IX
"NOW THERE ARE THREE"
I shall never forget that night. When we stepped to the pavement thewhole world was shrouded. The heavy fog clung like depression; lifewas gone out--a foreboding of gloom and disaster. It was cold, dank,miserable; one shuddered instinctively and battered against the wallwith 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 stopme! 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 thenat us. His face was startled--almost frightened.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I am sorry. Not a thing in the world would detainme 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 sendyou one of the greatest specialists in the city in my stead. This youngman should have attention. Have you the address?"
"288 Chatterton Place," I answered.
"Very well. I am sorry, very much disappointed. However, it ismy daughter, and I cannot do otherwise. Continue the brandy for awhile--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 forpoor Watson. He dragged on, leaning on Hobart's arm. But at last he gaveup.
"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 wasa boy. If only I had some more brandy. I have some at the house. We mustmake 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 atwo storey drab affair, much like a thousand others, old-fashioned, andmight have been built in the early nineties. It had been outside of thefire limits of 1906, and so had survived the great disaster. ChattertonPlace is really a short street running lengthwise along the summit ofthe 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 awaytonight. I had hoped to find it. I promised Bertha. I came alone. I hadreasons 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 ableto control me. My life is gone but not my will. Now I have left himanother. Do not surrender, Harry. It is a gruesome task; but hold onto the end. Help me up the steps. There now. Just wait a minute till Ifetch a stimulant."
He did not ring for a servant. That I noticed. Instead he groped aboutfor a key, unlocked the door and stumbled into a room. He fumbled for aminute 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 wellfurnished, and lined on two sides with bookshelves; in the centre was anoak 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 noticedmy look.
"Jerome's," he explained. "We live here--Jerome, the detective, andmyself. He has been here since the day of the doctor's disappearance. Icame here a year ago. He is in Nevada at present. That leaves me alone.You will notice the books, mostly occult: partly mine, partly thedetective's. We have gone at it systematically from the beginning.We have learned almost everything but what would help us. Mostlysophistry--and guesswork. Beats all how much ink has been wasted to saynothing. 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 theother. It is here somewhere, in some place. Jerome is positive of that.You remember the old lady? The one who died? Her actions were ratherpositive even if feeble. She led Jerome to this next room." He turnedand 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 churchbell. In the centre of the room. At first I didn't believe; but now Iaccept 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 anexplanation?"
"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 seethem yourself. The Rhamda still has something to do with Dr. Holcomb.Somehow his very concern tells me the doctor is safe. Undoubtedlythe professor made a great discovery. But he was not alone. He hada co-worker--the Rhamda. For reasons of his own the Rhamda wishes tocontrol 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 greatdoctor the dupe of a mere trickster? The professor was a man of greatscience and was blessed with an almighty sound head. But he had oneweakness."
Hobart spoke up.
"What is it, Chick? I think I know what you mean. The old boy washonest?"
"Exactly. He had been a scholar all his life. He taught ethics. Hebelieved in right. He practised his creed. When he came to the crucialexperiment he found himself dealing with a rogue. The Rhamda helped himjust so far; but once he had the professor in his power it was not hispurpose 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 handledhim in short order. That's what I thought at first. Don't make anymistake. Don't try violence. That's the whole crux of the difficulty. Ifhe 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 poorpallid face of Watson, the athlete; there was nothing left to him buthis soul! I shall not forget Watson as he sat there, his lean, longfingers grasping the brandy glass, his eyes burning and his life holdingback 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 ofthe 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 findsomeone, and I found you two. Harry, remember what I have told you. Holdthe ring. You take my place. Whatever happens, stick out to the end. Youhave 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 downthe hallway--a hollow sound and a bit uncanny. Somehow my mind rambledback to that account I had read in the newspaper--Jerome's story--"Likeweary bones dragging slippers." And the old lady. Who was she? Why waseveryone in this house pulled down to exhaustion--the words of theold lady, I could almost hear them; the dank air murmuring theirrecollection. "Now there are two. Now there are two!"
"What's the matter, Harry?"
&nbs
p; Perhaps I was frightened. I do not know. I looked around. The sound ofWatson's footsteps had died away; there was a light in the back of thebuilding coming toward us.
"Nothing! Only--damn this place, Hobart. Don't you notice it? It'senough to eat your heart out."
"Rather interesting," said Hobart. It was too interesting for me. Istepped over to the shelves and looked at the titles. Sanskrit andGreek; German and French--the Vedas, Sir Oliver Lodge, Besant, Spinoza,a conglomeration of all ages and tongues; a range of metaphysics thatwas as wide as Babel, and about as enlightening. As Babel? Over myshoulders came the strangest sound of all, weak, piping, tremulous,fearful--"Now there are two. Now there are two." My heart gave a fearfulleap. "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? Ifnot, where had it come from? Three? I strained my ears to hear Watson'sfootsteps. He was in the back part of the building. I must have someair.
"I'm going to open the door, Hobart," I spoke. "The front door, and lookout 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 docis coming."
I opened the door and looked out into the dripping fog bank. What a pairof 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 ofWatson; he was bearing a light.
Suddenly the light went out.
I was at high tension; the mere fact of the light was nothing, but itmeant a world at that moment--a strange sound--a struggle--then thewords 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, likethat of one suddenly falling into space. Then the light dropped to thefloor. I could see the outlines of his figure and a weird, single stringof incandescence. Hobart turned and I leaped. It was a blur, the formof a man melting into nothing. I sprang into the room, tearing down thecurtains. Hobart was on top of me. But we were too late. I couldfeel the vibrancy of something uncanny as I rushed across the spaceintervening. Through my mind darted the thrill of terror. It had comesuddenly, and in climax. It was over before it had commenced. The lighthad gone out. Only by the gleam from the other room could we make outeach others' faces. The air was vibrant, magnetic. There was no Watson.But we could hear his voice. Dim and fearful, coming down the corridorsof time.
"Hold that ring, Harry! Hold that ring!" Then the faint despair out ofthe weary distance, faint, but a whole volume:
"The Blind Spot!"
It was over as quickly as that. The whole thing climaxed into aninstant. It is difficult to describe. One cannot always analysesensations. Mine, I am afraid, were muddled. A thousand insistentthoughts clashed through my brain. Horror, wonder, doubt! I have onlyone persistent and predominating recollection. The old lady! I couldalmost 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 hersorrow?
"NOW THERE ARE THREE!"
The Blind Spot Page 11