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.
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.
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.
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.
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.)