THE BLIND SPOT

By Austin Hall and Homer Eon Flint

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

PROLOGUE

I. — RHAMDA AVEC

II. — THE PROFESSOR OF PHILOSOPHY

III. — “NOW THERE ARE TWO”

IV. — GONE

V. — FRIENDS

VI. — CHICK WATSON

VII. — THE RING

VIII. — THE NERVINA

IX. — “NOW THERE ARE THREE”

X. — MAN OR PHANTOM

XI. — BAFFLED

XII. — A DEAL IN PROPERTY

XIII. — ALBERT JEROME

XIV. — A NEW ELEMENT

XV. — AGAIN THE NERVINA

XVI. — CHARLOTTE

XVII. — THE SHEPHERD

XVIII. — CHARLOTTE'S STORY

XIX. — HOBART FENTON TAKES UP THE TALE

XX. — THE HOUSE OF MIRACLES

XXI. — OUT OF THIN AIR

XXII. — THE ROUSING OF A MIND

XXIII. — THE RHAMDA AGAIN

XXIV. — THE LIVING DEATH

XXV. — AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR

XXVI. — DIRECT FROM PARADISE

XXVII. — SOLVED

XXVIII. — THE MAN FROM SPACE

XXIX. — THE OCCULT WORLD

XXX. — THE PLUNGE

XXXI. — UP FOR BREATH

XXXII. — THROUGH UNKNOWN WATERS

XXXIII. — A LONG WAY FROM SHORE

XXXIV. — THE BAR SENESTRO

XXXV. — THE PERFECT IMPOSTOR

XXXVI. — AN ALLY, AND SOLID GROUND

XXXVII. — LOOKING DOWN

XXXVIII. — THE VOICE FROM THE VOID

XXXIX. — WHO IS THE JARADOS?

XL. — THE TEMPLE OF THE BELL

XLI. — THE PROPHECY

XLII. — PAT MACPHERSON'S STORY

XLIII. — THE HOME OF THE JARADOS

XLIV. — DR. HOLCOMB'S STORY

XLV. — THE ARADNA

XLVI. — OUT OF THE OCCULT

XLVII. — THE LAST LEAF

XLVIII. — THE UNACCOUNTABLE

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. But at last—I shall not forget
that moment; nor Jerome. He was rigid; one arm held aloft, his eyes bulged
out. The whole house was full of sound—full-toned—vibrant—magnetic.
It was the bell.

I jumped for the stairway, but not so quick as Jerome. With three bounds
we were in the library with the lights on. The sound was running down to
silence. We tore down the curtains and rushed into the room. It was empty!

There was not even the dog. Queen had gone! In a vain rush of grief I
began calling and whistling. It was an overwhelming moment. The poor,
brave shepherd. She had seen it and rushed into its face.

It was the last night I was to have Jerome. We sat up until daylight. For
the thousandth time we went over the house in detail, but there was
nothing. Only the ring. At the suggestion of the detective I touched the
match to the sapphire. It was the same. The colour diminishing, and the
translucent corridors deepening into the distance; then the blur and the
coming of shadows—the men, Watson and the professor—and my
dog.

Of the men, only the heads showed; but the dog was full figure; she was
sitting, apparently on a pedestal, her tongue was lolling out of her mouth
and her face of that gentle intelligence which only the Australian
shepherd is heir to. That is all—no more—nothing. If we had
hoped to discover anything through her medium we were disappointed.
Instead of clearing up, the whole thing had grown deeper.

I have said that it was the last night I was to have Jerome. I didn't know
it then. Jerome went out early in the morning. I went to bed. I was not
afraid in the daylight. I was certain now that the danger was localised.
As long as I kept out of that apartment I had nothing to fear.
Nevertheless, the thing was magnetic. A subtle weirdness pervaded the
building. I did not sleep soundly. I was lonely; the isolation was
crowding on me. In the afternoon I stepped out on the streets.

I have spoken of my experience with the conductor. On this day I had the
certainty of my isolation; it was startling. In the face of what I was and
what I had seen it was almost terrifying. It was the first time I thought
of sending for Hobart. I had thought I could hold out. The complete
suddenness of the thing set me to thinking. I thought of Watson. It was
the last phase, the feebleness, the wanness, the inertia! He had been a
far stronger man than I in the beginning.

I must cable Fenton. While I had still an ego in the presence of men, I
must reach out for help. It was a strange thing and inexplicable. I was
not invisible. Don't think that. I simply did not individualise. Men
didn't notice me—till I spoke. As if I was imperceptibly losing the
essence of self. I still had some hold on the world. While it remained I
must get word to Hobart. I did not delay. Straight to the office I went
and paid for the cable.

CANNOT HOLD OUT MUCH LONGER. COME AT ONCE.—HARRY.

I was a bit ashamed. I had hoped. I had counted upon myself. I had trusted
in the full strength of my individuality. I had been healthy—strong—full
blooded. On the fullness of vitality one would live forever. There is no
tomorrow. It was not a year ago. I was eighty. It had been so with Watson.
What was this subtle thing that ate into one's marrow? I had read of
banshees, lemures and leprechauns; they were the ghosts and the fairies of
ignorance but they were not like this. It was impersonal, hidden,
inexorable. It was mystery. And I believed that it was Nature.

I know it now. Even as I write I can sense the potency of the force about
me. Some law, some principle, some force that science has not uncovered.

What is that law that shall bridge the chaos between the mystic and the
substantial? I am standing on the bridge; and I cannot see it. What is the
great law that was discovered by Dr. Holcomb? Who is the Rhamda? Who is
the Nervina?

Jerome has not returned. I cannot understand it. It has been a week. I am
living on brandy—not much of anything else—I am waiting for
Fenton. I have taken all my elaborations and notes and put them together.
Perhaps I—

(This is the last of the strange document left by Harry Wendel. The
following memorandum is written by Charlotte Fenton.)

XVIII. — CHARLOTTE'S STORY

I do not know. It is hard to write after what has happened.

Hobart says that it is why I am to write it. It is to be a plain
narrative. Besides, he is very busy and cannot do it himself. There must
be some record. I shall do my best and hold out of my writing as much as I
can of my emotion. I shall start with the Nervina.

It was the first I knew; the first warning. Looking back I cannot but
wonder. No person I think who has ever seen the Nervina can do much else;
she is so beautiful! Beautiful? Why do I say it? I should be jealous and I
should hate her. Yet I do not. Why is it?

It was about eight months after Hobart had left for South America. I
remember those eight months as the longest in my life; because of Harry. I
am a girl and I like attention; all girls do. Ordinarily he would come
over every fortnight at least. After Hobart had gone he came once only,
and of course I resented the inattention.

It seemed to me that no business could be of enough importance if he
really loved me. Even his letters were few and far between. What he wrote
were slow and weary and of an undertone that I could not fathom. I—loved
Harry. I could not understand it. I had a thousand fearful thoughts and
jealousies; but they were feminine and in no way approximated even the
beginning of the truth. Inattention was not like Harry. It was not until
the coming of the Nervina that I was afraid.

Afraid? I will not say that—exactly. It was rather a suspicion, a
queer undercurrent of wonder and doubt. The beauty of the girl, her
interest in Harry and myself, her concern over this ring, put me a bit on
guard. I wondered what this ring had to do with Harry Wendel.

She did not tell me in exact words or in literal explanation; but she
managed to convey all too well a lurking impression of its sinister
potency. It was something baleful, something the very essence of which
would break down the life of one who wore it. Harry had come into its
possession by accident and she would save him. She had failed through
direct appeal. Now she had come to me. She did not say a word of the Blind
Spot.

And the next day came Harry. It was really a shock, though I had been
warned by the girl. He was not Harry at all, but another. His eyes were
dim and they had lost their lustre; when they did show light at all, it
was a kind that was a bit fearful. He was wan, worn, and shrunk to a
shadow, as if he had gone through a long illness.

He said he had not been sick. He maintained that he was quite well
physically. And on his finger was the ring of which the girl had spoken.
Its value must have been incalculable. Wherever he moved his hand its blue
flame cut a path through the darkness. But he said nothing about it. I
waited and wondered and was afraid. It was not until our walk under the
elm trees that it was mentioned.

It was a full moon; a wonderful, mellow moon of summer. He stopped
suddenly and gazed up at the orb above us. It seemed to me that his mind
was wandering, he held me closely—tenderly. He was not at all like
Harry. There was a missing of self, of individuality; he spoke in
abstractions.

“The maiden of the moonbeams?” he said. “What can it mean?”

And then I asked him. He has already told of our conversation. It was the
ring of which the Nervina had told me. It had to do with the Blind Spot—the
great secret that had taken Dr. Holcomb. He would not give it to me. I
worked hard, for even then I was not afraid of it. Something told me—I
must do it to save him. It was weird, and something I could not understand—but
I must do it for Harry.

I failed. Though he was broken in every visible way there was one thing as
strong as ever—his honour. He was not afraid; he had been the same
in his boyhood. When we parted that night he kissed me. I shall never
forget how long he looked into my eyes, nor his sadness. That is all. The
next morning he left for San Francisco.

And then came the end. A message; abrupt and sudden. It was some time
after and put a period to my increasing stress and worry. It read:

CITY OF PERU DOCKS TONIGHT AT EIGHT. MEET ME AT THE PIER. HOBART COMING,—HARRY.

It was a short message and a bit twisted. In ordinary circumstances he
would have motored down and brought me back to greet Hobart. It was a bit
strange that I should meet him at the pier. However, I had barely time to
get to the city if I hurried.

I shall never forget that night.

It was dark when I reached San Francisco. I was a full twenty minutes
early at the pier. A few people were waiting. I looked about for Harry. He
was to meet me and I was certain that I would find him. But he was not
there. Of course there was still time. He was sure to be on hand to greet
Hobart.

Nevertheless, I had a vague mistrust. Since that strange visit I had not
been sure. Harry wasn't well. There was something to this mystery that he
had not told me. Why had he asked me to meet him at the pier? Why didn't
he come? When the boat docked and he was still missing I was doubly
worried.

Hobart came down the gangplank. He was great, strong, healthy, and it
seemed to me in a terrible hurry. He scanned the faces hurriedly and ran
over to me.

“Where's Harry?” He kissed me and in the same breath repeated, “Where's
Harry?”

“Oh, Hobart!” I exclaimed. “What's the matter with Harry? Tell me. It's
something terrible!”

He was afraid. Plainly I could see that! There were lines of anxiety about
his eyes. He clutched me by the arm and drew me away.

“He was to meet me here,” I said. “He didn't come. He was to meet me here!
Oh, Hobart, I saw him some time ago. He was—it was not Harry at all!
Do you know anything about it?”

For a minute he stood still, looking at me. I had never seen Hobart
frightened; but at that moment there was that in his eyes which I could
not understand. He caught me by the arm and started out almost at a run.
There were many people and we dodged in and out among them. Hobart carried
a suitcase. He hailed a taxi.

I don't know how I got into the car. It was a blur. I was frightened. Some
terrible thing had occurred, and Hobart knew it. I remember a few words
spoken to the driver. “Speed, speed, no limit; never mind the law—and
Chatterton Place!” After that the convulsive jerking over the cobbled
streets, a climbing over hills and twisted corners. And Hobart at my side.
“Faster—faster,” he was saying; “faster! My lord, was there ever a
car so slow! Harry! Harry!” I could hear him breathing a prayer. Another
hill; the car turned and came suddenly to a stop! Hobart leaped out.

A sombre two-storey house; a light burning in one of the windows, a dim
light, almost subdued and uncanny. I had never seen anything so lonely as
that light; it was grey, uncertain, scarcely a flicker. Perhaps it was my
nerves. I had scarcely strength to climb the steps. Hobart grasped the
knob and thrust open the door; I can never forget it.

It is hard to write. The whole thing! The room; the walls lined with
books; the dim, pale light, the faded green carpet, and the man. Pale,
worn, almost a shadow of his former self. Was it Harry Wendel? He had aged
forty years. He was stooped, withered, exhausted. A bottle of brandy on
the desk before him. In his weak, thin hand an empty wineglass. The gem
upon his finger glowed with a flame that was almost wicked; it was blue,
burning, giving out sparkles of light—like a colour out of hell. The
path of its light was unholy—it was too much alive.

We both sprang forward. Hobart seized him by the shoulders.

“Harry, old boy; Harry! Don't you know us? It's Hobart and Charlotte.”

It was terrible. He didn't seem to know. He looked right at us. But he
spoke in abstractions.

“Two,” he said. And he listened. “Two! Don't you hear it?” He caught
Hobart by the arm. “Now, listen. Two! No, it's three. Did I say three?
Can't you hear? It's the old lady. She speaks out of the shadows. There!
There! Now, listen. She has been counting to me. Always she says three!
Soon it will be four.”

What did he mean? What was it about? Who was the old lady? I looked round.
I saw no one. Hobart stooped over. Harry began slowly to recognise us. It
was as if his mind had wandered and was coming back from a far place. He
spoke slowly; his words were incoherent and rambling.

“Hobart,” he said; “you know her. She is the maiden out of the moonbeams.
The Rhamda, he is our enemy. Hobart, Charlotte. I know so much. I cannot
tell you. You are two hours late. It's a strange thing. I have found it
and I think I know. It came suddenly. The discovery of the great
professor. Why didn't you come two hours earlier? We might have
conquered.”

He dropped his head upon his arms; then as suddenly he looked up. He drew
the ring from his finger.

“Give it to Charlotte,” he said. “It won't hurt her. Don't touch it
yourself. Had I only known. Watson didn't know—”

He straightened; he was tense, rigid, listening.

“Do you hear anything? Listen! Can you hear? It's the old lady. There—”

But there was not a sound; only the rumble of the streets, the ticking of
the clock, and our heart-beats. Again he went through the counting.

“Hobart!”

“Yes, Harry.”

“And Charlotte! The ring—ah, yet it was there, Keep it. Give it to
no one. Two hours ago we might have conquered. But I had to keep the ring.
It was too much, too powerful; a man may not wear it. Charlotte”—he
took my hand and ran the ring upon my finger. “Poor Charlotte. Here is the
ring. The most wonderful—”

Again he dropped over. He was weak—there was something going from
him minute by minute.

“Water,” he asked. “Hobart, some water.”

It was too pitiful. Harry, our Harry—come to a strait like this!
Hobart rushed to another room with the tumbler. I could hear him fumbling.
I stooped over Harry. But he held up his hand.

“No, Charlotte, no. You must not. If—”

He stopped. Again the strange attention, as if he was listening to
something far off in the distance; the pupils of his hollow, worn,
lustreless eyes were pin-points. He stood on his feet rigid, quivering;
then he held up his hand. “Listen!”

But there was nothing. It was just as before; merely the murmuring of the
city night, and the clock ticking.

“It's the dog! D'you hear her? And the old lady. Now listen, 'Two! Now
there are two! Three! Three! Now there are three!' There—now.” He
turned to me. “Can you hear it, Charlotte? No? How strange. Perhaps—”
He pointed to the corner of the room. “That paper. Will you—”

I shall always go over that moment. I have thought over it many times and
have wondered at the sequence. Had I not stepped across the library, what
would have happened?

What was it.

I had stooped to pick up the piece of paper. There came a queer, cracking,
snapping sound, almost audible, I have a strange recollection of Harry
standing up by the side of the desk—a flitting vision. An intuition
of some terrible force. It was out of nothing—nowhere—approaching.
I turned about. And I saw it—the dot of blue.

Blue! That is what it was at first. Blue and burning, like the flame of a
million jewels centred into a needlepoint. On the ceiling directly above
Harry's head. It was scintillating, coruscating, opalescent; but it was
blue most of all. It was the colour of life and of death; it was burning,
throbbing, concentrated. I tried to scream. But I was frozen with horror.
The dot changed colour and went to a dead-blue. It seemed to grow larger
and to open. Then it turned to white and dropped like a string of
incandescence, touching Harry on the head.

What was it? It was all so sudden. A door flung open and a swish of
rushing silk. A woman! A beautiful girl! The Nervina! It was she!

Never have I seen anyone like her. She was so beautiful. In her face all
the compassion a woman is heir to. For scarcely a second she stopped.

“Charlotte,” she called. “Charlotte—oh, why didn't you save him! He
loves you!” Then she turned to Harry. “It shall not be. He shall not go
alone. I shall save him, even beyond—”

With that she rushed upon Harry. It was all done in an instant. Her arms
were outstretched to the dimming form of Harry and the incandescence. The
splendid impassioned girl. Their forms intermingled. A blur of her
beautiful body and Harry's wan, weary face. A flash of light, a thread of
incandescence, a quiver—and they were gone.

The next I knew was the strong arms of my brother Hobart. He gave me the
water he had fetched for Harry. He was terribly upset, but very calm. He
held the glass up to my lips. He was speaking.

“Don't worry. Don't worry. I know now. I think I know. I was just in time
to see them go. I heard the bell. Harry is safe. It is the Nervina. I
shall get Harry. We'll solve the Blind Spot.”

XIX. — HOBART FENTON TAKES UP THE TALE

Right here at the outset, I had better make a clean breast of something
which the reader will very soon suspect, anyhow: I am a plain, unpoetic,
blunt-speaking man, trained as a civil engineer, and in most respects
totally dissimilar from the man who wrote the first account of the Blind
Spot.

Harry had already touched upon this. He came of an artistic family. I
think he must have taken up law in the hope that the old saying would
prove true: “The only certain thing about law is its uncertainty.” For he
dearly loved the mysterious, the unknowable; he liked uncertainty for its
excitement: and it is a mighty good thing that he was honest, for he would
have made a highly dangerous crook.

Observe that I use the past tense in referring to my old friend. I do this
in the interests of strict, scientific accuracy, to satisfy those who
would contend that, having utterly vanished from sight and sound of man,
Harry Wendel is no more.

But in my own heart is the firm conviction that he is still very much
alive.

Within an hour of his astounding disappearance, my sister, Charlotte, and
I made our way to an hotel; and despite the terrible nature of what had
happened, we managed to get a few hours rest. The following morning
Charlotte declared herself quite strong enough to discuss the situation.
We lost no time.

It will be remembered that I had spent nearly the whole of the preceding
year in South America, putting through an irrigation scheme. Thus, I knew
little of what had occurred in that interval. On the other hand, Harry and
I had never seen fit to take Charlotte into our confidence as, I now see,
we should have done.

So we fairly pounced upon the manuscript which Harry had left behind. And
by the time we had finished reading it, I for one, had reached one solid
conclusion.

“I'm convinced,” I said, “that the stranger—Rhamda Avec—is an
out-and-out villain. Despite his agreeable ways, I think he was solely and
deliberately to blame for Professor Holcomb's disappearance. Consequently,
this Rhamda is, in himself, a very valuable clue as to Harry's present
predicament.”

Referring to Harry's notes, I pointed out the fact that, although Avec had
often been seen on the streets of San Francisco, yet the police had never
been able to lay hands on him. This seemed to indicate that the man might
possess the power of actually making himself visible or invisible, at
will.

“Only”—I was careful to add—“understand, I don't rank him as a
magician, or sorcerer; nothing like that. I'd rather think that he's
merely in possession of a scientific secret, no more wonderful in itself
than, say, wireless. He's merely got hold of it in advance of the others;
that's all.”

“Then you think that the woman, too, is human?”

“The Nervina?” I hesitated. “Perhaps you know more of this part of the
thing than I do.”

“I only know”—slowly—“that she came and told me that Harry was
soon to call. And somehow, I never felt jealous of her, Hobart.” Then she
added: “At the same time, I can understand that Harry might—might
have fallen in love with her. She—she was very beautiful.”

Charlotte is a brave girl. She kept her voice as steady as my own.

We next discussed the disappearance of Chick Watson. These details are
already familiar to the reader of Harry's story; likewise what happened to
Queen, his Australian shepherd. Like the other vanishings, it was followed
by a single stroke on that prodigious, invisible bell—what Harry
calls “The Bell of the Blind Spot.” And he has already mentioned my
opinion, that this phenomenon signifies the closing of the portal of the
unknown—the end of the special conditions which produce the bluish
spot on the ceiling, the incandescent streak of light, and the vanishing
of whoever falls into the affected region. The mere fact that no trace of
the bell ever was found has not shaken my opinion.

And thus we reached the final disappearance, that which took away Harry.
Charlotte contrived to keep her voice as resolute as before, as she said:

“He and the Nervina vanished together. I turned round just as she rushed
in, crying out, 'I can't let you go alone! I'll save you, even beyond.'
That's all she said, before—it happened.”

“You saw nothing of the Rhamda then?”

“No.”

And we had neither seen nor heard of him since. Until we got in touch with
him, one important clue as to Harry's fate was out of our reach. There
remained to us just one thread of hope—the ring, which Charlotte was
now wearing on her finger.

I lit a match and held it to the face of the gem. As happened many times
before, the stone exhibited its most astounding quality. As soon as
faintly heated, the surface at first clouded, then cleared in a curious
fashion, revealing a startling distinct, miniature likeness of the four
who had vanished into the Blind Spot.

I make no attempt to explain this. Somehow or other, that stone possesses
a telescopic quality which brings to a focus, right in front of the
beholder's eyes, a tiny “close-up” of our vanished friends. Also, the gem
magnifies what it reveals, so that there is not the slightest doubt that
Dr. Holcomb, Chick Watson, Queen and Harry Wendel are actually reproduced—I
shall not say, contained—in that gem. Neither shall I say that they
are reflected; they are simply reproduced there.

Also, it should be understood that their images are living. Only the heads
and shoulders of the men are to be seen; but there is animation of the
features, such as cannot be mistaken. Granted that these four vanished in
the Blind Spot—whatever that is—and granted that this ring is
some inexplicable window or vestibule between that locality and this
commonplace world of ours, then, manifestly, it would seem that all four
are still alive.

“I am sure of it!” declared Charlotte, managing to smile, wistfully, at
the living reproduction of her sweetheart. “And I think Harry did
perfectly right, in handing it to me to keep.”

“Why?”

“Well, if for no other reason than because it behaves so differently with
me, than it did with him.

“Hobart, I am inclined to think that this fact is very significant. If
Chick had only known of it, he wouldn't have insisted that Harry should
wear it; and then—”

“Can't be helped,” I interrupted quickly. “Chick didn't know; he was only
certain that someone—SOMEONE—must wear the ring; that it
mustn't pass out of the possession of humans. Moreover, much as Rhamda
Avec may desire it—and the Nervina, too—neither can secure it
through the use of force. Nobody knows why.”

Charlotte shivered. “I'm afraid there's something spooky about it, after
all.”

“Nothing of the sort,” with a conviction that has never left me. “This
ring is a perfectly sound fact, as indisputable as the submarine. There's
nothing supernatural about it; for that matter, I personally doubt if
there's ANYTHING supernatural. Every phenomenon which seems, at first, so
wonderful, becomes commonplace enough as soon as explained. Isn't it true
that you yourself are already getting used to that ring?”