by Anthology
It was a little drama enacted almost in silence. Hobart and I exchanged glances. The mere glimpse of the Rhamda had brought us both back to the Blind Spot. Was there any connection? Who was the young man with the life sapped out? I had a recollection of a face strangely familiar. Hobart interrupted my thoughts.
"I'd give just about one leg for the gist of that conversation. That was the Rhamda; but who is the other ghost?"
"Do you think it has to do with the Blind Spot?"
"I don't think," averred Hobart. "I know. Wonder what's the time." He glanced at his watch. "Eleven thirty."
Just here the young man at the table raised up his head. The cigarette was still between his fingers; he puffed lamely for a minute, taking a dull note of his surroundings. In the well of gaiety and laughter coming from all parts of the room his actions were out of place. He seemed dazed; unable to pull himself together. Suddenly he looked at us. He started.
"He certainly knows us," I said. "I wonder—by George, he's coming over."
Even his step was feeble. There was exertion about every move of his body, the wanness and effort of vanished vitality; he balanced himself carefully. Slowly, slowly, line by line his features became familiar, the underlines of another, the ghost of one departed. At first I could not place him. He held himself up for breath. Who was he? Then it suddenly came to me—back to the old days at college—an athlete, one of the best of fellows, one of the sturdiest of men! He had come to this!
Hobart was before me.
"By all the things that are holy!" he exclaimed. "Chick Watson! Here, have a seat. In the name of Heavens, Chick! What on earth—"
The other dropped feebly into the chair. The body that had once been so powerful was a skeleton. His coat was a disguise of padding.
"Hello, Hobart; hello, Harry," he spoke in a whisper. "Not much like the old Chick, am I? First thing, I'll take some brandy."
It was almost tragic. I glanced at Hobart and nodded to the waiter. Could it be Chick Watson? I had seen him a year before, hale, healthy, prosperous. And here he was—a wreck!"
"No," he muttered, "I'm not sick—not sick. Lord, boys, it's good to meet you. I just thought I would come out for this one last night, hear some music, see a pretty face, perhaps meet a friend. But I am afraid—" He dropped off like one suddenly drifting into slumber.
"Hustle that waiter," I said to Hobart. "Hurry that brandy."
The stimulant seemed to revive him. He lifted up suddenly. There was fear in his eyes; then on seeing himself among friends— relief. He turned to me.
"Think I'm sick, don't you?" he asked.
"You certainly are," I answered.
"Well, I'm not."
For a moment silence. I glanced at Hobart. Hobart nodded.
"You're just about in line for a doctor, Chick, old boy," I said. "I'm going to see that you have one. Bed for you, and the care of mother—"
He started; he seemed to jerk himself together.
"That's it, Harry; that's what I wanted. It's so hard for me to think. Mother, mother! That's why I came downtown. I wanted a friend. I have something for you to give to mother."
"Rats," I said. "I'll take you to her. What are you talking about?"
But he shook his head.
"I wish that you were telling the truth, Harry. But it's no use— not after tonight. All the doctors in the world could not save me. I'm not sick, boys, far from it."
Hobart spoke up.
"What is it, Chick? I have a suspicion. Am I right?"
Chick looked up; he closed his eyes.
"All right, Hobart, what's your suspicion?"
Fenton leaned over. It seemed to me that he was peering into the other's soul. He touched his forearm.
"Chick, old boy, I think I know. But tell me. Am I right? It's the Blind Spot."
At the words Watson opened his eyes; they were full of hope and wonder, for a moment, and then, as suddenly of a great despair. His body went to a heap. His voice was feeble.
"Yes," he answered, "I am dying—of the Blind Spot"
VII
THE RING
It was a terrible thing; death stalking out of the Blind Spot. We had almost forgotten. It had been a story hitherto—a wonderful one to be sure, and one to arouse conjecture. I had never thought that we were to be brought to its shivering contact. It was out of the occult; it had been so pronounced by the professor; a great secret of life holding out a guerdon of death to its votaries. Witness Chick Watson, the type of healthy, fighting manhood—come to this. He opened his eyes feebly; one could see the light; the old spirit was there—fighting for life. What was this struggle of soul and flesh? Why had the soul hung on? He made another effort.
"More drink," he asked; "more drink. Anything to hold me together. I must tell you. You must take my place and—and—fight the Blind Spot! Promise that—"
"Order the drinks," I told Hobart. "I see Dr. Hansen over there. Even if we cannot save him we must hold him until we get his story."
I went and fetched Hansen over.
"A strange case," he murmured. "Pulse normal; not a trace of fever. Not sick, you say—" Hobart pointed to his head. "Ah, I see! I would suggest home and a bed."
Just here Watson opened his eyes again. They rested first upon the doctor, then upon myself, and finally upon the brandy. He took it up and drank it with eagerness. It was his third one; it gave him a bit more life.
"Didn't I tell you, boys, that there is not a doctor on earth that can save me? Excuse me, doc. I am not sick. I told them. I am far past physic; I have gone beyond medicine. All I ask is stimulant and life enough to tell my story."
"My boy," asked the doctor kindly, "what ails you?"
Watson smiled. He touched himself on the forehead.
"Up here, doc. There are things in the world with which we may not tamper. I tried it. Somebody had to do it and somebody has to do it yet. You remember Dr. Holcomb; he was a great man; he was after the secret of life. He began it."
Dr. Hansen started.
"Lord!" he exclaimed, looking at us all; "you don't mean this man is mixed up in the Blind Spot?"
We nodded. Watson smiled; again he dropped back into inertia; the speech he had made was his longest yet; the brandy was coming into effect.
"Give him brandy," the doctor said; "it's as good as anything. It will hold him together and give him life for a while. Here." He reached into his pocket and flicked something into the glass. "That will help him. Gentlemen, do you know what it means? I had always thought! I knew Dr. Holcomb! Crossing over the border! It may not be done! The secret of life is impossible. Yet—"
Watson opened his eyes again; his spirit seemed suddenly to flicker into defiance.
"Who said it was impossible? Who said it? Gentlemen, it IS possible. Dr. Holcomb—pardon me. I do not wish to appear a sot; but this brandy is about the only thing to hold me together. I have only a few hours left."
He took the glass, and at one gulp downed the contents. I do not know what the doctor had dropped into it. Chick revived suddenly, and a strange light blazed up in his eyes, like life rekindled.
"Ah, now I am better. So?"
He turned to us all; then to the doctor.
"So you say the secret of life is impossible?"
"I—"
Chick smiled wanly. "May I ask you: what it is that has just flared up within me? I am weak, anaemic, fallen to pieces; my muscles have lost the power to function, my blood runs cold, I have been more than two feet over the border. And yet—a few drinks of brandy, of stimulants, and you have drawn me back, my heart beats strongly, for an hour. By means of drugs you have infused a new life—which of course is the old—and driven the material components of my body into correlation. You are successful for a time; so long as nature is with you; but all the while you are held aghast by the knowledge that the least flaw, the least disarrangement, and you are beaten.
"It is your business to hold this life or what you may. When it has gone your structures, your a
natomy, your wonderful human machine is worthless. Where has it come from? Where has it gone? I have drunk four glasses of brandy; I have a lease of four short hours. Ordinarily it would bring reaction; it is poison, to be sure; but it is driving back my spirit, giving me life and strength enough to tell my story—in the morning I shall be no more. By sequence I am a dead man already. Four glasses of brandy; they are speaking. Whence comes this affinity of substance and of shadow?"
We all of us listened, the doctor most of all. "Go on," he said.
"Can't you see?" repeated Watson. "There is affinity between substance and shadow; and therefore your spirit or shadow or what you will is concrete, is in itself a substance. It is material just as much as you are. Because you do not see it is no proof that it is not substance. That pot palm yonder does not see you; it is not blessed with eyes."
The doctor looked at Watson; he spoke gently.
"This is very old stuff, my boy, out of your abstract philosophy. No man knows the secret of life. Not even yourself."
The light in Watson's eyes grew brighter, he straightened; he began slipping the ring from his finger.
"No," he answered. "I don't. I have tried and it was like playing with lightning. I sought for life and it is giving me death. But there is one man living who has found it."
"And this man?"
"Is Dr. Holcomb!"
We all of us started. We had every one given the doctor up as dead. The very presence of Watson was tragedy. We did not doubt that he had been through some terrible experience. There are things in the world that may not be unriddled. Some power, some sinister thing was reaching for his vitality. What did he know about the professor? Dr. Holcomb had been a long time dead.
"Gentlemen. You must hear my story; I haven't long to tell it. However, before I start here is a proof for a beginning."
He tossed the ring upon the table.
It was Hobart who picked it up. A beautiful stone, like a sapphire; blue but uncut and of a strange pellucid transparency—a jewel undoubtedly; but of a kind we have never seen. We all of us examined it, and were all, I am afraid, a bit disappointed. It was a stone and nothing else.
Watson watched us. The waiter had brought more brandy, and Watson was sipping it, not because he liked it, he said, but just to keep himself at the proper lift.
"You don't understand it, eh? You see nothing? Hobart, have you a match? There, that's it; now give me the ring. See—" He struck the match and held the flame against the jewel. "Gentlemen, there is no need for me to speak. The stone will give you a volume. It's not trickery, I assure you, but fact. There, now, perfect. Doctor, you are the sceptic. Take a look at the stone."
The doctor picked it up casually and held it up before his eyes. At first he frowned; then came a look of incredulity; his chin dropped and he rose in his chair.
"My God," he exclaimed, "the man's living! It—he—"
But Hobart and I had crowded over. The doctor held the ring so we could see it. Inside the stone was Dr. Holcomb!
It was a strenuous moment, and the most incredible. We all of us knew the doctor. It was not a photograph, nor a likeness; but the man himself. It was beyond all reason that he could be in the jewel; indeed there was only the head visible; one could catch the expression of life, the movements of the eyelids. Yet how could it be? What was it? It was Hobart who spoke first.
"Chick," he asked, "what's the meaning? Were it not for my own eyes I would call it impossible. It's absurd on the face. The doctor! Yet I can see him—living. Where is he?"
Chick nodded.
"That's the whole question. Where is he? I know and yet I know nothing. You are now looking into the Blind Spot. The doctor sought the secret of life—and found it. He was trapped by his own wisdom!"
VIII
THE NERVINA
For a moment we were silent. The jewel reposed upon the table. What was the secret of its phenomena? I could think of nothing in science that would explain it. How had Watson come into its possession? What was the tale he had to tell? The lean, long finger that clutched for brandy! What force was this that had driven him to such a verge? He was resigned; though he was defiant he had already conceded his surrender. Dr. Hansen spoke.
"Watson," he asked, "what do you know about the Blind Spot?"
"Nothing."
We all turned to Chick. Hobart ordered more brandy. The doctor's eyes went to slits. I could not but wonder.
"Chick," I asked, "who is Rhamda Avec?"
Watson turned.
"You saw him a few minutes ago? You saw him with me? Let me ask you."
"Yes," I answered, "I saw him. Most people did. Is he invisible? Is he really the phantom they say?"
Somehow the mention of the name made him nervous; he looked cautiously about the room.
"That I don't know, Harry. It—If I can only get my wits together. Is he a phantom? Yes, I think so. I can't understand him. At least, he has the powers we attribute to an apparition. He is strange and unaccountable. Sometimes you see him, sometimes you don't. The first known of him was on the day Professor Holcomb was to deliver his lecture on the Blind Spot. He was tracked, you know, to the very act. Then came in the Nervina."
"And who is the Nervina?"
Watson looked at me blankly.
"The Nervina?" he asked, "The Nervina—what do you know about the Nervina?"
"Nothing. You mentioned her just now."
His mind seemed to ramble. He looked about the room rather fearfully. Perhaps he was afraid.
"Did I mention her? I don't know, Harry, my wits are muddled. The Nervina? She is a goddess. Never was and never will be woman. She loves; she never hates, and still again she does not love. She is beautiful; too beautiful for man. I've quit trying."
"Is she Rhamda's wife?"
His eyes lit fire.
"No!"
"Do you love her?"
He went blank again; but at last he spoke slowly.
"No, I don't love her. What's the use? She's not for me. I did; but I learned better. I was after the professor—and the Blind Spot. She—"
Again that look of haunted pursuit. He glanced about the room. Whatever had been his experience, it was plain that he had not given up. He held something and he held it still. What was it?
"You say you didn't find the Blind Spot?"
"No, I did not find it."
"Have you any idea?"
"My dear Harry," he answered, "I am full of ideas. That's the trouble. I am near it. It's the cause of my present condition. I don't know just what it is nor where. A condition, or a combination of phenomena. You remember the lecture that was never delivered? Had the doctor spoken that morning the world would have had a great fact. He had made a great discovery. It is a terrible thing." He turned the ring so we could all see it—beyond all doubt it was the doctor. "There he is—the professor. If he could only speak. The secret of the ages. Just think what it means. Where is he? I have taken that jewel to the greatest lapidaries and they have one and all been startled. Then they all come to the same conclusion—trickery—Chinese or Hindu work, they say; most of them want to cut."
"Have you taken it to the police?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I would simply be laughed at."
"Have you ever reported this Rhamda?"
"A score of times. They have come and sought; but every time he has gone out—like a shadow. It's got to be an old story now. If you call them up and tell them they laugh."
"How do you account for it?"
"I don't. I—I—I'm just dying."
"And not one member of the force—surely?"
"Oh, yes. There's one. You have heard of Jerome. Jerome followed the professor and the Rhamda to the house of the Blind Spot, as he calls it. He's not a man to fool. He had eyes and he saw it. He will not leave it till he's dead."
"But he did not see the Blind Spot, did he? How about trickery? Did it ever occur to you that the professor might have been murdered?"
"
Take a look at that, Harry. Does that look like murder? When you see the man living?"
Watson reached over and turned up the jewel.
Here Hobart came in.
"Just a minute, Chick. My wise friend here is an attorney. He's always the first into everything, especially conversation. It's been my job pulling Harry out of trouble. Just one question."
"All right."
"Didn't you—er—keep company, as they say, with Bertha Holcomb while at college?"
A kind look came into the man's eyes; he nodded; his whole face was soft and saddened.
"I see. That naturally brought you to the Blind Spot. You are after her father. Am I correct?"
"Exactly."
"All right. Perhaps Bertha has taken you into some of her father's secrets. He undoubtedly had data on this Blind Spot. Have you ever been able to locate it?"
"No!"
"I see. This Rhamda? Has he ever sought that data?"
"Many, many times."
"Does he know you haven't got it?"
"No."
"So. I understand. You hold the whip hand through your ignorance. Rhamda is your villain—and perhaps this Nervina? Who is she?"
"A goddess."
Hobart smiled.
"Oh, yes!" He laughed. "A goddess. Naturally! They all are. There are about forty in this room at the present moment, my dear fellow. Watch them dance!"
Now I had picked up the ring. It just fitted the natural finger. I tried it on and looked into the jewel. The professor was growing dimmer. The marvellous blue was returning, a hue of fascination; not the hot flash of the diamond, but the frozen light of the iceberg. It was frigid, cold, terrible, blue, alluring. To me at the moment it seemed alive and pulselike. I could not account for it. I felt the lust for possession. Perhaps there was something in my face. Watson leaned over and touched me on the arm.
"Harry," he asked, "do you think you can stand up under the burden? Will you take my place?"
I looked into his eyes; in their black depths was almost entreaty. How haunting they were, and beseeching.
"Will you take my place?" he begged. "Are you willing to give up all that God gives to the fortunate? Will you give up your practice? Will you hold out to the end? Never surrender? Will—"
