. The man called Rhamda had asked for
fifteen minutes. At the stroke of the second the front door re-opened.
Someone was laughing; a melodious enchanting laugh and feminine. A woman
was speaking. And then there were two forms in the doorway. A man and
a woman. The man was Rhamda Avec, tall, immaculate, black clad and
distinguished. The woman, Jerome was not certain that she was the
same who opened the door or not; she was even more beautiful. She
was laughing. Like her companion she was clad in black, a beautiful
shimmering material which sparkled in the sun like the rarest silk.
The man glanced carelessly up and down the street for a moment. Then he
assisted the lady down the steps and into the taxi. The door slammed;
and before the detective could gather his scattered wits they were lost
in the city.

Jerome was expecting the professor. Naturally when the door opened he
looked for the old gentleman and his companion. It was the doctor he was
watching, not the other. Though he had no rational reason for expecting
trouble he had still his hunch and his intuition. The man and woman
aroused suspicion; and likewise upset his calculation. He could not
follow them and stay with the professor. It was a moment for quick
decision. He wondered. Where was Dr. Holcomb? This was the day he was to
deliver his lecture on the Blind Spot. He had read the announcement in
the paper on the way back, together with certain comments by the editor.
In the lecture itself there was mystery. This strange one, Rhamda,
was mixed in the Blind Spot. Undoubtedly he was the essential fact and
substance. Until now he had not scented tragedy. Why had Rhamda and the
woman come out together? Where was the professor?

Where indeed?

At the end of a half-hour Jerome ventured across the street. He noted
the number 288. Then he ascended the steps and clanged at the knocker.
From the sounds that came from inside, the place was but partly
furnished. Hollow steps sounded down the hallway, shuffling, like weary
bones dragging slippers. The door opened and an old woman, very old,
peered out of the crack. She coughed. Though it was not a loud cough
it seemed to the detective that it would be her last one; there was so
little of her.

“Pardon me, but is Dr. Holcomb here?”

The old lady looked up at him. The eyes were of blank expressionless
blue; she was in her dotage.

“You mean--oh, yes, I think so, the old man with the white whiskers. He
was here a few minutes ago, with that other. But he just went out, sir,
he just went out.”

“No, I don't think so. There was a man went out and a woman. But not Dr.
Holcomb.”

“A woman? There was no woman.”

“Oh, yes, there was a woman--a very beautiful one.”

The old lady dropped her hand. It was trembling.

“Oh, dear,” she was saying. “This makes two. This morning it was a man
and now it is a woman, that makes two.”

It seemed to the man as he looked down in her eyes that he was looking
into great fear; she was so slight and frail and helpless and so old;
such a fragile thing to bear burden and trouble. Her voice was cracked
and just above a shrill whisper, almost uncanny. She kept repeating:

“Now there are two. Now there are two. That makes two. This morning
there was one. Now there are two.”

Jerome could not understand. He pitied the old lady.

“Did you say that Dr. Holcomb is here?”

Again she looked up: the same blank expression, she was evidently trying
to gather her wits.

“Two. A woman. Dr. Holcomb. Oh, yes, Dr. Holcomb. Won't you come in?”

She opened the door.

Jerome entered and took off his hat. Judicially he repeated the doctor's
name to keep it in her mind. She closed the door carefully and touched
his arm. It seemed to him that she was terribly weak and tottering; her
old eyes, however expressionless, were full of pitiful pleading. She was
scarcely more than a shadow.

“You are his son?”

Jerome lied; but he did it for a reason. “Yes.”

“Then come.”

She took him by the sleeve and led him to a room, then across it to a
door in the side wall. Her step was slow and feeble; twice she stopped
to sing the dirge of her wonder. “First a man and then a woman. Now
there is one. You are his son.” And twice she stopped and listened. “Do
you hear anything? A bell? I love to hear it: and then afterward I am
afraid. Did you ever notice a bell? It always makes you think of church
and the things that are holy. This is a beautiful bell--first--”

Either the woman was without her reason or very nearly so: she was very
frail.

“Come, mother, I know, first a bell, but Dr. Holcomb?”

The name brought her back again. For a moment she was blank trying to
recall her senses. And then she remembered. She pointed to the door.

“In there--Dr. Holcomb. That's where they come. That's where they
go. Dr. Holcomb. The little old man with the beautiful whiskers. This
morning it was a man; now it is a woman. Now there are two. Oh, dear;
perhaps we shall hear the bell.”

Jerome began to scent a tragedy. Certainly the old lady was uncanny; the
house was bare and hollow; the scant furniture was threadbare with
age and mildew; each sound was exaggerated and fearful, even their
breathing. He placed his hand on the knob and opened the door.

“Now there are two. Now there are two.”

The room was empty. Not a bit of furniture; a blank, bare apartment with
an old-fashioned high ceiling. Nothing else. Whatever the weirdness and
adventure, Jerome was getting nowhere. The old lady was still clinging
to his arm and still droning:

“Now there are two. Now there are two. This morning a man; now a woman.
Now there are two.”

“Come, mother, come. This will not do. Perhaps--”

But just then the old lady's lean fingers clinched into his arm; her
eyes grew bright; her mouth opened and she stopped in the middle of her
drone. Jerome grew rigid. And no wonder. From the middle of the room
not ten feet away came the tone of a bell, a great silvery voluminous
sound--and music. A church bell. Just one stroke, full toned, filling
all the air till the whole room was choked with music. Then as suddenly
it died out and faded into nothing. At the same time he felt the fingers
on his arm relax; and a heap was at his feet. He reached over. The life
and intelligence that was so near the line was just crossing over the
border. The poor old lady! Here was a tragedy he could not understand.
He stooped over to assist her. He was trembling. As he did so he heard
the drone of her soul as it wafted to the shadow:

“Now there are two.”




IV

GONE


Jerome was a strong man, of iron nerve, and well set against emotion;
in the run of his experience he had been plumped into many startling
situations; but none like this. The croon of the old lady thrummed in
his ears with endless repetition. He picked her up tenderly and bore her
to another room and placed her on a ragged sofa. There were still marks
on her face of former beauty. He wondered who she was and what had been
her life to come to such an ending.

“Now there are two,” the words were withering with oppression.
Subconsciously he felt the load that crushed her spirit. It was as if
the burden had been shifted; he sensed the weight of an unaccountable
disaster.

The place was musty and ill-lighted. He looked about him, the dank,
close air was unwashed by daylight. A stray ray of sunshine filtering
through the broken shutter slanted across the room and sought vainly
to dispel the shadow. He thought of Dr. Holcomb and the old lady.
“Now there are two.” Was it a double tragedy? First of all he must
investigate.

The place was of eleven rooms, six downstairs and five on the upper
story. With the exception of one broken chair there was no furniture
upstairs; four of the rooms on the lower floor were partly furnished,
two not at all. A rear room had evidently been to the old lady the
whole of her habitation, serving as a kitchen, bedroom, and living-room
combined. Except in this room there were no carpets what-ever. His steps
sounded hollow and ghostly; the boards creaked and each time he opened
a door he was oppressed by the same gloom of dankness and stagnation.
There was no trace of Dr. Holcomb.

He remembered the bell and sought vainly on both floors for anything
that would give him a clue to the sound. There was nothing. The only
thing he heard was the echoing of his own creaking footsteps and the
unceasing tune that dinned in his spirit, “Now there are two.”

At last he came to the door and looked out into the street. The sun
was shining and the life and pulse was rising from the city. It was
daylight; plain, healthy day. It was good to look at. On the threshold
of the door he felt himself standing on the border of two worlds. What
had become of the doctor and who was the old lady; and lastly and just
as important, who was the Rhamda and his beautiful companion?

Jerome telephoned to headquarters.

It was a strange case.

At the precise minute when his would-be auditors were beginning to
fidget over his absence, the police of San Francisco had started the
search for the great doctor. Jerome had followed his intuition. It had
led him into a tragedy and he was ready to swear almost on his soul
that it was twofold. The prominence of the professor, together with his
startling announcement of the day previous and the world-wide comment
that it had aroused, elevated the case to a national interest.

What was the Blind Spot? The world conjectured, and like the world has
been since beginning, it scoffed and derided. Some there were, however,
men well up in the latest discoveries of science, who did not laugh.
They counselled forbearance; they would wait for the doctor and his
lecture.

There was no lecture. In the teeth of our expectation came the startling
word that the doctor had disappeared. Apparently when on the very verge
of announcing his discovery he had been swallowed by the very force that
he had loosened. There was nothing in known science outside of optics,
that could in any way be blended with the Blind Spot. There were but two
solutions; either the professor had been a victim of a clever rogue, or
he had been overcome by the rashness of his own wisdom. At any rate, it
was known from that minute on as “THE BLIND SPOT.”

Perhaps it is just as well to take up the findings of the police. The
police of course never entertained any suggestion of the occult. They
are material; and were convinced from the start that the case had its
origin in downright villainy. Man is complex; but being so, is oft
overbalanced by evil Some genius had made a fool of the doctor.

In the first place a thorough search was made for the professor. The
house at No. 288 Chatterton Place was ransacked from cellar to attic.
The records were gone over and it was found that the property had for
some time been vacant; that the real ownership was vested in a number of
heirs scattered about the country.

The old lady had apparently been living on the place simply through
sufferance. No one could find out who she was. A few tradesman in the
vicinity had sold her some scant supplies and that was all. The stress
that Jerome placed upon her actions and words was; given its due
account. There were undoubtedly two villains; but there were two
victims. That the old lady was such as well as the professor no one has
doubted. The whole secret lay in the gentleman with the Eastern cast and
complexion. Who was Rhamda Avec?

And now comes the strangest part of the story. Ever, when we re-count
the tale, there is something to overturn the theories of the police.
It has become a sort of legend in San Francisco; one to be taken with
a grain of salt, to be sure, but for all that, one at which we may well
wonder. Here the supporters of the professor's philosophy hold their
strongest point--if it is true. Of course we can venture no private
opinion, never having been a witness. It is this:

Rhamda Avec is with us and in our city. His description and drawn
likeness have been published many times. There are those who aver that
they have seen him in reality of the flesh walking through the crowds of
Market Street.

He is easily distinguished, tall and distinctive, refined to a high
degree, and with the poise and alertness of a gentleman of reliance and
character. Women look twice and wonder; he is neither old nor young;
when he smiles it is like youth breaking in laughter. And with him often
is his beautiful companion.

Men vouch for her beauty and swear that it is of the kind that drives to
distraction. She is fire and flesh and carnal--she is more than beauty.
There is allurement about her body; sylph-like, sinuous; the olive
tint of her complexion, the wonderful glory of her hair and the glowing
night-black of her eyes. Men pause; she is of the superlative kind that
robs the reason, a supreme glory of passion and life and beauty, at
whose feet fools and wise men would slavishly frolic and folly. She
seldom speaks, but those who have heard her say that it is like rippling
water, of gentleness and softness and of the mellow flow that comes from
love and passion and from beauty.

Of course there is nothing out of the ordinary in their walking down the
streets. Anybody might do that. The wonder comes in the manner in which
they elude the police. They come and go in the broad, bright daylight.
Hundreds have seen them. They make no effort at concealment, nor
disguise. And yet no phantoms were ever more unreal than they to those
who seek them. Who are they? The officers have been summoned on many
occasions; but each and every time in some manner or way they had
contrived to elude them. There are some who have consigned them to the
limbo of illusion. But we do not entirely agree.

In a case like this it is well to take into consideration the
respectability and character of those who have witnessed. Phantoms are
not corporeal; these two are flesh and blood. There is mystery about
them; but they are substance, the same as we are.

And lastly:

If you will take the Key Route ferry some foggy morning you may see
something to convince you. It must be foggy and the air must be grey and
drab and sombre. Take the lower deck. Perhaps you will see nothing. If
not try again; for they say you shall be rewarded. Watch the forward
part of the boat; but do not leave the inner deck. The great Rhamda
watching the grey swirl of the water!

He stands alone, in his hands the case of reddish leather, his feet
slightly apart and his face full of a great hungry wonder. Watch his
features: they are strong and aglow with a great and wondrous wisdom;
mark if you see evil. And remember. Though he is like you he is
something vastly different. He is flesh and blood; but perhaps the
master of one of the greatest laws that man can attain to. He is the
fact and the substance that was promised, but was not delivered by the
professor.

This account has been largely taken from one of the Sunday editions of
our papers. I do not agree with it entirely. Nevertheless, it will serve
as an excellent foundation for my own adventures; and what is best of
all, save labour.




V

FRIENDS


My name is Harry Wendel.

I am an attorney and until recently boasted of a splendid practice and
an excellent prospect for the future. I am still a young man; I have
had a good education and still have friends and admirers. Such being the
case, you no doubt wonder why I give a past reference to my practice and
what the future might have held for me. Listen:

I might as well start 'way back. I shall do it completely and go back to
the fast-receding time of childhood.

There is a recollection of childish disaster. I had been making
strenuous efforts to pull the tail out of the cat that I might use
it for a feather duster. My desire was supreme logic. I could not
understand objection; the cat resisted for certain utilitarian reasons
of its own and my mother through humane sympathy. I had been scratched
and spanked in addition: it was the first storm centre that I remember.
I had been punished but not subdued. At the first opportunity, I stole
out of the house and onto the lawn that stretched out to the pavement.

I remember the day. The sun was shining, the sky was clear, and
everything was green with springtime. For a minute I stood still and
blinked in the sunlight. It was beautiful and soft and balmy; the
world at full exuberance; the buds upon the trees, the flowers, and the
songbirds singing. I could not understand it. It was so beautiful and
soft. My heart was still beating fiercely, still black with perversity
and stricken rancour. The world had no right to be so. I hated with the
full rush of childish anger.

And then I saw.

Across the street coming over to meet me was a child of my age. He was
fat and chubby, a mass of yellow curls and laughter; when he walked he
held his feet out at angles as is the manner of fat boys and his arms
away from his body. I slid off the porch quietly. Here was something
that could suffer for the cat and my mother. At my rush he stopped in
wonder. I remember his smiling face and my anger. In an instant I had
him by the hair and was biting with all the fury of vindictiveness.

At first he set up a great bawl for assistance. He could not understand;
he screamed and held his hands aloft to keep them out of my reach. Then
he tried to run away. But I had learned from the cat that had scratched
me. I clung on, biting, tearing. The shrill of his scream was music: it
was conflict, sweet and delicious; it was strife, swift as instinct.

At last I stopped him; he ceased trying to get away and began to
struggle. It was better still; it was resistance. But he was stronger
than I; though I was quicker he managed to get my by the shoulders,
to force me back, and finally to upset me. Then in the stolid way, and
after the manner of fat boys, he sat upon my chest. When our startled
mothers came upon the scene they so found us--I upon my back, clinching
my teeth and threatening all the dire fates of childhood, and he waiting
either for assistance or until my ire should retire sufficiently to
allow him to release me in safety.

“Who did it? Who started it?”

That I remember plainly.

“Hobart, did you do this?” The fat boy backed off quietly and clung to
his mother; but he did not answer.

“Hobart, did you start this?”

Still no answer.

“Harry, this was you; you started it. Didn't you try to hurt Hobart?”

I nodded.

My mother took me by the hand and drew me away.

“He is a rascal, Mrs. Fenton, and has a temper like sin; but he will
tell the truth, thank goodness.”

I am telling this not for the mere relation, but by way of introduction.
It was my first meeting with Hobart Fenton. It is necessary that you
know us both and our characters. Our lives are so entwined and so
related that without it you could not get the gist of the story. In
the afternoon I came across the street to play with Hobart. He met me
smiling. It was not in his healthy little soul to hold resentment. I was
either all smiles or anger. I forgot as quickly as I battled. That night
there were two happy youngsters tucked into the bed and covers.

So we grew up; one with the other. We played as children do and fought
as boys have done from the beginning. I shall say right now that the
fights were mostly my fault. I started them one and all; and if every
battle had the same beginning it likewise had the same ending. The first
fight was but the forerunner of all the others.

Please do not think hardly of Hobart. He is the kindest soul in the
world; there never was a truer lad nor a kinder heart. He was strong,
healthy, fat, and, like fat boys, forever laughing. He followed me
into trouble and when I was retreating he valiantly defended the rear.
Stronger, sturdier, and slower, he has been a sort of protector from the
beginning. I have called him the Rear Guard; and he does not resent it.

I have always been in mischief, restless, and eager for anything that
would bring quick action; and when I got into deep water Hobart would
come along, pluck me out and pull me to shore and safety. Did you ever
see a great mastiff and a fox terrier running together? It is a homely
illustration; but an apt one.

We were boys together, with our delights and troubles, joys and sorrows.
I thought so much of Hobart that I did not shirk stooping to help him
take care of his baby sister. That is about the supreme sacrifice of
a boy's devotion. In after years, of course, he has laughed at me and
swears I did it on purpose. I do not know, but I am willing to admit
that I think a whole lot of that sister.

Side by side we grew up and into manhood. We went to school and
into college. Even as we were at odds in our physical builds and our
dispositions, so were we in our studies. From the beginning Hobart has
had a mania for screws, bolts, nuts, and pistons. He is practical; he
likes mathematics; he can talk to you from the binomial theorem up
into Calculus; he is never so happy as when the air is buzzing with
a conversation charged with induction coils, alternating currents,
or atomic energy. The whole swing and force of popular science is his
kingdom. I will say for Hobart that he is just about in line to be king
of it all. Today he is in South America, one of our greatest engineers.
He is bringing the water down from the Andes; and it is just about like
those strong shoulders and that good head to restore the land of the
Incas.

About myself? I went into the law. I enjoy an atmosphere of strife and
contention. I liked books and discussion and I thought that I would like
the law. On the advice of my elders I entered law college, and in due
time was admitted to practice. It was while studying to qualify that
I first ran into philosophy. I was a lad to enjoy quick, pithy,
epigrammatic statements. I have always favoured a man who hits from the
shoulder. Professor Holcomb was a man of terse, heavy thinking; he spoke
what he thought and he did not quibble. He favoured no one.

I must confess that the old white-haired professor left his stamp upon
me. I loved him like all the rest; though I was not above playing a
trick on the old fellow occasionally. Still he had a wit of his own and
seldom came out second best, and when he lost out he could laugh like
the next one. I was deeply impressed by him. As I took course after
course under him I was convinced that for all of his dry philosophy the
old fellow had a trick up his sleeve; he had a way of expounding that
was rather startling; likewise, he had a scarcely concealed contempt for
some of the demigods of our old philosophy.

What this trick was I could never uncover. I hung on and dug into great
tomes of wisdom. I became interested and gradually took up with his
speculation; for all my love of action I found that I had a strong
subcurrent for the philosophical.

Now I roomed with Hobart. When I would come home with some dry tome and
would lose myself in it by the hour he could not understand it. I was
preparing for the law. He could see no advantage to be derived from this
digging into speculation. He was practical and unless he could drive a
nail into a thing or at least dig into its chemical elements it was hard
to get him interested.

“Of what use is it, Harry? Why waste your brains? These old fogies have
been pounding on the question for three thousand years. What have they
got? You could read all their literature from the pyramids down to the
present sky-scrapers and you wouldn't get enough practical wisdom to
drive a dump-cart.”

“That's just it,” I answered. “I'm not hankering for a dump-cart.
You have an idea that all the wisdom in the world is locked up in the
concrete; unless a thing has wheels, pistons, some sort of combustion,
or a chemical action you are not interested. What gives you the control
over your machinery? Brains! But what makes the mind go?”

Hobart blinked. “Fine,” he answered. “Go on.”

“Well,” I answered, “that's what I am after.”

He laughed. “Great. Well, keep at it. It's your funeral, Harry. When you
have found, it let me know and I'll beat you to the patent.”

With that he turned to his desk and dug into one of his everlasting
formulas. Just the same, next day when I entered Holcomb's lecture-room
I was in for a surprise. My husky room-mate was in the seat beside me.

“What's the big idea?” I asked. “Big idea is right, Harry,” he grinned.
“Just thought I would beat you to it. Had a dickens of a time with
Dan Clark, of the engineering department. Told him I wanted to study
philosophy. The old boy put up a beautiful holler. Couldn't understand
what an engineer would want with psychology or ethics. Neither could I
until I got to thinking last night when I went to roost. Because a thing
has never been done is no reason why it never will be; is it, Harry?”

“Certainly not. I don't know just what you are driving at. Perhaps you
intend to take your notes over to the machine shop and hammer out the
Secret of the Absolute.”

He grinned.

“Pretty wise head at that, Harry. What did you call it? The Secret of
the Absolute. Will remember that. I'm not much on phrases; but I'm sure
the strong boy with the hammer. You don't object to my sitting here
beside you; so that I, too, may drink in the little drops of wisdom?”

It was in this way that Hobart entered into the study of philosophy.
When the class was over and we were going down the steps he patted me on
the shoulder.

“That's not so bad, Harry. Not so bad. The old doctor is there; he's got
them going. Likewise little Hobart has got a big idea.”

Now it happened that this was just about six weeks before Dr. Holcomb
announced his great lecture on the Blind Spot. It was not more than a
week after registration. In the time ensuing Fenton became just as
great an enthusiast as myself. His idea, of course, was chimerical and
a blind; his main purpose was to get in with me where he could argue me
out of my folly.

He wound up by being a convert of the professor.

Then came the great day. The night of the announcement we had a long
discussion. It was a deep question. For all of my faith in the professor
I was hardly prepared for a thing like this. Strange to say I was the
sceptic; and stranger still, it was Hobart who took the side of the
doctor.

“Why not?” he said. “It merely comes down to this: you grant that a
thing is possible and then you deny the possibility of a proof--outside
of your abstract. That's good paradox, Harry; but almighty poor logic.
If it is so it certainly can be proven. There's not one reason in the
world why we can't have something concrete. The professor is right. I am
with him. He's the only professor in all the ages.”

Well, it turned out as it did. It was a terrible blow to us all. Most
of the world took it as a great murder or an equally great case of
abduction. There were but few, even in the university, who embraced the
side of the doctor. It was a case of villainy, of a couple of remarkably
clever rogues and a trusting scholar.

But there was one whose faith was not diminished. He had been one of
the last to come under the influence of the doctor. He was practical and
concrete, and not at all attuned to philosophy; he had not the training
for deep dry thinking. He would not recede one whit. One day I caught
him sitting down with his head between his hands. I touched him on the
shoulder.

“What's the deep study?” I asked him.

He looked up. By his eyes I could see that his thoughts had been far
away.

“What's the deep study?” I repeated.

“I was just thinking, Harry; just thinking.”

“What?”

“I was just thinking, Harry, that I would like to have about one hundred
thousand dollars and about ten years' leisure.”

“That's a nice thought,” I answered; “I could think that myself. What
would you do with it?”

“Do? Why, there is just one thing that I would do if I had that much
money. I would solve the Blind Spot.”

This happened years ago while we were still in college. Many things have
occurred since then. I am writing this on the verge of disaster. How
little do we know! What was the idea that buzzed in the head of Hobart
Fenton? He is concrete, physical, fearless. He is in South America. I
have cabled to him and expect him as fast as steam can bring him. The
great idea and discovery of the professor is a fact, not fiction. What
is it? That I cannot answer. I have found it and I am a witness to its
potency.

Some law has been missed through the ages. It is inexorable and
insidious; it is concrete. Out of the unknown comes terror. Through the
love for the great professor I have pitted myself against it. From the
beginning it has been almost hopeless. I remember that last digression
in ethics. “The mystery of the occult may be solved. We are five-sensed.
When we bring the thing down to the concrete we may understand.”

Sometimes I wonder at the Rhamda. Is he a man or a phantom? Does he
control the Blind Spot? Is he the substance and the proof that was
promised by Dr. Holcomb? Through what process and what laws did the
professor acquire even his partial control over the phenomena? Where
did the Rhamda and his beautiful companion come from? Who are they? And
lastly--what was the idea that buzzed in the head of Hobart Fenton?

When I look back now I wonder. I have never believed in fate. I do not
believe in it now. Man is the master of his own destiny. We are cowards
else. Whatever is to be known we should know it. One's duty is ever to
one's fellows. Heads up and onward. I am not a brave man, perhaps, under
close analysis; but once I have given my word I shall keep it. I have
done my bit; my simple duty. Perhaps I have failed. In holding myself
against the Blind Spot I have done no more than would have been done by
a million others. I have only one regret. Failure is seldom rewarded. I
had hoped that my life would be the last; I have a dim hope still. If I
fail in the end, there must be still one more to follow.

Understand I do not expect to die. It is the unknown that I am afraid
of. I who thought that we knew so much have found it still so little.
There are so many laws in the weave of Cosmos that are still unguessed.
What is this death that we are afraid of? What is life? Can we solve it?
Is it permissible? What is the Blind Spot? If Hobart Fenton is right it
has nothing to do with death. If so, what is it?

My pen is weak. I am weary. I am waiting for Hobart. Perhaps I shall not
last. When he comes I want him to know my story. What he knows already
will not hurt repeating. It is well that man shall have it; it may be
that we shall both fail-there is no telling; but if we do the world can
profit by our blunders and guide itself--perhaps to the mastery of the
phenomenon that controls the Blind Spot.

I ask you to bear with me. If I make a few mistakes or I am a bit loose,
remember the stress under which I am writing. I shall try to be plain so
that all may follow.




VI

CHICK WATSON


Now to go back.

In due time we were both of us graduated from college. I went into the
law and Hobart into engineering. We were both successful. There was
not a thing to foreshadow that either of us was to be jerked from his
profession. There was no adventure, but lots of work and reward in
proportion.

Perhaps I was a bit more fortunate. I was in love and Hobart was still
a confirmed bachelor. It was a subject over which he was never done
joking. It was not my fault. I was innocent. If the blame ran anywhere
it would have to be placed upon that baby sister of his.

It happened as it happened since God first made the maiden. One autumn
Hobart and I started off for college. We left Charlotte at the gate a
girl of fifteen years and ten times as many angles. I pulled one of her
pigtails, kissed her, and told her I wanted her to get pretty. When we
came home next summer I went over to pull the other pigtail. I did not
pull it. I was met by the fairest young woman I had ever looked on. And
I could not kiss her. Seriously, was I to blame?

Now to the incident.

It was a night in September. Hobart had completed his affairs and had
booked passage to South America. He was to sail next morning. We had
dinner that day with his family, and then came up to San Francisco for
a last and farewell bachelor night. We could take in the opera together,
have supper at our favourite cafe, and then turn in. It was a long hark
back to our childhood; but for all that we were still boys together.

I remember that night. It was our favourite opera--“Faust.” It was the
one piece that we could agree on. Looking back since, I have wondered at
the coincidence. The old myth of age to youth and the subcurrent of sin
with its stalking, laughing, subtle Mephistopheles. It is strange that
we should have gone to this one opera on this one evening. I recall
our coming out of the theatre; our minds thrilling to the music and the
subtle weirdness of the theme.

A fog had fallen--one of those thick, heavy, grey mists that sometimes
come upon us in September. Into its sombre depths the crowd disappeared
like shadows. The lights upon the streets blurred yellow. At the cold
sheer contact we hesitated upon the pavement.

I had on a light overcoat. Hobart, bound for the tropics, had no such
protection. It was cold and miserable, a chill wind stirring from the
north was unusually cutting. Hobart raised his collar and dug his hands
into his pockets.

“Brr,” he muttered; “brr, some coffee or some wine. Something.”

The sidewalks were wet and slippery, the mists settling under the lights
had the effect of drizzle. I touched Hobart's arm and we started across
the street.

“Brr is right,” I answered, “and some wine. Notice the shadows, like
ghosts.”

We were half across the street before he answered; then he stopped.

“Ghosts! Did you say ghosts, Harry?” I noted a strange inflection in his
voice. He stood still and peered into the fog bank. His stop was sudden
and suggestive. Just then a passing taxicab almost caught us and we
were compelled to dodge quickly. Hobart ducked out of the way and I
side-stepped in another direction. We came up on the sidewalk. Again he
peered into the shadow.

“Confound that cab,” he was saying, “now we have gone and missed him.”

He took off his hat and then put it back on his head. His favourite
trick when bewildered. I looked up and down the street.

“Didn't you see him? Harry! Didn't you see him? It was Rhamda Avec!”

I had seen no one; that is to notice; I did not know the Rhamda. Neither
did he.

“The Rhamda? You don't know him.”

Hobart was puzzled.

“No,” he said; “I do not; but it was he, just as sure as I am a fat
man.”

I whistled. I recalled the tale that was now a legend. The man had an
affinity for the fog mist. To come out of “Faust” and to run into the
Rhamda! What was the connection? For a moment we both stood still and
waited.

“I wonder--” said Hobart. “I was just thinking about that fellow
tonight. Strange! Well, let's get something hot--some coffee.”

But it had given us something for discussion. Certainly it was unusual.
During the past few days I had been thinking of Dr. Holcomb; and for the
last few hours the tale had clung with reiterating persistence. Perhaps
it was the weirdness and the tremulous intoxication of the music. I was
one of the vast majority who disbelieved it. Was it possible that it
was, after all, other than the film of fancy? There are times when we
are receptive; at that moment I could have believed it.

We entered the cafe and chose a table slightly to the rear. It was
a contrast to the cold outside; the lights so bright, the glasses
clinking, laughter and music. A few young people were dancing. I sat
down; in a moment the lightness and jollity had stirred my blood. Hobart
took a chair opposite. The place was full of beauty. In the back of my
mind blurred the image of Rhamda. I had never seen him; but I had read
the description. I wondered absently at the persistence.

I have said that I do not believe in fate. I repeat it. Man should
control his own destiny. A great man does. Perhaps that is it. I am not
great. Certainly it was circumstance.

In the back part of the room at one of the tables was a young man
sitting alone. Something caught my attention. Perhaps it was his
listlessness or the dreamy unconcern with which he watched the dancers;
or it may have been the utter forlornness of his expression. I noted his
unusual pallor and his cast of dissipation, also the continual working
of his long, lean fingers. There are certain set fixtures in the night
life of any city. But this was not one. He was not an habitue. There was
a certain greatness to his loneliness and his isolation. I wondered.

Just then he looked up. By a mere coincidence our eyes met. He smiled,
a weak smile and a forlorn one, and it seemed to me rather pitiful. Then
as suddenly his glance wandered to the door behind me. Perhaps there
was something in my expression that caught Hobart's attention. He turned
about.

“Say, Harry, who is that fellow? I know that face, I'm certain.”

“Come to think I have seen him myself. I wonder--”

The young man looked up again. The same weary smile. He nodded. And
again he glanced over my shoulder toward the door. His face suddenly
hardened.

“He knows us at any rate,” I ventured.

Now Hobart was sitting with his face toward the entrance. He could see
anyone coming or going. Following the young man's glance he looked over
my shoulder. He suddenly reached over and took me by the forearm.

“Don't look round,” he warned; “take it easy. As I said--on my honour as
a fat man.”

The very words foretold. I could not but risk a glance. Across the room
a man was coming down the aisle--a tall man, dark, and of a very decided
manner. I had read his description many times; I had seen his likeness
drawn by certain sketch artists of the city. They did not do him
justice. He had a wonderful way and presence--you might say, magnetism.
I noticed the furtive wondering glances that were cast, especially by
the women. He was a handsome man beyond denying, about the handsomest I
had ever seen. The same elusiveness.

At first I would have sworn him to be near sixty; the next minute I was
just as certain of his youth. There was something about him that could
not be put to paper, be it strength, force or vitality; he was subtle.
His step was prim and distinctive, light as shadow, in one hand
he carried the red case that was so often mentioned. I breathed an
exclamation.

Hobart nodded.

“Am I a fat man? The famous Rhamda! What say! Ah, ha! He has business
with our wan friend yonder. See!”

And it was so. He took a chair opposite the wan one. The young man
straightened. His face was even more familiar, but I could not place
him. His lips were set; in their grim line--determination; whatever his
exhaustion there was still a will. Somehow one had a respect for this
weak one; he was not a mere weakling. Yet I was not so sure that he
was not afraid of the Rhamda. He spoke to the waiter. The Rhamda began
talking. I noted the poise in his manner; it was not evil, rather was it
calm--and calculating. He made an indication. The young man drew back.
He smiled; it was feeble and weary, but for all of that disdainful.
Though one had a pity for his forlornness, there was still an
admiration. The waiter brought glasses.

The young man swallowed his drink at a gulp, the other picked his up and
sipped it. Again he made the indication. The youth dropped his hand upon
the table, a pale blue light followed the movement of his fingers. The
older man pointed. So that was their contention? A jewel? After all our
phantom was material enough to desire possession; his solicitude was
calmness, but for all that aggression. I could sense a battle, but the
young man turned the jewel to the palm side of his fingers; he shook his
head.

The Rhamda drew up. For a moment he waited. Was it for surrender? Once
he started to speak, but was cut short by the other. For all of his
weakness there was spirit to the young man. He even laughed. The Rhamda
drew out a watch. He held up two fingers. I heard Hobart mumble.

“Two minutes. Well, I'm betting on the young one. Too much soul. He's
not dead; just weary.”

He was right. At exactly one hundred and twenty seconds the Rhamda
closed his watch. He spoke something. Again the young man laughed.
He lit a cigarette; from the flicker and jerk of the flame he was
trembling. But he was still emphatic. The other rose from the table,
walked down the aisle and out of the building. The youth spread out both
arms and dropped his head upon the table.

It was a little drama enacted almost in silence. Hobart and I exchanged
glances. The mere glimpse of the Rhamda had brought us both back to the
Blind Spot. Was there any connection? Who was the young man with the
life sapped out? I had a recollection of a face strangely familiar.
Hobart interrupted my thoughts.

“I'd give just about one leg for the gist of that conversation. That was
the Rhamda; but who is the other ghost?”

“Do you think it has to do with the Blind Spot?”

“I don't think,” averred Hobart. “I know. Wonder what's the time.” He
glanced at his watch. “Eleven thirty.”

Just here the young man at the table raised up his head. The cigarette
was still between his fingers; he puffed lamely for a minute, taking a
dull note of his surroundings. In the well of gaiety and laughter coming
from all parts of the room his actions were out of place. He seemed
dazed; unable to pull himself together. Suddenly he looked at us. He
started.

“He certainly knows us,” I said. “I wonder--by George, he's coming
over.”

Even his step was feeble. There was exertion about every move of his
body, the wanness and effort of vanished vitality; he balanced himself
carefully. Slowly, slowly, line by line his features became familiar,
the underlines of another, the ghost of one departed. At first I could
not place him. He held himself up for breath. Who was he? Then it
suddenly came to me--back to the old days at college--an athlete, one of
the best of fellows, one of the sturdiest of men! He had come to this!

Hobart was before me.

“By all the things that are holy!” he exclaimed. “Chick Watson! Here,
have a seat. In the name of Heavens, Chick! What on earth--”

The other dropped feebly into the chair. The body that had once been so
powerful was a skeleton. His coat was a disguise of padding.

“Hello, Hobart; hello, Harry,” he spoke in a whisper. “Not much like the
old Chick, am I? First thing, I'll take some brandy.”

It was almost tragic. I glanced at Hobart and nodded to the waiter.
Could it be Chick Watson? I had seen him a year before, hale, healthy,
prosperous. And here he was--a wreck!

“No,” he muttered, “I'm not sick--not sick. Lord, boys, it's good to
meet you. I just thought I would come out for this one last night, hear
some music, see a pretty face, perhaps meet a friend. But I am afraid--”
 He dropped off like one suddenly drifting into slumber.

“Hustle that waiter,” I said to Hobart. “Hurry that brandy.”

The stimulant seemed to revive him. He lifted up suddenly. There was
fear in his eyes; then on seeing himself among friends--relief. He
turned to me.

“Think I'm sick, don't you?” he asked.

“You certainly are,” I answered.

“Well, I'm not.”

For a moment silence. I glanced at Hobart. Hobart nodded.

“You're just about in line for a doctor, Chick, old boy,” I said. “I'm
going to see that you have one. Bed for you, and the care of mother--”

He started; he seemed to jerk himself together.

“That's it, Harry; that's what I wanted. It's so hard for me to think.
Mother, mother! That's why I came downtown. I wanted a friend. I have
something for you to give to mother.”

“Rats,” I said. “I'll take you to her. What are you talking about?”

But he shook his head.

“I wish that you were telling the truth, Harry. But it's no use--not
after tonight. All the doctors in the world could not save me. I'm not
sick, boys, far from it.”

Hobart spoke up.

“What is it, Chick? I have a suspicion. Am I right?”

Chick looked up; he closed his eyes.

“All right, Hobart, what's your suspicion?”

Fenton leaned over. It seemed to me that he was peering into the other's
soul. He touched his forearm.

“Chick, old boy, I think I know. But tell me. Am I right? It's the Blind
Spot.”

At the words Watson opened his eyes; they were full of hope and wonder,
for a moment, and then, as suddenly of a great despair. His body went to
a heap. His voice was feeble.

“Yes,” he answered, “I am dying--of the Blind Spot”




VII

THE RING


It was a terrible thing; death stalking out of the Blind Spot. We had
almost forgotten. It had been a story hitherto--a wonderful one to be
sure, and one to arouse conjecture. I had never thought that we were to
be brought to its shivering contact. It was out of the occult; it had
been so pronounced by the professor; a great secret of life holding out
a guerdon of death to its votaries. Witness Chick Watson, the type of
healthy, fighting manhood--come to this. He opened his eyes feebly; one
could see the light; the old spirit was there--fighting for life. What
was this struggle of soul and flesh? Why had the soul hung on? He made
another effort.

“More drink,” he asked; “more drink. Anything to hold me together. I
must tell you. You must take my place and--and--fight the Blind Spot!
Promise that--”

“Order the drinks,” I told Hobart. “I see Dr. Hansen over there. Even if
we cannot save him we must hold him until we get his story.”

I went and fetched Hansen over.

“A strange case,” he murmured. “Pulse normal; not a trace of fever. Not
sick, you say--” Hobart pointed to his head. “Ah, I see! I would suggest
home and a bed.”

Just here Watson opened his eyes again. They rested first upon the
doctor, then upon myself, and finally upon the brandy. He took it up and
drank it with eagerness. It was his third one; it gave him a bit more
life.

“Didn't I tell you, boys, that there is not a doctor on earth that
can save me? Excuse me, doc. I am not sick. I told them. I am far past
physic; I have gone beyond medicine. All I ask is stimulant and life
enough to tell my story.”

“My boy,” asked the doctor kindly, “what ails you?”

Watson smiled. He touched himself on the forehead.

“Up here, doc. There are things in the world with which we may not
tamper. I tried it. Somebody had to do it and somebody has to do it yet.
You remember Dr. Holcomb; he was a great man; he was after the secret of
life. He began it.”

Dr. Hansen started.

“Lord!” he exclaimed, looking at us all; “you don't mean this man is
mixed up in the Blind Spot?”

We nodded. Watson smiled; again he dropped back into inertia; the speech
he had made was his longest yet; the brandy was coming into effect.

“Give him brandy,” the doctor said; “it's as good as anything. It will
hold him together and give him life for a while. Here.” He reached into
his pocket and flicked something into the glass. “That will help him.
Gentlemen, do you know what it means? I had always thought! I knew Dr.
Holcomb! Crossing over the border! It may not be done! The secret of
life is impossible. Yet--”

Watson opened his eyes again; his spirit seemed suddenly to flicker into
defiance.

“Who said it was impossible? Who said it? Gentlemen, it IS possible. Dr.
Holcomb--pardon me. I do not wish to appear a sot; but this brandy is
about the only thing to hold me together. I have only a few hours left.”

He took the glass, and at one gulp downed the contents. I do not know
what the doctor had dropped into it. Chick revived suddenly, and a
strange light blazed up in his eyes, like life rekindled.

“Ah, now I am better. So?”

He turned to us all; then to the doctor.

“So you say the secret of life is impossible?”

“I--”

Chick smiled wanly. “May I ask you: what it is that has just flared up
within me? I am weak, anaemic, fallen to pieces; my muscles have lost
the power to function, my blood runs cold, I have been more than two
feet over the border. And yet--a few drinks of brandy, of stimulants,
and you have drawn me back, my heart beats strongly, for an hour. By
means of drugs you have infused a new life--which of course is the
old--and driven the material components of my body into correlation. You
are successful for a time; so long as nature is with you; but all the
while you are held aghast by the knowledge that the least flaw, the
least disarrangement, and you are beaten.

“It is your business to hold this life or what you may. When it has
gone your structures, your anatomy, your wonderful human machine is
worthless. Where has it come from? Where has it gone? I have drunk four
glasses of brandy; I have a lease of four short hours. Ordinarily it
would bring reaction; it is poison, to be sure; but it is driving back
my spirit, giving me life and strength enough to tell my story--in the
morning I shall be no more. By sequence I am a dead man already. Four
glasses of brandy; they are speaking. Whence comes this affinity of
substance and of shadow?”

We all of us listened, the doctor most of all. “Go on,” he said.

“Can't you see?” repeated Watson. “There is affinity between substance
and shadow; and therefore your spirit or shadow or what you will is
concrete, is in itself a substance. It is material just as much as you
are. Because you do not see it is no proof that it is not substance.
That pot palm yonder does not see you; it is not blessed with eyes.”

The doctor looked at Watson; he spoke gently.

“This is very old stuff, my boy, out of your abstract philosophy. No man
knows the secret of life. Not even yourself.”

The light in Watson's eyes grew brighter, he straightened; he began
slipping the ring from his finger.

“No,” he answered. “I don't. I have tried and it was like playing with
lightning. I sought for life and it is giving me death. But there is one
man living who has found it.”

“And this man?”

“Is Dr. Holcomb!”

We all of us started. We had every one given the doctor up as dead. The
very presence of Watson was tragedy. We did not doubt that he had been
through some terrible experience. There are things in the world that may
not be unriddled. Some power, some sinister thing was reaching for his
vitality. What did he know about the professor? Dr. Holcomb had been a
long time dead.

“Gentlemen. You must hear my story; I haven't long to tell it. However,
before I start here is a proof for a beginning.”

He tossed the ring upon the table.

It was Hobart who picked it up. A beautiful stone, like a sapphire; blue
but uncut and of a strange pellucid transparency--a jewel undoubtedly;
but of a kind we have never seen. We all of us examined it, and were
all, I am afraid, a bit disappointed. It was a stone and nothing else.

Watson watched us. The waiter had brought more brandy, and Watson was
sipping it, not because he liked it, he said, but just to keep himself
at the proper lift.

“You don't understand it, eh? You see nothing? Hobart, have you a match?
There, that's it; now give me the ring. See--” He struck the match and
held the flame against the jewel. “Gentlemen, there is no need for me
to speak. The stone will give you a volume. It's not trickery, I assure
you, but fact. There, now, perfect. Doctor, you are the sceptic. Take a
look at the stone.”

The doctor picked it up casually and held it up before his eyes. At
first he frowned; then came a look of incredulity; his chin dropped and
he rose in his chair.

“My God,” he exclaimed, “the man's living! It--he--”

But Hobart and I had crowded over. The doctor held the ring so we could
see it. Inside the stone was Dr. Holcomb!

It was a strenuous moment, and the most incredible. We all of us
knew the doctor. It was not a photograph, nor a likeness; but the man
himself. It was beyond all reason that he could be in the jewel; indeed
there was only the head visible; one could catch the expression of life,
the movements of the eyelids. Yet how could it be? What was it? It was
Hobart who spoke first.

“Chick,” he asked, “what's the meaning? Were it not for my own eyes I
would call it impossible. It's absurd on the face. The doctor! Yet I can
see him--living. Where is he?”

Chick nodded.

“That's the whole question. Where is he? I know and yet I know nothing.
You are now looking into the Blind Spot. The doctor sought the secret of
life--and found it. He was trapped by his own wisdom!”




VIII

THE NERVINA


For a moment we were silent. The jewel reposed upon the table. What was
the secret of its phenomena? I could think of nothing in science that
would explain it. How had Watson come into its possession? What was the
tale he had to tell? The lean, long finger that clutched for brandy!
What force was this that had driven him to such a verge? He was
resigned; though he was defiant he had already conceded his surrender.
Dr. Hansen spoke.

“Watson,” he asked, “what do you know about the Blind Spot?”

“Nothing.”

We all turned to Chick. Hobart ordered more brandy. The doctor's eyes
went to slits. I could not but wonder.

“Chick,” I asked, “who is Rhamda Avec?”

Watson turned.

“You saw him a few minutes ago? You saw him with me? Let me ask you.”

“Yes,” I answered, “I saw him. Most people did. Is he invisible? Is he
really the phantom they say?”

Somehow the mention of the name made him nervous; he looked cautiously
about the room.

“That I don't know, Harry. It--If I can only get my wits together. Is he
a phantom? Yes, I think so. I can't understand him. At least, he has the
powers we attribute to an apparition. He is strange and unaccountable.
Sometimes you see him, sometimes you don't. The first known of him was
on the day Professor Holcomb was to deliver his lecture on the Blind
Spot. He was tracked, you know, to the very act. Then came in the
Nervina.”

“And who is the Nervina?”

Watson looked at me blankly.

“The Nervina?” he asked, “The Nervina--what do you know about the
Nervina?”

“Nothing. You mentioned her just now.”

His mind seemed to ramble. He looked about the room rather fearfully.
Perhaps he was afraid.

“Did I mention her? I don't know, Harry, my wits are muddled. The
Nervina? She is a goddess. Never was and never will be woman. She loves;
she never hates, and still again she does not love. She is beautiful;
too beautiful for man. I've quit trying.”

“Is she Rhamda's wife?”

His eyes lit fire.

“No!”

“Do you love her?”

He went blank again; but at last he spoke slowly.

“No, I don't love her. What's the use? She's not for me. I did; but I
learned better. I was after the professor--and the Blind Spot. She--”

Again that look of haunted pursuit. He glanced about the room. Whatever
had been his experience, it was plain that he had not given up. He held
something and he held it still. What was it?

“You say you didn't find the Blind Spot?”

“No, I did not find it.”

“Have you any idea?”

“My dear Harry,” he answered, “I am full of ideas. That's the trouble.
I am near it. It's the cause of my present condition. I don't know just
what it is nor where. A condition, or a combination of phenomena. You
remember the lecture that was never delivered? Had the doctor spoken
that morning the world would have had a great fact. He had made a great
discovery. It is a terrible thing.” He turned the ring so we could all
see it--beyond all doubt it was the doctor. “There he is--the professor.
If he could only speak. The secret of the ages. Just think what it
means. Where is he? I have taken that jewel to the greatest lapidaries
and they have one and all been startled. Then they all come to the same
conclusion--trickery--Chinese or Hindu work, they say; most of them want
to cut.”

“Have you taken it to the police?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I would simply be laughed at.”

“Have you ever reported this Rhamda?”

“A score of times. They have come and sought; but every time he has gone
out--like a shadow. It's got to be an old story now. If you call them up
and tell them they laugh.”

“How do you account for it?”

“I don't. I--I--I'm just dying.”

“And not one member of the force--surely?”

“Oh, yes. There's one. You have heard of Jerome. Jerome followed the
professor and the Rhamda to the house of the Blind Spot, as he calls it.
He's not a man to fool. He had eyes and he saw it. He will not leave it
till he's dead.”

“But he did not see the Blind Spot, did he? How about trickery? Did it
ever occur to you that the professor might have been murdered?”

“Take a look at that, Harry. Does that look like murder? When you see
the man living?”

Watson reached over and turned up the jewel.

Here Hobart came in.

“Just a minute, Chick. My wise friend here is an attorney. He's always
the first into everything, especially conversation. It's been my job
pulling Harry out of trouble. Just one question.”

“All right.”

“Didn't you--er--keep company, as they say, with Bertha Holcomb while at
college?”

A kind look came into the man's eyes; he nodded; his whole face was soft
and saddened.

“I see. That naturally brought you to the Blind Spot. You are after her
father. Am I correct?”

“Exactly.”

“All right. Perhaps Bertha has taken you into some of her father's
secrets. He undoubtedly had data on this Blind Spot. Have you ever been
able to locate it?”

“No!”

“I see. This Rhamda? Has he ever sought that data?”

“Many, many times.”

“Does he know you haven't got it?”

“No.”

“So. I understand. You hold the whip hand through your ignorance. Rhamda
is your villain--and perhaps this Nervina? Who is she?”

“A goddess.”

Hobart smiled.

“Oh, yes!” He laughed. “A goddess. Naturally! They all are. There are
about forty in this room at the present moment, my dear fellow. Watch
them dance!”

Now I had picked up the ring. It just fitted the natural finger. I tried
it on and looked into the jewel. The professor was growing dimmer. The
marvellous blue was returning, a hue of fascination; not the hot flash
of the diamond, but the frozen light of the iceberg. It was frigid,
cold, terrible, blue, alluring. To me at the moment it seemed alive and
pulselike. I could not account for it. I felt the lust for possession.
Perhaps there was something in my face. Watson leaned over and touched
me on the arm.

“Harry,” he asked, “do you think you can stand up under the burden? Will
you take my place?”

I looked into his eyes; in their black depths was almost entreaty. How
haunting they were, and beseeching.

“Will you take my place?” he begged. “Are you willing to give up all
that God gives to the fortunate? Will you give up your practice? Will
you hold out to the end? Never surrender? Will--”

“You mean will I take this ring?”

He nodded.

“Exactly. But you must know beforehand. It would be murder to give it to
you without the warning. Either your death or that of Dr. Holcomb. It is
not a simple jewel. It defies description. It takes a man to wear it.
It is subtle and of destruction; it eats like a canker; it destroys the
body; it frightens the soul--”

“An ominous piece of finery,” I spoke. “Wherein--”

But Watson interrupted. There was appeal in his eyes.

“Harry,” he went on, “I am asking. Somebody has got to wear this ring.
He must be a man. He must be fearless; he must taunt the devil. It is
hard work, I assure you. I cannot last much longer. You loved the old
doctor. If we get at this law we have done more for mankind than either
of us may do with his profession. We must save the old professor. He
is living and he is waiting. There are perils and forces that we do not
know of. The doctor went at it alone and fearless; he succumbed to his
own wisdom. I have followed after, and I have been crushed down--perhaps
by my ignorance. I am not afraid. But I don't want my work to die.
Somebody has got to take it on and you are the man.”

They were all of them looking at me. I studied the wonderful blue
and its light. The image of the great professor had dimmed almost
completely. It was a sudden task and a great one. Here was a law; one of
the great secrets of Cosmos. What was it? Somehow the lure caught into
my vitals. I couldn't picture myself ever coming to the extremity of
my companion. Besides, it was a duty. I owed it to the old doctor. It
seemed somehow that he was speaking. Though Watson did the talking I
could feel him calling. Would I be afraid? Besides, there was the jewel.
It was calling; already I could feel it burning into my spirit. I looked
up.

“Do you take it, Harry?”

I nodded.

“I do. God knows I am worthless enough. I'll take it up. It may give me
a chance to engage with this famous Rhamda.”

“Be careful of Rhamda, Harry. And above all don't let him have the
ring.”

“Why?”

“Because. Now listen. I'm not laying this absolutely, understand.
Nevertheless the facts all point in one direction. Hold the ring.
Somewhere in that lustre lies a great secret; it controls the Blind
Spot. The Rhamda himself may not take it off your finger. You are immune
from violence. Only the ring itself may kill you.”

He coughed.

“God knows,” he spoke, “it has killed me.”

It was rather ominous. The mere fact of that cough and his weakness was
enough. One would come to this. He had warned me, and he had besought me
with the same voice as the warning.

“But what is the Blind Spot?”

“Then you take the ring? What is the time? Twelve. Gentlemen--”

Now here comes in one of the strange parts of my story--one that I
cannot account for. Over the shoulder of Dr. Hansen I could watch the
door. Whether it was the ring or not I do not know. At the time I did
not reason. I acted upon impulse. It was an act beyond good breeding. I
had never done such a thing before. I had never even seen the woman.

The woman? Why do I say it? She was never a woman--she was a girl--far,
far transcendent. It was the first time I had ever seen her--standing
there before the door. I had never beheld such beauty, such profile,
poise--the witching, laughing, night-black of her eyes; the perfectly
bridged nose and the red, red lips that smiled, it seemed to me, in
sadness. She hesitated, and as if puzzled, lifted a jewelled hand to
her raven mass of hair. To this minute I cannot account for my action,
unless, perchance, it was the ring. Perhaps it was. Anyway I had risen.

How well do I remember.

It seemed to me that I had known her a long, long time. There was
something about her that was not seduction; but far, far above it.
Somewhere I had seen her, had known her. She was looking and she was
waiting for me. There was something about her that was super feminine. I
thought it then, and I say it now.

Just then her glance came my way. She smiled, and nodded; there was a
note of sadness in her voice.

“Harry Wendel!”

There is no accounting for my action, nor my wonder; she knew me. Then
it was true! I was not mistaken! Somewhere I had seen her. I felt a
vague and dim rush of dreamy recollections. Ah, that was the answer! She
was a girl of dreams and phantoms. Even then I knew it; she was not
a woman; not as we conceive her; she was some materialisation out of
Heaven. Why do I talk so? Ah! this strange beauty that is woman! From
the very first she held me in the thrall that has no explanation.

“Do we dance?” she asked simply.

The next moment I had her in my arms and we were out among the dancers.
That my actions were queer and entirely out of reason never occurred
to me. There was a call about her beautiful body and in her eyes that
I could not answer. There was a fact between us, some strange bond
that was beyond even passion. I danced, and in an extreme emotion of
happiness. A girl out of the dreams and the ether--a sprig of life woven
out of the moonbeams!

“Do you know me?” she asked as we danced.

“Yes,” I answered, “and no. I have seen you; but I do not remember; you
come from the sunshine.”

She laughed prettily.

“Do you always talk like this?”

“You are out of my dreams,” I answered: “it is sufficient. But who are
you?”

She held back her pretty head and looked at me; her lips drooped
slightly at the corners, a sad smile, and tender, in the soft wonderful
depths of her eyes--a pity.

“Harry,” she asked, “are you going to wear this ring?”

So that was it. The ring and the maiden. What was the bond? There was
weirdness in its colour, almost cabalistic--a call out of the occult.
The strange beauty of the girl, her remarkable presence, and her
concern. Whoever and whatever she was her anxiety was not personal. In
some way she was woven up with this ring and poor Watson.

“I think I shall,” I answered.

Again the strange querulous pity and hesitation; her eyes grew darker,
almost pleading.

“You won't give it to me?”

How near I came to doing it I shall not tell. It would be hard to say
it. I knew vaguely that she was playing; that I was the plaything. It is
hard for a man to think of himself as being toyed with. She was certain;
she was confident of my weakness. It was resentment, perhaps, and pride
of self that gave the answer.

“I think I shall keep it.”

“Do you know the danger, Harry? It is death to wear it. A thousand
perils--”

“Then I shall keep it. I like peril. You wish for the ring. If I keep it
I may have you. This is the first time I have danced with the girl out
of the moonbeams.”

Her eyes snapped, and she stopped dancing. I don't think my words
displeased her. She was still a woman.

“Is this final? You're a fine young man, Mr. Wendel. I know you. I
stepped in to save you. You are playing with something stranger than the
moonbeams. No man may wear that ring and hold to life. Again, Harry, I
ask you; for your own sake.”

At this moment we passed Watson. He was watching; as our eyes glanced
he shook his head. Who was this girl? She was as beautiful as sin and as
tender as a virgin. What interest had she in myself?

“That's just the reason,” I laughed. “You are too interested. You are
too beautiful to wear it. I am a man; I revel in trouble; you are a
girl. It would not be honourable to allow you to take it. I shall keep
it.”

She had overreached herself, and she knew it. She bit her lip. But she
took it gracefully; so much so, in fact, that I thought she meant it.

“I'm sorry,” she answered slowly. “I had hopes. It is terrible to look
at Watson and then to think of you. It is, really”--a faint tremor ran
through her body; her hand trembled--“it is terrible. You young men are
so unafraid. It's too bad.”

Just then the door was opened; outside I could see the bank of fog;
someone passed. She turned a bit pale.

“Excuse me. I must be going. Don't you see I'm sorry--”

She held out her hand--the same sad little smile. On the impulse of the
moment, unmindful of place, I drew it to my lips and kissed it. She was
gone.

I returned to the table. The three men were watching me: Watson
analytically, the doctor with wonder, and Hobart with plain disgust.
Hobart spoke first.

“Nice for sister Charlotte, eh, Harry?”

I had not a word to say. In the full rush of the moment I knew that he
was right. It was all out of reason. I had no excuse outside of sheer
insanity--and dishonour. The doctor said nothing. It was only in
Watson's face that there was a bit of understanding.

“Hobart,” he said, “I have told you. It is not Harry's fault. It is the
Nervina. No man may resist her. She is beauty incarnate; she weaves
with the hearts of men, and she loves no one. It is the ring. She, the
Rhamda, the Blind Spot, and the ring. I have never been able to unravel
them. Please don't blame Harry. He went to her even as I. She has but
to beckon. But he kept the ring. I watched them. This is but the
beginning.”

But Hobart muttered: “She's a beauty all right--a beauty. That's the
rub. I know Harry--I know him as a brother, and I want him so in fact.
But I'd hate to trust that woman.”

Watson smiled.

“Never fear, Hobart, your sister is safe enough. The Nervina is not a
woman. She is not of the flesh.”

“Brr,” said the doctor, “you give me the creeps.”

Watson reached for the brandy; he nodded to the doctor.

“Just a bit more of that stuff if you please. Whatever it is, on the
last night one has no fear of habit. There--Now, gentlemen, if you will
come with me, I shall take you to the house of the Blind Spot.”




IX

“NOW THERE ARE THREE”


I shall never forget that night. When we stepped to the pavement the
whole world was shrouded. The heavy fog clung like depression; life
was gone out--a foreboding of gloom and disaster. It was cold, dank,
miserable; one shuddered instinctively and battered against the wall
with steaming columns of breath. Just outside the door we were detained.

“Dr. Hansen?”

Someone stepped beside us.

“Dr. Hansen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A message, sir.”

The doctor made a gesture of impatience.

“Bother!” he spoke. “Bother! A message. Nothing in the world would stop
me! I cannot leave.”

Nevertheless he stepped back into the light.

“Just a minute, gentlemen.”

He tore open the envelope. Then he looked up at the messenger and then
at us. His face was startled--almost frightened.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I am sorry. Not a thing in the world would detain
me but this. I would go with you, but I may not. My duty as a physician.
I had hopes.” He came over to me and spoke softly. “I am going to send
you one of the greatest specialists in the city in my stead. This young
man should have attention. Have you the address?”

“288 Chatterton Place,” I answered.

“Very well. I am sorry, very much disappointed. However, it is
my daughter, and I cannot do otherwise. Continue the brandy for a
while--and this.” He slipped an envelope into my hand. “By that time Dr.
Higgins will be with you.”

“You think there is hope?” I asked.

“There's always hope,” replied the doctor.

I returned to my companions. They were walking slowly. It was work for
poor Watson. He dragged on, leaning on Hobart's arm. But at last he gave
up.

“No,” he said, “I can't make it. I'm too far gone. I had thought--Oh,
what a lapse it has been! I am eighty years of age; one year ago I was
a boy. If only I had some more brandy. I have some at the house. We must
make that. I must show you; there I can give you the details.”

“Hail a cab,” I said. “Here's one now.”

A few minutes later we were before the House of the Blind Spot. It was a
two storey drab affair, much like a thousand others, old-fashioned, and
might have been built in the early nineties. It had been outside of the
fire limits of 1906, and so had survived the great disaster. Chatterton
Place is really a short street running lengthwise along the summit of
the hill. A flight of stone steps descended to the pavement.

Watson straightened up with an effort.

“This is the house,” he spoke. “I came here a year ago. I go away
tonight. I had hoped to find it. I promised Bertha. I came alone. I had
reasons to believe I had solved it. I found the Rhamda and the Nervina.
I had iron will and courage--also strength. The Rhamda was never able
to control me. My life is gone but not my will. Now I have left him
another. Do not surrender, Harry. It is a gruesome task; but hold on
to the end. Help me up the steps. There now. Just wait a minute till I
fetch a stimulant.”

He did not ring for a servant. That I noticed. Instead he groped about
for a key, unlocked the door and stumbled into a room. He fumbled for a
minute among some glasses.

“Will you switch on a light?” he asked.

Hobart struck a match; when he found it he pressed the switch.

The room in which we were standing was a large one, fairly well
furnished, and lined on two sides with bookshelves; in the centre was an
oak table cluttered with papers, a couple of chairs, and on one of them,
a heavy pipe, which, somehow, I did not think of as Watson's. He noticed
my look.

“Jerome's,” he explained. “We live here--Jerome, the detective, and
myself. He has been here since the day of the doctor's disappearance. I
came here a year ago. He is in Nevada at present. That leaves me alone.
You will notice the books, mostly occult: partly mine, partly the
detective's. We have gone at it systematically from the beginning.
We have learned almost everything but what would help us. Mostly
sophistry--and guesswork. Beats all how much ink has been wasted to say
nothing. We were after the Blind Spot.”

“But what is it? Is it in this house?”

“I can answer one part of your question,” he answered, “but not the
other. It is here somewhere, in some place. Jerome is positive of that.
You remember the old lady? The one who died? Her actions were rather
positive even if feeble. She led Jerome to this next room.” He turned
and pointed; the door was open. I could see a sofa and a few chairs;
that was all.

“It was in here. The bell. Jerome never gets tired of telling. A church
bell. In the centre of the room. At first I didn't believe; but now I
accept it all. I know, but what I know is by intuition.”

“Sort of sixth sense?'

“Yes. Or foresight.”

“You never saw this bell nor found it? Never were able to arrive at an
explanation?”

“No.”

“How about the Rhamda? The Nervina? Do they come to this house?”

“Not often.”

“How do they come in? Through the window?”

He smiled rather sadly. “I don't know. At least they come. You shall see
them yourself. The Rhamda still has something to do with Dr. Holcomb.
Somehow his very concern tells me the doctor is safe. Undoubtedly
the professor made a great discovery. But he was not alone. He had
a co-worker--the Rhamda. For reasons of his own the Rhamda wishes to
control the Blind Spot.”

“Then the professor is in this Blind Spot?”

“We think so. At least it is our conjecture. We do not know.”

“Then you don't think it trickery?”

“No, hardly. Harry, you know better than that. Can you imagine the great
doctor the dupe of a mere trickster? The professor was a man of great
science and was blessed with an almighty sound head. But he had one
weakness.”

Hobart spoke up.

“What is it, Chick? I think I know what you mean. The old boy was
honest?”

“Exactly. He had been a scholar all his life. He taught ethics. He
believed in right. He practised his creed. When he came to the crucial
experiment he found himself dealing with a rogue. The Rhamda helped him
just so far; but once he had the professor in his power it was not his
purpose to release him until he was secure of the Blind Spot.”

“I see,” I spoke. “The man is a villain. I think we can handle him.”

But Watson shook his head.

“That's just it, Harry! The man! If he were a man I could have handled
him in short order. That's what I thought at first. Don't make any
mistake. Don't try violence. That's the whole crux of the difficulty. If
he were only a man! Unfortunately, he is not.”

“Not a man!” I exclaimed. “What do you mean? Then, what is he?”

“He is a phantom.”

I glanced at Hobart and caught his eye. Hobart believed him! The poor
pallid face of Watson, the athlete; there was nothing left to him but
his soul! I shall not forget Watson as he sat there, his lean, long
fingers grasping the brandy glass, his eyes burning and his life holding
back from the pit through sheer will and courage. Would I come to this?
Would I have the strength to measure up to his standard?

Hobart broke the tension.

“Chick's right. There is something in it, Harry. Not all the secrets of
the universe have been unlocked by any means. Now, Chick, about details.
Have you any data--any notes?”

Watson rose. I could see he was grateful.

“You believe me, don't you, Hobart? It is good. I had hoped to find
someone, and I found you two. Harry, remember what I have told you. Hold
the ring. You take my place. Whatever happens, stick out to the end. You
have Hobart here to help you. Now just a minute. The library is here;
you can look over my books. I shall return in a moment.”

He stepped out into the hall; we could hear his weary feet dragging down
the hallway--a hollow sound and a bit uncanny. Somehow my mind rambled
back to that account I had read in the newspaper--Jerome's story--“Like
weary bones dragging slippers.” And the old lady. Who was she? Why was
everyone in this house pulled down to exhaustion--the words of the
old lady, I could almost hear them; the dank air murmuring their
recollection. “Now there are two. Now there are two!”

“What's the matter, Harry?”

Perhaps I was frightened. I do not know. I looked around. The sound of
Watson's footsteps had died away; there was a light in the back of the
building coming toward us.

“Nothing! Only--damn this place, Hobart. Don't you notice it? It's
enough to eat your heart out.”

“Rather interesting,” said Hobart. It was too interesting for me. I
stepped over to the shelves and looked at the titles. Sanskrit and
Greek; German and French--the Vedas, Sir Oliver Lodge, Besant, Spinoza,
a conglomeration of all ages and tongues; a range of metaphysics that
was as wide as Babel, and about as enlightening. As Babel? Over my
shoulders came the strangest sound of all, weak, piping, tremulous,
fearful--“Now there are two. Now there are two.” My heart gave a fearful
leap. “Soon there will be three! Soon--”

I turned suddenly about. I had a fearful thought. I looked at Hobart.
A strange, insidious fear clutched at me. Was the thought intrinsic? If
not, where had it come from? Three? I strained my ears to hear Watson's
footsteps. He was in the back part of the building. I must have some
air.

“I'm going to open the door, Hobart,” I spoke. “The front door, and look
out into the street.”

“Don't blame you much. Feel a bit that way myself. About time for Dr.
Higgins. Here comes Chick again. Take a look outside and see if the doc
is coming.”

I opened the door and looked out into the dripping fog bank. What a pair
of fools we were! We both knew it, and we were both seeking an excuse.
In the next room through the curtains I could see the weak form of
Watson; he was bearing a light.

Suddenly the light went out.

I was at high tension; the mere fact of the light was nothing, but it
meant a world at that moment--a strange sound--a struggle--then the
words of Watson--Chick Watson's:

“Harry! Harry! Hobart! Harry! Come here! It's the Blind Spot!”

It was in the next room. The despair of that call is unforgettable, like
that of one suddenly falling into space. Then the light dropped to the
floor. I could see the outlines of his figure and a weird, single string
of incandescence. Hobart turned and I leaped. It was a blur, the form
of a man melting into nothing. I sprang into the room, tearing down the
curtains. Hobart was on top of me. But we were too late. I could
feel the vibrancy of something uncanny as I rushed across the space
intervening. Through my mind darted the thrill of terror. It had come
suddenly, and in climax. It was over before it had commenced. The light
had gone out. Only by the gleam from the other room could we make out
each others' faces. The air was vibrant, magnetic. There was no Watson.
But we could hear his voice. Dim and fearful, coming down the corridors
of time.

“Hold that ring, Harry! Hold that ring!” Then the faint despair out of
the weary distance, faint, but a whole volume:

“The Blind Spot!”

It was over as quickly as that. The whole thing climaxed into an
instant. It is difficult to describe. One cannot always analyse
sensations. Mine, I am afraid, were muddled. A thousand insistent
thoughts clashed through my brain. Horror, wonder, doubt! I have only
one persistent and predominating recollection. The old lady! I could
almost feel her coming out of the shadows. There was sadness and pity;
out of the stillness and the corners. What had been the dirge of her
sorrow?

“NOW THERE ARE THREE!”




X

MAN OR PHANTOM


It was Hobart who came to first. His voice was good to hear. It
was natural; it was sweet and human, but it was pregnant with
disappointment: “We are fools, Harry; we are fools!”

But I could only stare. I remember saying: “The Blind Spot?”

“Yes,” returned Hobart, “the Blind Spot. But what is it? We saw him go.
Did you see it?”

“It gets me,” I answered. “He just vanished into space. It--” Frankly I
was afraid.

“It tallies well with the reports. The old lady and Jerome. Remember?”

“And the bell?” I looked about the room.

“Exactly. Phenomena! Watson was right. I just wonder--but the bell?
Remember the doctor? 'The greatest day since Columbus.' No, don't cross
the room, Harry, I'm a bit leery: A great discovery! I should say it
was. How do you account for it?”

“Supernatural.”

Fenton shook his head.

“By no means! It's the gateway to the universe--into Cosmos.” His eyes
sparkled. “My Lord, Harry! Don't you see! Once we control it. The Blind
Spot! What is beyond? We saw Chick Watson go. Before our eyes. Where did
he go to? It beats death itself.”

I started across the room, but Hobart caught me with both arms: “No, no,
no, Harry. My Lord! I don't want to lose you. No! You foolhardly little
cuss--stand back!”

He threw me violently against the wall. The impact quite took my breath.

On the instant the old rush of temper surged up in me. From boyhood we
had these moments. Hobart settled himself and awaited the rush that he
knew was coming. In his great, calm, brute strength there was still a
greatness of love.

“Harry,” he was saying, “for the love of Heaven, listen to reason! Have
we got to have a knock-down and drag-out on this of all nights? Have I
got to lick you again? Do you want to roll into the Blind Spot?”

Why did God curse me with such a temper? On such moments as this I could
feel something within me snapping. It was fury and unreason. How I loved
him! And yet we had fought a thousand times over just such provocation.
Over his shoulders I could see the still open door that led into the
street. A heavy form was looming through the opening; out of the corner
of my eye I caught the lines of the form stepping out of the shadows--it
crossed the room and stood beside Hobart Fenton. It was Rhamda Avec!

I leaped. The fury of a thousand conflicts--and the exultation. For the
glory of such moments it is well worth dying. One minute flying through
the air--the old catapult tackle--and the next a crashing of bone
and sinew. We rolled over, head on, and across the floor. Curses and
execrations; the deep bass voice of Hobart:

“Hold him, Harry! Hold him! That's the way! Hold him! Hold him!”

We went crashing about the room. He was the slipperiest thing I had ever
laid hold of. But he was bone--bone and sinew; he was a man! I remember
the wild thrill of exultation at the discovery. It was battle! And
death! The table went over, we went spinning against the wall, a crash
of falling bookcases, books and broken glass, a scurry and a flying heap
of legs and arms. He was wonderfully strong and active, like a panther.
Each time I held him he would twist out like a cat, straighten, and
throw me out of hold. I clung on, fighting, striving for a grip, working
for the throat. He was a man--a man! I remembered that he must never get
away. He must account for Watson.

In the first rush I was a madman. The mere force of my onslaught had
borne him down. But in a moment he had recovered and was fighting
systematically. As much as he could he kept over on one side of me,
always forcing me toward the inner room where Watson had disappeared. In
spite of my fury he eluded every effort that I made for a vital part. We
rolled, fought, struck and struggled.

I could hear Hobart's bass thundering: “Over! Over! Under! Look out! Now
you've got him! Harry! Harry! Look out! Hold him, for the love of Heaven
I see his trick. That's his trick. The Blind Spot!”

We were rolled clear over, picked, heaved, shoved against the front
wall. There were three! The great heaving bulk of Fenton; the fighting
tiger between us; and myself! Surely such strength was not human; we
could not pin him; his quickness was uncanny; he would uncoil, twist
himself and throw us loose. Gradually he worked us away from the front
wall and into the centre of the room.

Could any mere man fight so? Hobart was as good as a ton; I was as much
for action. Slowly, slowly in spite of our efforts, he was working us
towards the Blind Spot. Confident of success, he was over, around, and
in and under. In a spin of a second he went into the attack. He fairly
bore us off our feet. We were on the last inch of our line; the stake
was--

What was it? We all went down. A great volume of sound! We were inside
a bell! My whole head buzzed to music and a roar; the whir of a thousand
vibrations; the inside of sound. I fell face downwards; the room went
black.

What was it? How long I lay there I don't know. A dim light was burning.
I was in a room. The ceiling overhead was worked in a grotesque pattern;
I could not make it out. My clothes were in tatters and my hand was
covered with blood. Something warm was trickling down my face. What was
it? The air was still and sodden. Who was this man beside me? And what
was this smell of roses?

I lay still for a minute, thinking. Ah, yes! It came back. Watson--Chick
Watson! The Blind Spot! The Rhamda and the bell!

Surely it was a dream. How could all this be in one short night? It was
like a nightmare and impossible. I raised up on my elbow and looked at
the form beside me. It was Hobart Fenton. He was unconscious.

For a moment my mind was whirring; I was too weak and unsteady. I
dropped back and wondered absently at the roses. Roses meant
perfume, and perfume meant a woman. What could--something touched my
face--something soft; it plucked tenderly at my tangled hair and drew it
away from my forehead. It was the hand of a woman!

“You poor, foolish boy! You foolish boy!”

Somewhere I had heard that voice; it held a touch of sadness; it was
familiar; it was soft and silken like music that might have been woven
out of the moonbeams. Who was it that always made me think of moonbeams?
I lay still, thinking.

“He dared; he dared; he dared!” she was saying. “As if there were not
two! He shall pay for this! Am I to be a plaything? You poor boy!”

Then I remembered. I looked up. It was the Nervina. She was stooping
over with my head against her. How beautiful her eyes were! In their
depths was a pathos and a tenderness that was past a woman's, the same
slight droop at the corners of the mouth, and the wistfulness; her
features were relaxed like a mother's--a wondrous sweetness and pity.

“Harry,” she asked, “where is Watson? Did he go?”

I nodded.

“Into the Blind Spot?”

“Yes. What is the Blind Spot?”

She ignored the question.

“I am sorry” she answered. “So sorry. I would have saved him. And the
Rhamda; was he here, too?”

I nodded. Her eyes flashed wickedly.

“And--and you--tell me, did you fight with the Rhamda? You--”

“It was Watson,” I interrupted. “This Rhamda is behind it all. He is the
villain. He can fight like a tiger; whoever he is he can fight.”

She frowned slightly; she shook her head.

“You young men,” she said. “You young men! You are all alike! Why must
it be? I am so sorry. And you fought with the Rhamda? You could not
overcome him, of course. But tell me, how could you resist him? What did
you do?”

What did she mean? I had felt his flesh and muscle. He was a man. Why
could he not be conquered--not be resisted?

“I don't understand,” I answered. “He is a man. I fought him. He was
here. Let him account for Watson. We fought alone at first, until
he tried to throw me into this Thing. Then Hobart stepped in. Once I
thought we had him, but he was too slippery. He came near putting us
both in. I don't know. Something happened--a bell.”

Her hand was on my arm, she clutched it tightly, she swallowed hard; in
her eyes flashed the fire that I had noticed once before, the softness
died out, and their glint was almost terrible.

“He! The bell saved you? He would dare to throw you into the Blind
Spot!”

I lay back. I was terribly weak and uncertain. This beautiful woman!
What was her interest in myself?

“Harry,” she spoke, “let me ask you. I am your friend. If you only knew!
I would save you. It must not be. Will you give me the ring? If I could
only tell you! You must not have it. It is death--yes, worse than death.
No man may wear it.”

So that was it. Again and so soon I was to be tempted. Was her concern
feigned or real? Why did she call me Harry? Why did I not resent it? She
was wonderful; she was beautiful; she was pure. Was it merely a subtle
act for the Rhamda? I could still hear Watson's voice ringing out of the
Blind Spot; “Hold the ring! Hold the ring!” I could not be false to my
friend.

“Tell me first,” I asked. “Who is this Rhamda? What is he? Is he a man?”

“No.”

Not a man! I remembered Watson's words: “A phantom!” How could it be? At
least I would find out what I could.

“Then tell me, what is he?”

“She smiled faintly; again the elusive tenderness lingered about her
lips, the wistful droop at the corners.

“That I may not tell you, Harry. You couldn't understand. If only I
could.”

Certainly I couldn't understand her evasion. I studied and watched
her--her wondrous hair, the perfection of her throat, the curve of her
bosom.

“Then he is supernatural.”

“No, not that, Harry. That would explain everything. One cannot go above
Nature. He is living just as you are.”

I studied a moment.

“Are you a woman?” I asked suddenly.

Perhaps I should not have asked it; she was so sad and beautiful,
somehow I could not doubt her sincerity. There was a burden at the
back of her sadness, some great yearning unsatisfied, unattainable.
She dropped her head. The hand upon my arm quivered and clutched
spasmodically; I caught the least sound of a sob. When I looked up her
eyes were wet and sparkling.

“Oh,” she said. “Harry, why do you ask it? A woman! Harry, a woman! To
live and love and to be loved. What must it be? There is so much of life
that is sweet and pure. I love it--I love it! I can have everything
but the most exalted thing of all. I can live, see, enjoy, think, but I
cannot have love. You knew it from the first. How did you know it? You
said--Ah, it is true! I am out of the moonbeams.” She controlled herself
suddenly. “Excuse me,” she said simply. “But you can never understand.
May I have the ring?”

It was like a dream--her beauty, her voice, everything. But I could
still hear Watson. I was to be tempted, cajoled, flattered. What was
this story out of the moonbeams? Certainly she was the most beautiful
girl I had ever seen. Why had I asked such a question?

“I shall keep the ring,” I answered.

She sighed. A strange weakness came over me; I was drowsy; I lapsed
again into unconsciousness; just as I was fading away I heard her
speaking: “I am so sorry!”




XI

BAFFLED


Was it a dream? The next I knew somebody was dousing water down my neck.
It was Hobart Fenton. “Lord,” he was saying, “I thought you were never
coming to. What hit us? You are pretty well cut up. That was some fight.
This Rhamda, who is he? Can you figure him out? Did you hear that bell?
What was it?”

I sat up. “Where is the Nervina?” I asked. “The who?” He was bewildered.
“Oh, down at the cafe, I suppose. Thought you had forgotten her. Wasn't
her mate enough? It might be healthy to forget his Nervina.”

He was a fine sight; his clothes were in ribbons; his plump figure was
breaking out at the seams. He regarded me critically.

“What d'you think of the Blind Spot?” he asked. “Who is the Rhamda? He
put us out pretty easily.”

“But the girl?” I interrupted. “The girl? Confound it, the girl?”

It was sometime before I could make him understand; even then he refused
to believe me.

“It was all a dream,” he said; “all a dream.”

But I was certain.

Fenton began prodding about the room. I do not believe any apartment was
ever so thoroughly ransacked. We even tore up the carpet. When we were
through he sat in the midst of the debris and wiped his forehead.

“It's no use, Harry--no use. We might have known better. It can't be
done. Yet you say you saw a string of incandescence.”

“A single string; the form of Watson; a blur--then nothing,” I answered.

He thought. He quoted the professor:

“'Out of the occult I shall bring you the proof and the substance. It
will be concrete--within the reach of your senses.' Isn't that what the
doctor said?”

“Then you believe Professor Holcomb?”

“Why not? Didn't we see it? I know a deal of material science; but
nothing like this. I always had faith in Dr. Holcomb. After all, it's
not impossible. First we must go over the house thoroughly.”

We did. Most of all, we were interested in that bell. We did not think,
either of us, that so much noise could come out of nothing. It was too
material. The other we could credit to the occult; but not the sound. It
had drowned our consciousness; perhaps it had saved us from the Rhamda.
But we found nothing. We went over the house systematically. It was much
as it had been previously described, only now a bit more furnished. The
same dank, musty smell and the same suggestive silence. We returned to
the lower floor and the library. It was a sorry sight. We straightened
up the shelves and returned the books to their places.

It was getting along toward morning. Hobart sailed at nine o'clock. We
must have new clothing and some coffee; likewise we must collect our
wits. I had the ring, and had given my pledge to Watson. I was muddled.
We must get down to sane action. First of all we must return to our
rooms.

The fog had grown thicker; one could almost taste it. I couldn't
suppress a shudder. It was cold, dank, repressive. Neither of us spoke
a word on our way downtown. Hobart opened the door to our apartment; he
turned on the lights.

In a few moments we had hot, steaming cups of coffee. Still we did not
speak. Hobart sat in his chair, his elbows on the table and his head
between his hands. My thoughts ran back to that day in college when he
said “I was just thinking, Harry, if I had one hundred thousand dollars,
I would solve the Blind Spot.”

That was long ago. We had neither of us thought that we would come to
the fact.

“Well,” I spoke, “have you got that hundred thousand dollars? You had an
idea once.”

He looked up. “I've got it yet. I am not certain. It is merely a theory.
But it's not impossible.”

“Well, what is it?”

He took another drink of coffee and settled back in his chair.

“It is energy, Harry--force. Nothing but energy--and Nature.”

“Then it's not occult?” I asked.

“Certainly it is. I didn't say that. It is what the professor promised.
Something concrete for our senses. If the occult is, it can certainly be
proven. The professor was right. It is energy, force, vibration. It has
a law. The old doctor was caught somehow. We must watch our step and
see that we aren't swallowed up also. Perhaps we shall go the way of
Watson.”

I shuddered.

“I hope not. But explain. You speak in volumes. Come back to earth.”

“That's easy, Harry. I can give you my theory in a few short words.
You've studied physiology, haven't you? Well, that's where you can get
your proof--or rather let me say my theory. What is the Blind Spot?”

“In optics?”

“We'll forgo that,” he answered. “I refer to this one.”

I thought for a moment.

“Well,” I said, “I don't know. It was something I couldn't see. Watson
went out before our eyes. He was lost.”

“Exactly. Do you get the point?”

“No.”

“It is this. What you see is merely energy. Your eye is merely a
machine. It catches certain colours. Which in turn are merely rates of
vibration. There is nothing to matter but force, Harry; if we could get
down deep enough and know a few laws, we could transmute it.”

“What has it to do with the occult?”

“Merely a fact. The eye machine catches only certain vibration speeds of
energy. There are undoubtedly any number of speeds; the eye cannot see
them.”

“Then this would account for the Blind Spot?”

“Exactly. A localised spot, a condition, a combination of phenomena,
anything entering it becomes invisible.”

“Where does it go to?”

“That's it. Where? It's one of the things that man has been guessing at
down the ages. The professor is the first philosopher with sound sense.
He went after it. It's a pity he was trapped.”

“By the Rhamda?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Who is he?”

Hobart smiled.

“How do I know? Where did he come from? If we knew that, we would know
everything. 'A phantom,' so Watson says. If so, it only strengthens
our theory. It would make a man and matter only a part of creation.
Certainly it would clear up a lot of doubts.”

“And the ring?”

“It controls the Blind Spot.”

“In what way?”

“That's for us to find out.”

“And Watson? He is in this land of doubt?”

“At least he is in the Blind Spot. Let me try the ring.”

He struck a match.

It was much as it had been in the restaurant, only a bit more startling.
Then the blue faded, the colour went out, and it became transparent. For
a moment. There was an effect of space and distance that I had not noted
before, almost marvellous. If I could describe it at all, I would say
a crystal corridor of a vastness that can scarcely be imagined. It
made one dizzy, even in that bit of jewel: one lost proportion, it was
height, distance, space immeasurable. For an instant. Then the whole
thing blurred and clouded. Something passed across the face; the
transparency turned to opaqueness, and then--two men. It was as sudden
as a flash--the materialisation. There was no question. They were alive.
Watson was with the professor.

It was a strange moment. Only an hour before one of them had been
with us. It was Watson, beyond a doubt. He was alive; one could almost
believe him in the jewel. We had heard his story: “The screen of the
occult; the curtain of shadow.” We had seen him go. There was an element
of horror in the thing, and of fascination. The great professor! The
faithful Watson! Where had they gone?

It was not until the colour had come back and the blue had regained its
lustre that either of us looked up. Could such a thing be unravelled?
Fenton turned the stone over thoughtfully. He shook his head.

“In that jewel, Harry, lies the secret. I wish I knew a bit more about
physics, light, force, energy, vibration. We have got to know.”

“Your theory?”

“It still holds good.”

I thought.

“Let me get it clear, Hobart. You say that we catch only certain
vibrations.”

“That's it. Our eyes are instruments, nothing else. We can see light,
but we cannot hear it. We hear sound, but we cannot see it. Of course
they are not exactly parallel. But it serves the point. Let's go a
bit further. The eye picks up certain vibrations. Light is nothing but
energy vibrating at a tremendous speed. It has to be just so high for
the eye to pick it up. A great deal we do not get. For instance, we can
only catch one-twelfth of the solar spectrum. Until recently we have
believed only what we could see. Science has pulled us out of the rut.
It may pull us through the Blind Spot.”

“And beyond.”

Hobart held up his hands.

“It is almost too much to believe. We have made a discovery. We must
watch our step. We must not lose. The work of Dr. Holcomb shall not go
for nothing.”

“And the ring?”

He consulted his watch.

“We have only a short time left. We must map our action. We have three
things to work on--the ring, the house, Bertha Holcomb. It's all up to
you, Harry. Find out all that is possible; but go slow. Trace down
that ring; find out everything that you can. Go and see Bertha Holcomb.
Perhaps she can give you some data. Watson said no; but perhaps you may
uncover it. Take the ring to a lapidary; but don't let him cut it. Last
of all, and most important, buy the house of the Blind Spot. Draw on me.
Let me pay half, anyway.”

“I shall move into it,” I answered.

He hesitated a bit.

“I am afraid of that,” he answered. “Well, if you wish. Only be careful.
Remember I shall return just as soon as I can get loose. If you feel
yourself slipping or anything happens, send me a cable.”

The hours passed all too quickly. When day came we had our breakfast
and hurried down to the pier. It was hard to have him go. His last words
were like Hobart Fenton. He repeated the warning.

“Watch your step, Harry; watch your step. Take things easy; be cautious.
Get the house. Trace down the ring. Be sure of yourself. Keep me
informed. If you need me, cable. I'll come if I have to swim.”

His last words; and not a year ago. It seems now like a lifetime. As I
stood upon the pier and watched the ship slipping into the water, I felt
it coming upon me. It had grown steadily, a gloom and oppression not to
be thwarted; it is silent and subtle and past defining--like shadow. The
grey, heavy heave of the water; the great hull of the steamer backing
into the bay; the gloom of the fog bank. A few uncertain lines, the
shrill of the siren, the mist settling; I was alone. It was isolation.

I had been warned by Watson. But I had not guessed. At the moment
I sensed it. It was the beginning. Out of my heart I could feel
it--solitude.

In the great and populous city I was to be alone, in all its teeming
life I was to be a stranger. It has been almost a year--a year! It has
been a lifetime. A breaking down of life!

I have waited and fought and sought to conquer. One cannot fight against
shadow. It is merciless and inexorable. There are secrets that may be
locked forever. It was my duty, my pledge to Watson, what I owed to the
professor. I have hung on grimly; what the end will be I do not know. I
have cabled for Fenton.




XII

A DEAL IN PROPERTY


But to return. There was work that I should do--much work if I was going
after the solution. In the first place, there was the house. I turned
my back to the waterfront and entered the city. The streets were packed,
the commerce of man jostled and threaded along the highways; there was
life and action, hope, ambition. It was what I had loved so well. Yet
now it was different.

I realised it vaguely, and wondered. This feeling of aloofness? It was
intrinsic, coming from within, like the withering of one's marrow. I
laughed at my foreboding; it was not natural; I tried to shake myself
together.

I had no difficulty with the records. In less than an hour I traced out
the owners, “an estate,” and had located the agent. It just so happened
that he was a man with whom I had some acquaintance. We were not long in
coming to business.

“The house at No. 288 Chatterton Place?”

I noticed that he was startled; there was a bit of wonder in his look--a
quizzical alertness. He motioned me to a chair and closed the door.

“Sit down, Mr. Wendel; sit down. H-m! The house at No. 288 Chatterton
Place? Did I hear you right?”

Again I noted the wonder; his manner was cautious and curious. I nodded.

“Want to buy it or just lease it? Pardon me, but you are sort of a
friend. I would not like to lose your friendship for the sake of a mere
sale. What is your--”

“Just for a residence,” I insisted. “A place to live in.”

“I see. Know anything about this place?”

“Do you?”

He fumbled with some papers. For an agent he did not strike me as being
very solicitous for a commission.

“Well,” he said, “in a way, yes. A whole lot more than I'd like to. It
all depends. One gets much from hearsay. What I know is mostly
rumour.” He began marking with a pencil. “Of course I don't believe it.
Nevertheless I would hardly recommend it to a friend as a residence.”

“And these rumours?”

He looked up; for a moment he studied; then:

“Ever hear of the Blind Spot? Perhaps you remember Dr. Holcomb--in 1905,
before the 'quake. It was a murder. The papers were full of it at the
time; since then it has been occasionally featured in the supplements. I
do not believe in the story; but I can trust to facts. The last seen of
Dr. Holcomb was in this house. It is called the Blind Spot.”

“Then you believe in the story?” I asked.

He looked at me.

“Oh, you know it, eh? No, I do not. It's all bunkum; reporters' work
and exaggeration. If you like that kind of stuff, it's weird and
interesting. But it hurts property. The man was undoubtedly murdered.
The tale hangs over the house. It's impossible to dispose of the place.”

“Then why not sell it to me?”

He dropped his pencil; he was a bit nervous.

“A fair question, Mr. Wendel--a very fair question. Well, now, why don't
I? Perhaps I shall. There's no telling. But I'd rather not. Do you know,
a year ago I would have jumped at an offer. Fact is, I did lease it--the
lease ran out yesterday--to a man named Watson. I don't believe a thing
in this nonsense; but what I have seen during the past year has tested
my nerve considerably.”

“What about Watson?”

“Watson? A year ago he came to see me in regard to this Chatterton
property. Wanted to lease it. Was interested in the case of Dr. Holcomb;
asked for a year's rental and the privilege of renewal. I don't know. I
gave it to him; but when he drops in again I am going to fight almighty
hard against letting him hold it longer.”

“Why?”

“Why? Why, because I don't believe in murder. A year ago he came to
me the healthiest and happiest man I ever saw; today he is a shadow. I
watched that boy go down. Understand, I don't believe a damn word I'm
saying; but I have seen it. It's that cursed house. I say no, when
I reason; but it keeps on my nerves; it's on my conscience. It is
insidious. Every month when he came here I could see disintegration.
It's pitiful to see a young man stripped of life like that; forlorn,
hopeless, gone. He has never told me what it is; but I have wondered. A
battle; some conflict with--there I go again. It's on my nerves, I tell
you, on my nerves. If this keeps up I'll burn it.”

It was a bit foreboding. Already I could feel the tugging at my heart
that had done for Watson. This man had watched my friend slipping into
the shadow; I had come to take his place.

“Watson has gone,” I said simply; “and that's why I am here.”

He straightened up.

“You know him then. He was not--”

“He went last night; he has left the country. He was in very poor
health. That's why I am here. I know very well the cloud that hangs over
the property; it is my sole reason for purchasing.”

“You don't believe in this nonsense?”

I smiled. Certainly the man was perverse in his agnosticism; he was
stubborn in disbelief. It was on his nerves; on his conscience; he was
afraid.

“I believe nothing,” I answered; “neither do I disbelieve. I know all
the story that has been told or written. I am a friend of Watson. You
need not scruple in making me out a bill of sale. It's my own funeral. I
abide by the consequences.”

He gave a sigh of relief. After all, he was human. He had honour; but
it was after the brand of Pontius Pilate. He wished nothing on his
conscience.

Armed with the keys and the legal title, I took possession. In the
daylight it was much as it had been the night before. Once across its
threshold, one was in dank and furtive suppression; the air was heavy;
a mould of age had streaked the walls and gloomed the shadows. I put up
all the curtains to let in the rush of sunlight, likewise I opened the
windows. If there is anything to beat down sin, it is the open measure
of broad daylight.

The house was well situated; from the front windows one could look down
the street and out at the blue bay beyond the city. The fog had lifted
and the sun was shining upon the water. I could make out the ferryboats,
the islands, and the long piers that lead to Oakland, and still farther
beyond the hills of Berkeley. It was a long time since those days in
college. Under the shadow of those hills I had first met the old doctor.
I was only a boy then.

I turned into the building. Even the sound of my footsteps was foreign;
the whole place was pregnant with stillness and shadow; life was gone
out. It was fearful; I felt the terror clutching upon me, a grimness
that may not be spoken; there was something breaking within me. I had
pledged myself for a year. Frankly I was afraid.

But I had given my word. I returned to my apartments and began that
very day the closing down of my practice. In a fortnight I had completed
everything and had moved my things to the room of Chick Watson.




XIII

ALBERT JEROME


Just as soon as possible I hurried over to Berkeley. I went straight to
the bungalow on Dwight Way; I inquired for Miss Holcomb. She was a woman
now in her late twenties, decidedly pretty, a blonde, and of intelligent
bearing.

Coming on such an errand, I was at a loss just how to approach her. I
noted the little lines about the corners of her eyes, the sad droop of
her pretty mouth. Plainly she was worried. As I was removing my hat she
caught sight of the ring upon my finger.

“Oh,” she said; “then you come from Mr. Watson. How is Chick?”

“Mr. Watson”--I did not like lying, but I could not but feel for
her; she had already lost her father--“Mr. Watson has gone on a trip
up-country--with Jerome. He was not feeling well. He has left this ring
with me. I have come for a bit of information.”

She bit her lips; her mouth quivered.

“Couldn't you get this from Mr. Watson? He knows about the stone. Didn't
he tell you? How did it come into your possession? What has happened?”

Her voice was querulous and suspicious. I had endeavoured to deceive her
for her own sake; she had suffered enough already. I could not but wince
at the pain in her eyes. She stood up.

“Please, Mr. Wendel; don't be clumsy. Don't regard me as a mere baby.
Tell me what has happened to Chick. Please--”

She stopped in a flow of emotion. Tears came to her eyes; but she held
control. She sat down.

“Tell me all, Mr. Wendel. It is what I expected.” She blinked to hold
back her tears. “It is my fault. You wouldn't have the ring had nothing
happened. Tell me. I can be brave.”

And brave she was--splendid. With the tug at my own heart I could
understand her. What uncertainty and dread she must have been under! I
had been in it but a few days; already I could feel the weight. At no
time could I surmount the isolation; there was something going from
me minute by minute. With the girl there could be no evasion; it were
better that she have the truth. I made a clean breast of the whole
affair.

“And he told you no more about the ring?”

“That is all,” I answered. “He would have told us much more,
undoubtedly, had he not--”

“You saw him go--you saw this thing?”

“That is just it, Miss Holcomb. We saw nothing. One minute we were
looking at Chick, and the next at nothing. Hobart understood it better
than I. At least he forbade my crossing the room. There is a danger
point, a spot that may not be crossed. He threw me back. It was then
that the Rhamda came upon the scene.” She frowned slightly.

“Tell me about the Nervina. When Chick spoke of her, I could always feel
jealous. Is she beautiful?”

“Most beautiful, the most wonderful girl I have ever seen, though I
would hardly class her as one to be jealous of. But she wants the ring.
I've promised Watson, and of course I shall keep it. But I would like
its history.”

“I think I can give you some information there,” she answered. “The
ring, or rather the jewel, was given to father about twenty years ago by
a Mr. Kennedy. He had been a pupil of father's when father taught at a
local school. He came here often to talk over old times. Father had the
jewel set in a ring; but he never wore it.”

“Why?”

“I do not know.”

“How did Watson come to link it up with the Blind Spot?”

“That, I think, was an accident. He was in college, you know, at the
time of father's disappearance. In fact, he was in the Ethics class.
He came here often, and during one of his visits I showed him the ring.
That was several years ago.”

“I see.”

“Well, about a year ago he was here again, and asked to see the jewel.
We were to be married, you understand; but I had always put it off
because of father. Somehow I felt that he would return. It was in late
summer, about September; it was in the evening; it was getting dark. I
gave Chick the ring, and stepped into the garden to cut some flowers. I
remember that Chick struck a match in the parlour. When I came back he
seemed to be excited.”

“Did he ask you for the ring?”

“Yes. He wanted to wear it. And he suddenly began to talk of father. It
was that night that he took it upon himself to find him.”

“I see. Not before that night? Did he take the ring then?”

“Yes. We went to the opera. I remember it well, because that night was
the first time I ever knew Chick to be gloomy.”

“Ah!”

“Yes. You know how jolly he always was. When we returned that night he
would scarcely say a word. I thought he was sick; but he said he was
not; said he just felt that way.”

“I understand. And he kept getting glummer? Did you suspect the jewel?
Did he ever tell you anything?”

She shook her head.

“No. He told me nothing, except that he would find father. Of course, I
became excited and wanted to know. But he insisted that I couldn't help;
that he had a clue, and that it might take time. From that night I saw
very little of him. He leased the house on Chatterton Place. He seemed
to lose interest in myself; when he did come over he would act queerly.
He talked incoherently, and would often make rambling mention of a
beautiful girl called Nervina. You say it is the ring? Tell me, Mr.
Wendel, what is it? Has it really anything to do with father?”

I nodded.

“I think it has, Miss Holcomb. And I can understand poor Chick. He is a
very brave man. It's a strange jewel and of terrible potency; that much
I know. It devitalises; it destroys. I can feel it already. It covers
life with a fog of decay. The same solitude has come upon myself.
Nevertheless I am certain it has much to do with the Blind Spot. It is a
key of some sort. The very interest of the Rhamda and the Nervina tells
us that. I think it was through this stone that your father made his
discovery.”

She thought a moment.

“Hadn't you better return it? While you still have health? If you keep
it, it will be only one more.”

“You forget, Miss Holcomb, my promise to Chick. I loved your father,
and I was fond of Watson. It's a great secret and, if the professor is
right, one which man has sought through the ages. I'd be a coward to
forgo my duty. If I fail, I have another to take my place.”

“Oh,” she said, “it's horrible. First father; then Chick; now you; and
afterwards it will be Mr. Fenton.”

“It is our duty,” I returned. “One by one. Though we may fail, each one
of us may pass a bit more on to his successor. In the end we win. It is
the way of man.”

I had my way. She turned over all the data and notes that had been
left by the professor; but I never found a thing in them that could be
construed to an advantage. My real quest was to trace down the jewel.
The man Kennedy's full name was, I learned, Budge Kennedy. He had lived
in Oakland. It was late in the afternoon when I parted with Miss Holcomb
and started for the city.

I remember it well because of a little incident that occurred
immediately after our parting. I was just going down the steps when I
looked up one of the side streets. A few students were loitering here
and there. But there was one who was not a student. I recognised him
instantly, and I wondered. It was the Rhamda. This was enough to make
me suspicious. But there was one thing more. Farther up the street was
another figure.

When I came down the steps the Rhamda moved, and his move was somehow
duplicated by the other. In itself this was enough to clear up some of
my doubts concerning the phantom. His actions were too simple for an
apparition. Only a man would act like that, and a crude one. I didn't
know then the nerve of the Rhamda. There was no doubt that I was being
shadowed.

To make certain, I took the by-streets and meandered by a devious route
to the station. There was no question; one and two they followed. I knew
the Rhamda; but who was the other?

At the station we purchased tickets, and when the train pulled in I
boarded a smoker. The other two took another coach--the stranger was a
thick-set individual with a stubby, grey moustache. On the boat I didn't
see them; but at the ferry building I made a test to see that I was
followed. I hailed a taxi and gave specific instructions to the driver.

“Drive slowly,” I told him. “I think we shall be followed.”

And I was right; in a few minutes there were two cars dogging our
wheel-tracks. I had no doubt concerning the Rhamda; but I couldn't
understand the other. At No. 288 Chatterton Place we stopped and I
alighted. The Rhamda's car passed, then the other. Neither stopped. Both
disappeared round the corner. I took the numbers; then I went into the
house. In about a half hour a car drew up at the curb. I stepped to
the window. It was the car that had tracked the Rhamda's. The stubby
individual stepped out; without ceremony he ran up the steps and opened
the door. It was a bit disconcerting, I think, for both. He was plain
and blunt--and honest.

“Well,” he said, “where's Watson? Who are you? What do you want?”

“That,” I answered, “is a question for both of us. Who are you, and what
do you want? Where is Watson?”

Just then his eyes dropped and his glance fell and eyes widened.

“My name is Jerome,” he said simply. “Has something happened to Watson?
Who are you?”

We were standing in the library; I made an indication towards the other
room. “In there,” I said. “My name is Wendel.”

He took off his hat and ran the back of his hand across his forehead.

“So that pair got him, too! I was afraid of them all the while. And I
had to be away. Do you know how they did it? What's the working of their
game? It's devilish and certainly clever. They played that boy for a
year; they knew they would get him in the end. So did I.

“He was a fine lad, a fine lad. I knew this morning when I came down
from Nevada that they had him. Found your duds. A stranger. House looked
queer. But I had hopes he might have gone over to see his girl. Just
thought I'd wander over to Berkeley. Found that bird Rhamda under a palm
tree watching the Holcomb bungalow. It was the first time I'd seen
him since that day things went amiss with the professor. In about ten
minutes you came out. I stayed with him while he tracked you back here;
I followed him back down town and lost him. Tell me about Watson.”

He sat down; during my recital he spoke not a word. He consumed one
cigar after another; when I stopped for a moment he merely nodded his
head and waited until I continued. He was sturdy and frank, of an iron
way and vast common sense. I liked him. When I had finished he remained
silent; his grief was of a solid kind! he had liked poor Watson.

“I see,” he said. “It is as I thought. He told you more than he ever
told me.”

“He never told you?”

“Not much. He was a strange lad--about the loneliest one I've ever seen.
There was something about him from the very first that was not natural;
I couldn't make him out. You say it is the ring. He always wore it.
I laid it to this Rhamda. He was always meeting him. I could never
understand it. Try as I would, I could not get a trace of the phantom.”

“The phantom?”

“Most assuredly. Would you call him human?” His grey eyes were flecked
with light. “Come now, Mr. Wendel, would you?”

“Well,” I answered, “I don't know. Not after what I have seen. But for
all that, I have proof of his sinews. I am inclined to blend the
two. There is a law somewhere, a very natural one. The Blind Spot is
undoubtedly a combination of phenomena; it has a control. We do not know
what it is, or where it leads to; neither do we know the motive of the
Rhamda. Who is he? If we knew that, we would know everything.”

“And this ring?”

“I shall wear it.”

“Then God help you. I watched Watson. It's plain poison. You have a
year; but you had better count on half a year; the first six months
aren't so bad; but the last--it takes a man! Wendel, it takes a man!
Already you're eating your heart out. Oh, I know--you have opened the
windows; you want sunshine and air. In six months I shall have to fight
to get one open. It gets into the soul; it is stagnation; you die by
inches. Better give me the ring.”

“This Budge Kennedy,” I evaded, “we must find him. We have time. One
clue may lead us on. Tell me what you know of the Blind Spot.”

“Very easy,” he answered; “you have it all. I have been here a number of
years. You will remember I fell into the case through intuition. I never
had any definite proof, outside the professor's disappearance, the
old lady, and that bell; unless perhaps it is the Rhamda. But from the
beginning I've been positive.

“Taking that lecture in ethics as a starter, I built up my theory.
All the clues lead to this building. It's something that I cannot
understand. It's out of the occult. It's a bit too much for me. I moved
into the place and waited. I've never forgotten that bell, nor that old
lady. You and Fenton are the only ones who have seen the Blind Spot.”

I had a sudden thought.

“The Rhamda! I have read that he has the manner of inherent goodness. Is
it true? You have conversed with him. I haven't.”

“He has. He didn't strike me as a villain. He's intrinsic, noble, out of
self. I have often wondered.”

I smiled. “Perhaps we are thinking the same thing. Is this it? The Blind
Spot is a secret that man may not attain to. It is unknowable and akin
to death. The Rhamda knows it. He couldn't head off the professor. He
simply employed Dr. Holcomb's wisdom to trap him; now that he has him
secure, he intends to hold him. It is for our own good.”

“Exactly. Yet--”

“Yet?”

“He was very anxious to put you and Fenton into this very Spot.”

“That is so. But may it not be that we, too, knew a bit too much?”

He couldn't answer that.

Nevertheless, we were both of us convinced concerning the Rhamda. It was
merely a digression of thought, a conjecture. He might be good; but we
were both positive of his villainy. It was his motive, of course,
that weighed up his character; could we find that, we would uncover
everything.




XIV

A NEW ELEMENT


Budge Kennedy was not so easily found. There were many Kennedys. About
two-thirds of Ireland had apparently migrated to San Francisco under
that name and had lodged in the directory. We went through the lists on
both sides of the bay, but found nothing; the old directories had mostly
been destroyed by fire or had been thrown away as worthless; but at last
we unearthed one. In it we found the name of Budge Kennedy.

He had two sons--Patrick and Henry. One of these, Henry, we ran down in
the Mission. He was a great, red-headed, broad-shouldered Irishman. He
was just eating supper when we called; there were splotches of white
plaster on his trousers.

I came right to the point: “Do you know anything about this?” I held out
the ring.

He took it in his fingers; his eyes popped. “What, that! Well, I guess
I do! Where'd you get it?” He called out to the kitchen: “Say, Mollie,
come here. Here's the old man's jool!” He looked at me a bit fearfully.
“You aren't wearing it?”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Why? Well, I don't know exactly. I wouldn't wear it for a million
dollars. It ain't a jool; it's a piece of the divil. The old man gave
it to Dr. Holcomb--or sold it, I don't know which. He carried it in his
pocket once, and he came near dying.”

“Unlucky?” I asked.

“No, it ain't unlucky; it just rips your heart out. It would make you
hate your grandmother. Lonesome! Lonesome! I've often heard the old man
talking.”

“He sold it to Dr. Holcomb? Do you know why?”

“Well, yes. 'Twas that the old doc had some scientific work. Dad told
him about his jool. One day he took it over to Berkeley. It was some
kind of thing that the professor just wanted. He kept it. Dad made him
promise not to wear it.”

“I see. Did your father ever tell you where he got it?”

“Oh, yes. He often spoke about that. The old man wasn't a plasterer,
you know--just a labourer. He was digging a basement. It was a funny
basement--a sort of blind cellar. There was a stone wall right across
the middle, and then there was a door of wood to look like stone. You
can go down into the back cellar, but not into the front. If you don't
know about the door, you'll never find it. Dad often spoke about that.
He was working in the back cellar when he found this. 'Twas sticking in
some blue clay.”

“Where was this place? Do you remember?”

“Sure. 'Twas in Chatterton Place. Pat and I was kids then; we took the
old man's dinner.”

“Do you know the number?”

“It didn't have no number; but I know the place. 'Tis a two-story house,
and was built in 'ninety-one.”

I nodded. “And afterwards you moved to Oakland?”

“Yes.”

“Did your father ever speak of the reason for this partition in the
cellar?”

“He never knew of one. It was none of his business. He was merely a
labourer, and did what he was paid for.”

“Do you know who built it?”

“Some old guy. He was a cranky cuss with side-whiskers. He used to wear
a stove-pipe hat. I think he was a chemist. Whenever he showed up he
would run us kids out of the building. I think he was a bachelor.”

This was all the information he could give, but it was a great deal.
Certainly it was more than I had hoped for. The house had been built
by a chemist; even in the construction there was mystery. I had never
thought of a second cellar; when I had explored the building I had taken
the stone wall for granted. It was so with Jerome. It was the first
definite clue that really brought us down to earth. What had this
chemist to do with the phenomena?

After all, behind everything was lurking the mind of man.

We hastened back to the house and into the cellar. By merely sounding
along the wall we discovered the door; it was cleverly constructed and
for a time defied our efforts; but Jerome got it open by means of a
jemmy and a pick. The outside was a clever piece of sham work shaped
like stone and smeared over with cement. In the dim light we had missed
it.

We had high expectations. But we were disappointed. The space contained
nothing; it was smeared with cobwebs and hairy mould; but outside of a
few empty bottles and the gloomy darkness there was nothing. We tapped
the walls and floor and ceiling. Beyond all doubt the place once held
a secret; if it held it still, it was cleverly hidden. After an hour or
two of search we returned to the upper part of the building.

Jerome was not discouraged.

“We're on the right track, Mr. Wendel; if we can only get started.
I have an idea. The chemist--it was in 'ninety-one--that's more than
twenty years.”

“What is your idea?”

“The Rhamda. What is the first thing that strikes you? His age. With
everyone that sees him it's the same. At first you take him for an old
man; if you study him long enough, you are positive that he is in his
twenties. May he not be this chemist?”

“What becomes of the doctor and his Blind Spot?”

“The Blind Spot,” answered Jerome, “is merely a part of the chemistry.”

Next day I hunted up a jeweller. I was careful to choose one with whom I
was acquainted. I asked for a private consultation. When we were alone I
took the ring from my finger.

“Just an opinion,” I asked. “You know gems. Can you tell me anything
about this one?”

He picked it up casually, and turned it over; his mouth puckered. For a
minute he studied.

“That? Well, now.” He held it up. “Humph. Wait a minute.”

“Is it a gem?”

“I think it is. At first I thought I knew it right off; but now--wait a
minute.”

He reached in the drawer for his glass. He held the stone up for some
minutes. His face was a study; queer little wrinkles twisting from the
corners of his eyes told his wonder. He did not speak; merely turned
the stone round and round. At last he removed his glass and held up the
ring. He was quizzical.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“That is something I do not care to answer. I wish to know what it is.
Is it a gem? If so, what kind?”

He thought a moment and shook his head.

“I thought I knew every gem on earth. But I don't. This is a new one.
It is beautiful--just a moment.” He stepped to the door. In a moment
another man stepped in. The jeweller motioned towards the ring. The man
picked it up and again came the examination. At last he laid the glass
and ring both upon the table.

“What do you make of it, Henry?” asked the jeweller.

“Not me,” answered the second one. “I never saw one like it.”

It was as Watson had said. No man had ever identified the jewel. The two
men were puzzled; they were interested. The jeweller turned to me.

“Would you care to leave it with us for a bit; you have no objection to
us taking it out of the ring?”

I had not thought of that. I had business down the street. I consulted
my watch.

“In half an hour I shall be back. Will that be enough time?”

“I think so.”

It was an hour before I returned. The assistant was standing at the door
of the office. He spoke something to the one inside and then made an
indication to myself. He seemed excited; when I came closer I noted that
his face was full of wonder.

“We've been waiting,” said he. “We didn't examine the stone; it wasn't
necessary. It is truly wonderful.” He was a short, squat man with a
massive forehead. “Just step inside.”

Inside the office the jeweller was sitting beside a table; he was
leaning back in his chair; he had his hands clasped over his stomach. He
was gazing toward the ceiling; his face was a study, full of wonder and
speculation.

“Well?” I asked.

For an answer he merely raised his finger, pointed towards the ceiling.

“Up there,” he spoke. “Your jewel or whatever it is. A good thing we
weren't in open air. 'Twould be going yet.”

I looked up. Sure enough, against the ceiling was the gem. It was a bit
disconcerting, though I will confess that in the first moment I did not
catch the full significance.

The jeweller closed one eye and studied first myself and then the
beautiful thing against the ceiling.

“What do you make of it?” he asked.

Really I had not made anything; it was a bit of a shock; I hadn't
grasped the full impossibility. I didn't answer.

“Don't you see, Mr. Wendel? Impossible! Contrary to nature! Lighter than
air. We took it out of the ring and it shot out like a bullet. Thought
I'd dropped it. Began looking on the floor. Couldn't find it; looked up
and saw Reynolds, here, with his eyes popping out like marbles. He was
looking at the ceiling.”

I thought for a moment.

“Then it is not a gem?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Not if I'm a jeweller. Whoever heard of a
stone without weight? It has no gravity, that is, apparently. I doubt
whether it is a substance. I don't know what it is.”

It was puzzling. I would have given a good deal just then for a few
words with Dr. Holcomb. The man, Kennedy, had kept it in his pocket.
How had he held it a prisoner? The professor had use for it in some
scientific work! No wonder! Certainly it was not a jewel. What could it
be? It was solid. It was lighter than air. Could it be a substance? If
not; what is it?

“What would you advise?”

In answer the jeweller reached for the telephone. He gave a number.

“Hello. Say, is Ed there? This is Phil. Tell him to step to the phone.
Hello! Say, Ed, I want you to come over on the jump. Something to show
you. Too busy! No, you're not. Not for this. I'm going to teach you some
chemistry. No; this is serious. What is it? I don't know. What's lighter
than air? Lots of things? Oh, I know. But what solid? That's why I'm
asking. Come over. All right. At once.”

He hung up the receiver.

“My brother,” he spoke. “It has passed beyond my province and into his.
He is a chemist. As an expert he may give you a real opinion.”

Surely we needed one. It was against reason. It had taken me
completely off my balance. I took a chair and joined the others in the
contemplation of the blue dot on the ceiling. We could speculate and
conjecture; but there was not one of us deep enough even to start a
theory. Plainly it was what should not be. We had been taught physics
and science; we had been drilled to fundamentals. If this thing could
be, then the foundations upon which we stood were shattered. But one
little law! Back in my mind was buzzing the enigma of the Blind Spot.
They were woven together. Some law that had eluded the ken of mankind.

The chemist was a tall man with a hook nose and black eyes that clinched
like rivets. He was a bit impatient. He looked keenly at his brother.

“Well, Phil, what is it?” He pulled out a watch, “I haven't much time.”

There was a contrast between them. The jeweller was fat and complacent.
He merely sat in his chair, his hand on his waistband and a stubby
finger elevated toward the jewel. He seemed to enjoy it.

“You're a chemist, Ed. Here's a test for your wisdom. Can you explain
that? No, over here. Above your head. That jewel?”

The other looked up.

“What's the idea? New notion for decoration? Or”?--a bit testily--“is
this a joke?” He was a serious man; his black eyes and the nose spoke
his character.

The jeweller laughed gently.

“Listen, Ed--” Then he went into explanation; when he was through the
chemist was twitching with excitement.

“Get me a ladder. Here, let me get on the table; perhaps I can reach
it. Sounds impossible, but if it's so, it's so; it must have an
explanation.”

Without ado and in spite of the protests of his brother he stepped upon
the polished surface of the table. He was a tall man; he could just
barely reach it with the tip of his finger. He could move it; but each
time it clung as to a magnet. After a minute of effort he gave it up.
When he looked down he was a different man; his black eyes glowed with
wonder.

“Can't make it,” he said. “Get a step-ladder. Strange!”

With the ladder it was easy. He plucked it off the ceiling. We pressed
about the table. The chemist turned it about with his fingers.

“I wonder,” he was saying. “It's a gem. Apparently. You say it has no
gravity. It can't be. Whoop!” He let it slip out of his fingers. Again
it popped on its way to the ceiling. He caught it with a deft movement
of his hand. “The devil! Did you ever see! And a solid! Who owns this?”

That brought it back to me. I explained what I could of the manner of my
possession.

“I see. Very interesting. Something I've never
seen--and--frankly--something strictly against what I've been taught.
Nevertheless, it's not impossible. We are witnesses at least. Would you
care if I take this over to the laboratory?”

It was a new complication. If it were not a jewel there was a chance of
its being damaged. I was as anxious as he; but I had been warned as to
its possession.

“I shan't harm it. I'll see to that. I have suspicions and I'd like to
verify them. A chemist doesn't blunder across such a thing every day. I
am a chemist.” His eyes glistened.

“Your suspicions?” I asked.

“A new element.”

This gem. A new element. Perhaps that would explain the Blind Spot. It
was not exactly of earth. Everything had confirmed it.

“You--A new element? How do you account for it? It defies your laws.
Most of your elements are evolved through tedious process. This is
picked up by chance.”

“That is so. But there are still a thousand ways. A meteor, perhaps; a
bit of cosmic dust--there are many shattered comets. Our chemistry
is earthly. There are undoubtedly new elements that we don't know of.
Perhaps in enormous proportion.”

I let him have it. It was the only night I had been away from the ring.
I may say that it is the only time I have been free from its isolation.

When I called at his office next day I found he had merely confirmed his
suspicions. It defied analysis; there was no reaction. Under all tests
it was a stranger. The whole science that had been built up to explain
everything had here explained nothing. However there was one thing that
he had uncovered--heat. Perhaps I should say magnetism. It was cold to
man. I have spoken about the icy blue of its colour. It was cold even to
look at. The chemist placed it in my hand.

“Is it not so?”

It was. The minute it touched my palm I could sense the weird horror of
the isolation; the stone was cold. Just like a piece of ice.

This was the first time I had ever had it in direct contact with the
flesh. Set in the ring its impulse had always been secondary.

“You notice it? It is so with me. Now then. Just a minute.”

He pressed a button. A young lady answered his ring; she glanced first
at myself and then at the chemist.

“Miss Mills, this is Mr. Wendel. He is the owner of the gem. Would you
take it in your hand? And please tell Mr. Wendel how it feels--”

She laughed; she was a bit perplexed.

“I don't understand”--she turned to me--“we had the same dispute
yesterday. See, Mr. White says that it's cold; but it is not. It is
warm; almost burning. All the other girls think just as I do.”

“And all the men as I do,” averred the chemist, “even Mr. Wendel.”

“Is it cold to you?” she asked. “Really--”

It was a turn I hadn't looked for. It was akin to life--this relation to
sex. Could it account for the strange isolation and the weariness? I was
a witness to its potency. Watson! I could feel myself dragging under. I
had just one question:

“Tell me, Miss Mills. Can you sense anything else; I mean beyond its
temperature?”

She smiled a bit. “I don't know what you mean exactly. It is a beautiful
stone. I would like to have it.”

“You think its possession would make you happy?”

Her eyes sparkled.

“Oh,” she exclaimed. “I know it would! I can feel it!”

It was so. Whatever there was in the bit of sapphirine blue, it had
life. What was it? It had relation to sex. In the strict line of fact it
was impossible.

When we were alone again I turned to the chemist.

“Is there anything more you uncovered? Did you see anything in the
stone?”

He frowned. “No. Nothing else. This magnetism is the only thing. Is
there anything more?”

Now I hadn't said anything about its one great quality. He hadn't
stumbled across the image of the two men. I couldn't understand it. I
didn't tell him. Perhaps I was wrong. Down inside me I sensed a subtle
reason for secrecy. It is hard to explain. It was not perverseness; it
was a finer distinction; perhaps it was the influence of the gem. I took
it back to the jeweller again and had it reset.




XV

AGAIN THE NERVINA


It was at this point that I began taking notes. There is something
psychological to the Blind Spot, weird and touching on the spirit. I
know not what it is; but I can feel it. It impinges on to life. I can
sense the ecstasy of horror. I am not afraid. Whatever it is that is
dragging me down, it is not evil. My sensations are not normal.

For the benefit of my successor, if there is to be one, I have made an
elaborate detail of notes and comments. After all, the whole thing,
when brought down to the end, must fall to the function of science.
When Hobart arrives, whatever my fate, he will find a complete and
comprehensive record of my sensations. I shall keep it up to the end.
Such notes being dry and sometimes confusing I have purposely omitted
them from this narrative. But there are some things that must be
given to the world. I shall pick out the salient parts and give them
chronologically.

Jerome stayed with me. Rather I should say he spent the nights with me.
Most of the time he was on the elusive trail of the Rhamda. From the
minute of our conversation with Kennedy he held to one conviction. He
was positive of that chemist back in the nineties. He was certain of
the Rhamda. Whatever the weirdness of his theory it would certainly bear
investigation. When he was not on the trail over the city he was at work
in the cellar. Here we worked together.

We dug up the concrete floor and did a bit of mining. I was interested
in the formation.

From the words of Budge Kennedy the bit of jewel had been discovered at
the original excavation. We found the blue clay that he spoke of, but
nothing else. Jerome dissected every bit of earth carefully. We have
spent many hours in that cellar.

But most of the time I was alone. When not too worn with the loneliness
and weariness I worked at my notes. It has been a hard task from the
beginning. Inertia, lack of energy! How much of our life is impulse!
What is the secret that backs volition? It has been will--will-power
from the beginning. I must thank my ancestors. Without the strength and
character built up through generations, I would have succumbed utterly.

Even as it is I sometimes think I am wrong in following the dictates of
Watson. If I were only sure. I have pledged my word and my honour. What
did he know? I need all the reserve of character to hold up against
the Nervina. From the beginning she has been my opponent. What is her
interest in the Blind Spot and myself? Who is she? I cannot think of
her as evil. She is too beautiful, too tender; her concern is so real.
Sometimes I think of her as my protector, that it is she, and she alone
who holds back the power which would engulf me. Once she made a personal
appeal.

Jerome had gone. I was alone. I had dragged myself to the desk and my
notes and data. It was along toward spring and in the first shadows of
the early evening. I had turned on the lights. It was the first labour
I had done for several days. I had a great deal of work before me. I
had begun sometime before to take down my temperature. I was careful of
everything now, as much as I could be under the depression. So far I had
discerned nothing that could be classed as pathological.

There is something subtle about the Nervina. She is much like the
Rhamda. Perhaps they are the same. I hear no sound, I have no notion of
a door or entrance. Watson had said of the Rhamda, “Sometimes you see
him, sometimes you don't.” It is so with the Nervina. I remember only
my working at the data and the sudden movement of a hand upon my desk--a
girl's hand. It was bewildering. I looked up.

I had not seen her since that night. It was now eight months--did I not
know, I would have recorded them as years. Her expression was a bit more
sad--and beautiful. The same wonderful glow of her eyes, night-black and
tender; the softness that comes from passion, and love, and virtue. The
same wistful droop of the perfect mouth. What a wondrous mass of hair
she had! I dropped my pen. She took my hand. I could sense the thrill of
contact; cool and magnetic.

“Harry!”

She said no more; I did not answer; I was too taken by surprise and
wonder. I could feel her concern as I would a mother's. What was her
interest in myself? The contact of her hand sent a strange pulse through
my vitals; she was so beautiful. Could it be? Watson said he loved her.
Could I blame him?

“Harry,” she asked, “how long is it to continue?”

So that was it. Merely an envoy to accept surrender. I was worn utterly,
weary of the world, lonely. But I hadn't given up. I had strength still,
and will enough to hold out to the end. Perhaps I was wrong. If I gave
her the ring? what then?

“I am afraid,” I answered, “that I must go on. I have given my word. It
has been much harder than I expected. This jewel? What has it to do with
the Blind Spot?”

“It controls it.”

“Does the Rhamda desire it?”

“He does.”

“Why doesn't he call for it personally? Why doesn't he make a clean
breast of it? It would be much easier. He knows and you know that I am
after Dr. Holcomb and Watson. I might even forego the secret. Would he
release the doctor?”

“No, Harry, he would not.”

“I see. If I gave up the ring it would be merely for my personal safety.
I am a coward--”

“Oh,” she said, “don't say that. You must give the ring to me--not to
the Rhamda. He must not control the Blind Spot.”

“What is the Blind Spot? Tell me.”

“Harry,” she spoke, “I cannot. It is not for you or any other mortal. It
is a secret that should never have been uncovered. It might be the end.
In the hands of the Rhamda it would certainly be the end of mankind.”

“Who is the Rhamda? Who are you? You are too beautiful to be merely
woman. Are you a spirit?”

She pressed my hand ever so slightly. “Do I feel like a spirit? I am
material as much as you are. We live, see--everything.”

“But you are not of this world?”

Her eyes grew sadder; a soft longing.

“Not exactly, Harry, not exactly. It is a long story and a very strange
one. I may not tell you. It is for your own good. I am your friend”--her
eyes were moist--“I--don't you see? Oh, I would save you!”

I did not doubt it. Somehow she was like a girl of dreams, pure as an
angel; her wistfulness only deepened her beauty. It came like a shock
at the moment. I could love this woman. She was--what was I thinking?
My guilty mind ran back to Charlotte. I had loved her since boyhood. I
would be a coward--then a wild fear. Perhaps of jealousy.

“The Rhamda? Is he your husband? You are the same--”

“Oh,” she answered, “why do you say it?” Her eyes snapped and she grew
rigid. “The Rhamda! My husband! If you only knew. I hate him! We are
enemies. It was he who opened the Blind Spot. I am here because he is
evil. To watch him. I love your world, I love it all. I would save it. I
love--”

She dropped her head. Whatever she was, she was not above sobbing.

I touched her hair; it was of the softest texture I have ever seen;
the lustre was like all the beauty of night woven into silk. She loved,
loved; I could love--I was on the point of surrender.

“Tell me,” I asked, “just one thing more. If I gave you this ring would
you save the doctor and Chick Watson?”

She raised her head; her eyes glistened; but she did not answer.

“Would you?”

She shook her head. “I cannot,” she answered. “That cannot be. I can
only save you for--for--Charlotte.”

Was it vanity in myself? I don't know. It seemed to me that it was hard
for her to say it. Frankly, I loved her. I knew it. I loved Charlotte. I
loved them both. But I held to my purpose.

“Are the professor and Watson living?”

“They are.”

“Are they conscious?”

She nodded. “Harry,” she said, “I can tell you that. They are living and
conscious. You have seen them. They have only one enemy--the Rhamda.
But they must never come out of the Blind Spot. I am their friend and
yours.”

A sudden courage came upon me. I remembered my word to Watson. I had
loved the old professor. I would save them. If necessary I would follow
to the end. Either myself or Fenton. One of us would solve it!

“I shall keep the ring,” I said. “I shall avenge them. Somehow,
somewhere, I feel that I shall do it. Even if I must follow--”

She straightened at that. Her eyes were frightened.

“Oh,” she said, “why do you say it? It must not be! You would perish!
You shall not do it! I must save you. You must not go alone. Three--it
may not be. If you go, I go with you. Perhaps--oh, Harry!”

She dropped her head again; her body shook with her sobbing; plainly
she was a girl. No real man is ever himself in the presence of a woman's
tears. I was again on the point of surrender. Suddenly she looked up.

“Harry,” she spoke sadly, “I have just one thing to ask. You must see
Charlotte. You must forget me; we can never--you love Charlotte. I have
seen her; she's a beautiful girl. You haven't written. She is worried.
Remember what you mean to her happiness. Will you go?”

That I could promise.

“Yes, I shall see Charlotte.”

She rose from her chair. I held her hand. Again, as in the restaurant, I
lifted it to my lips. She flushed and drew it away. She bit her lip. Her
beauty was a kind I could not understand.

“You must see Charlotte,” she said, “and you must do as she says.”

With that she was gone. There was a car waiting; the last I saw was its
winking tail-light dimming into the darkness.




XVI

CHARLOTTE


Left alone, I began thinking of Charlotte. I loved her; of that I was
certain. I could not compare her with the Nervina. She was like myself,
human. I had known her since boyhood. The other was out of the ether; my
love for her was something different; she was of dreams and moonbeams;
there was a film about her beauty, illusion; she was of spirit.

I wrote a note to the detective and left it upon my desk. After that I
packed a suitcase and hurried to the station. If I was going I would do
it at once, I could not trust myself too far. This visit had been like
a breath of air; for the moment I was away from the isolation. The
loneliness and the weariness! How I dreaded it! I was only free from
it for a few moments. On the train it came back upon me and in a manner
that was startling.

I had purchased my ticket. When the conductor came through he passed me.
He gathered tickets all about me; but he did not notice me. At first I
paid no attention; but when he had gone through the car several times I
held up my ticket. He did not stop. It was not until I had touched him
that he gave me a bit of attention.

“Where have you been sitting?” he asked.

I pointed to the seat. He frowned slightly.

“There?” he asked. “Did you say you were sitting in that seat? Where did
you get on?”

“At Townsend.”

“Queer,” he answered; he punched the ticket. “Queer. I passed that seat
several times. It was empty!”

Empty! It was almost a shock. Could it be that my isolation was becoming
physical as well as mental? What was this gulf that was widening between
myself and my fellows?

It was the beginning of another phase. I have noticed it many times; on
the street, in public places, everywhere. I thread in and out among men.
Sometimes they see me, sometimes they don't. It is strange. I feel at
times as though I might be vanishing out of the world!

It was late when I reached my old home; but the lights were still
burning. My favourite dog, Queen, was on the veranda. As I came up the
steps she growled slightly, but on recognition went into a series of
circles about the porch. My father opened the door. I stepped inside. He
touched me on the shoulder, his jaw dropped.

“Harry!” he exclaimed.

Was it as bad as that? How much meaning may be placed in a single
intonation! I was weary to the point of exhaustion. The ride upon the
train had been too much.

My mother came in. For some moments I was busy protesting my health.
But it was useless; it wasn't until I had partaken of a few of the old
nostrums that I could placate her.

“Work, work, work, my boy,” said my father, “nothing but work. It
really won't do. You're a shadow. You must take a vacation. Go to the
mountains; forget your practice for a short time.”

I didn't tell them. Why should I? I decided right then it was my own
battle. It was enough for me without casting the worry upon others. Yet
I could not see Charlotte without calling on my parents.

As soon as possible I crossed the street to the Fentons'. Someone had
seen me in town. Charlotte was waiting. She was the same beautiful girl
I had known so long; the blue eyes, the blonde, wavy mass of hair, the
laughing mouth and the gladness. But she was not glad now. It was
almost a repetition of what had happened at home, only here a bit more
personal. She clung to me almost in terror. I didn't realise I had gone
down so much. I knew my weariness; but I hadn't thought my appearance
so dejected. I remembered Watson. He had been wan, pale, forlorn.
After what brief explanation I could give, I proposed a stroll in the
moonlight.

It was a full moon; a wonderful night; we walked down the avenue under
the elm trees. Charlotte was beautiful, and worried; she clung to my
arm with the eagerness of possession. I could not but compare her
with Nervina. There was a contrast; Charlotte was fresh, tender,
affectionate, the girl of my boyhood. I had known her all my life; there
was no doubt of our love.

Who was the other? She was something higher, out of mystery, out of
life--almost--out of the moonbeams. I stopped and looked up. The great
full orb was shining. I didn't know that I spoke.

“Harry,” asked Charlotte, “who is the Nervina?”

Had I spoken?

“What do you know about the Nervina?” I asked.

“She has been to see me. She told me. She said you would be here
tonight. I was waiting. She is very beautiful. I never saw anyone like
her. She is wonderful!”

“What did she say?”

“She! Oh, Harry. Tell me. I have waited. Something has happened. Tell
me. You have told me nothing. You are not like the old Harry.”

“Tell me about the Nervina. What did she say? Charlotte, tell me
everything. Am I so much different from the old Harry?”

She clutched at my arm fearfully; she looked into my eyes.

“Oh,” she said, “how can you say it? You haven't laughed once. You are
melancholy; you are pale, drawn, haggard. You keep muttering. You are
not the old Harry. Is it this Nervina? At first I thought she loved you;
but she does not. She wanted to know all about you, and about our love.
She was so interested. What is this danger?”

I didn't answer.

“You must tell me. This ring? She said that you must give it to me. What
is it?” she insisted.

“Did she ask that? She told you to take the ring? My dear,” I asked, “if
it were the ring and it were so sinister would I be a man to give it to
my loved one?”

“It would not hurt me.”

But I would not. Something warned me. It was a ruse to get it out of my
possession. The whole thing was haunting, weird, ghostly. Always I could
hear Watson. I still had a small quota of courage and will-power. I
clung steadfastly to my purpose.

It was a sad three hours. Poor Charlotte! I shall never forget it. It is
the hardest task on earth to deny one's loved one.

She had grown into my heart and into its possession. She clung to me
tenderly, tearfully. I could not tell her. Her feminine instinct sensed
disaster. In spite of her tears I insisted. When I kissed her goodnight
she did not speak. But she looked up at me through her tears. It was the
hardest thing of all for me to bear.




XVII

THE SHEPHERD


When I returned to the city next morning I took my dog. It was a strange
whim; but one which was to lead to a remarkable development. I have
always been a lover of dogs. I was lonely. There is a bond between a dog
and his master. It goes beyond definition; it roots down into nature. I
was to learn much.

She was an Australian shepherd. She was of a tawny black and bob-tailed
from birth.

What is the power that lies behind instinct? How far does it go? I had
a notion that the dog would be outside the sinister clutch that was
dragging me under.

Happily Jerome was fond of dogs. He was reading. When I entered with
Queen tugging at the chain he looked up. The dog recognised the heart
of the man; when he stooped to pet her she moved her stub tail in an
effusion of affectionate acceptance. Jerome had been reading Le Bon's
theory on the evolution of force. His researches after the mystery had
led him into the depths of speculation; he had become quite a scholar.
After our first greeting I unhooked the chain and let Queen have the
freedom of the house. I related what had happened. The detective closed
the book and sat down. The dog waited a bit for further petting; but
missing that she began sniffing about the room. There was nothing
strange about it of course. I myself paid not the slightest attention.
But the detective was watching. While I was telling my story he was
following every movement of the shepherd. Suddenly he held up one
finger. I turned.

It was Queen. A low growl, guttural and suspicious. She was standing
about a foot from the portieres that separated the library from the
other room--where we had lost Watson, and where Jerome had had his
experience with the old lady. Tense and rigid, one forepaw held up
stealthily, her stub tail erect and the hair along her back bristled.
Again the low growl. I caught Jerome's eyes. It was queer.

“What is it, Queen?” I spoke.

At the sound of my voice she wagged her tail and looked round, then
stepped between the curtains. Just her head. She drew back; her lips
drawn from her teeth, snarling. She was rigid, alert, vitalised. Somehow
it made me cold. She was a brave dog; she feared nothing. The detective
stepped forward and pulled the curtains apart. The room was empty. We
looked into each other's faces. What is there to instinct? What is its
range? We could see nothing.

But not to the dog. Her eyes glowed. Hate, fear, terror, her whole body
rigid.

“I wonder,” I said. I stepped into the room. But I hadn't counted on the
dog. With a yelp she was upon me, had me by the calf of the leg and was
drawing me back. She stepped in front of me; a low, guttural growl of
warning. But there was nothing in that room; of that we were certain.

“Beats me,” said the detective. “How does she know? Wonder if she would
stop me?” He stepped forward. It was merely a repetition. She caught
him by the trouser-leg and drew him back. She crowded us away from the
curtain. It was almost magnetic. We could see nothing, neither could we
feel; was it possible that the dog could see beyond us? The detective
spoke first:

“Take her out of the room. Put her in the hall; tie her up.”

“What's the idea?”

“Merely this; I am going to examine the room. No, I am not afraid. I'll
be mighty glad if it does catch me. Anything so long as I get results.”

But it did us no good. We examined the room many times that night; both
of us. In the end there was nothing, only the weirdness and uncertainty
and the magnetic undercurrent which we could feel, but could not fathom.
When we called in the dog she stepped to the portieres and commenced her
vigil. She crouched slightly behind the curtains, alert, ready, waiting,
at her post of honour. From that moment she never left the spot except
under compulsion. We could hear her at all times of the night; the low
growl, the snarl, the defiance.

But there was a great deal more that we were to learn from the dog. It
was Jerome who first called my attention. A small fact at the beginning;
but of a strange sequence. This time it was the ring. Queen had the
habit that is common to most dogs; she would lick my hand to show her
affection. It was nothing in itself; but for one fact--she always chose
the left hand. It was the detective who first noticed it. Always and
every opportunity she would lick the jewel. We made a little test to try
her. I would remove the ring from one hand to the other; then hold it
behind me. She would follow.

It was a strange fact; but of course not inexplicable. A scent or the
attraction of taste might account for it. However, these little tests
led to a rather remarkable discovery.

One night we had called the dog from her vigil. As usual she came to
the jewel; by chance I pressed the gem against her head. It was a mere
trifle; yet it was of consequence. A few minutes before I had dropped a
handkerchief on the opposite side of the room; I was just thinking about
picking it up. It was only a small thing, yet it put us on the track
of the gem's strangest potency. The dog walked to the handkerchief. She
brought it back in her mouth. At first I took it for a pure coincidence.
I repeated the experiment with a book. The same result. I looked up at
Jerome.

“What's the matter?” Then when I explained: “The dickens! Try it again.”

Over and over again we repeated it, using different articles, pieces of
which I was certain she didn't know the name. There was a strange bond
between the gem and the intelligence, some strange force emanating from
its lustre. On myself it was depressing; on the dog it was life itself.
At last Jerome had an inspiration.

“Try the Rhamda,” he said; “think of him. Perhaps--”

It was most surprising. Certainly it was remarkable. It was too much
like intelligence; a bit too uncanny. At the instant of the thought the
dog leaped backward.

Such a strange transformation; she was naturally gentle. In one
instant she had gone mad. Mad? Not in the literal interpretation; but
figuratively. She sprang back, snapping; her teeth bared, her hair
bristled. Her nostrils drawn. With one bound she leaped between the
curtains.

Jerome jumped up. With an exclamation he drew the portieres. I was
behind him. The dog was standing at the edge of the room, bristling.

The room was empty. What did she see? What?

One thing was certain. Though we were sure of nothing else we were
certain of the Rhamda. We could trust the canine's instinct. Every
previous experiment we had essayed had been crowned with success. We had
here a fact but no explanation. If we could only put things together and
extract the law.

It was late when we retired. I could not sleep. The restlessness of the
dog held back my slumber. She would growl sullenly, then stir about for
a new position; she was never quite still. I could picture her there
in the library, behind the curtains, crouched, half resting, half
slumbering, always watching. I would awaken in the night and listen; a
low guttural warning, a sullen whine--then stillness. It was the same
with my companion. We could never quite understand it. Perhaps we were a
bit afraid.

But one can become accustomed to almost anything. It went on for many
nights without anything happening, until one night.

It was dark, exceedingly dark, with neither moon nor starlight; one of
those nights of inky intenseness. I cannot say just exactly what woke
me. The house was strangely silent and still; the air seemed stretched
and laden. It was summer. Perhaps it was the heat. I only knew that I
woke suddenly and blinked in the darkness.

In the next room with the door open I could hear the heavy breathing
of the detective. A heavy feeling lay against my heart. I had grown
accustomed to dread and isolation; but this was different. Perhaps
it was premonition. I do not know. And yet I was terribly sleepy; I
remember that.

I struck a match and looked at my watch on the bureau--twelve
thirty-five. No sound--not even Queen--not even a rumble from the
streets. I lay back and dropped into slumber. Just as I drifted off to
sleep I had a blurring fancy of sound, guttural, whining, fearful--then
suddenly drifting into incoherent rumbling phantasms--a dream. I awoke
suddenly. Someone was speaking. It was Jerome.

“Harry!”

I was frightened. It was like something clutching out of the darkness.
I sat up. I didn't answer. It wasn't necessary. The incoherence of my
dream had been external. The library was just below me. I could hear the
dog pacing to and fro, and her snarling. Snarling? It was just that. It
was something to arouse terror.

She had never growled like that--I was positive, I could hear her
suddenly leap back from the curtains. She barked. Never before had she
come to that. Then a sudden lunge into the other room--a vicious series
of snapping barks, yelps--pandemonium--I could picture her leaping--at
what? Then suddenly I leaped out of bed. The barks grew faint, faint,
fainter--into the distance.

In the darkness I couldn't find the switch. I bumped into Jerome. We
were lost in our confusion. It was a moment before we could find either
a match or a switch to turn on the lights. 

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