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!”
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.
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.
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.