by Anthology
"You mean will I take this ring?"
He nodded.
"Exactly. But you must know beforehand. It would be murder to give it to you without the warning. Either your death or that of Dr. Holcomb. It is not a simple jewel. It defies description. It takes a man to wear it. It is subtle and of destruction; it eats like a canker; it destroys the body; it frightens the soul—"
"An ominous piece of finery," I spoke. "Wherein—"
But Watson interrupted. There was appeal in his eyes.
"Harry," he went on, "I am asking. Somebody has got to wear this ring. He must be a man. He must be fearless; he must taunt the devil. It is hard work, I assure you. I cannot last much longer. You loved the old doctor. If we get at this law we have done more for mankind than either of us may do with his profession. We must save the old professor. He is living and he is waiting. There are perils and forces that we do not know of. The doctor went at it alone and fearless; he succumbed to his own wisdom. I have followed after, and I have been crushed down—perhaps by my ignorance. I am not afraid. But I don't want my work to die. Somebody has got to take it on and you are the man."
They were all of them looking at me. I studied the wonderful blue and its light. The image of the great professor had dimmed almost completely. It was a sudden task and a great one. Here was a law; one of the great secrets of Cosmos. What was it? Somehow the lure caught into my vitals. I couldn't picture myself ever coming to the extremity of my companion. Besides, it was a duty. I owed it to the old doctor. It seemed somehow that he was speaking. Though Watson did the talking I could feel him calling. Would I be afraid? Besides, there was the jewel. It was calling; already I could feel it burning into my spirit. I looked up.
"Do you take it, Harry?"
I nodded.
"I do. God knows I am worthless enough. I'll take it up. It may give me a chance to engage with this famous Rhamda."
"Be careful of Rhamda, Harry. And above all don't let him have the ring."
"Why?"
"Because. Now listen. I'm not laying this absolutely, understand. Nevertheless the facts all point in one direction. Hold the ring. Somewhere in that lustre lies a great secret; it controls the Blind Spot. The Rhamda himself may not take it off your finger. You are immune from violence. Only the ring itself may kill you."
He coughed.
"God knows," he spoke, "it has killed me."
It was rather ominous. The mere fact of that cough and his weakness was enough. One would come to this. He had warned me, and he had besought me with the same voice as the warning.
"But what is the Blind Spot?"
"Then you take the ring? What is the time? Twelve. Gentlemen—"
Now here comes in one of the strange parts of my story—one that I cannot account for. Over the shoulder of Dr. Hansen I could watch the door. Whether it was the ring or not I do not know. At the time I did not reason. I acted upon impulse. It was an act beyond good breeding. I had never done such a thing before. I had never even seen the woman.
The woman? Why do I say it? She was never a woman—she was a girl- -far, far transcendent. It was the first time I had ever seen her- -standing there before the door. I had never beheld such beauty, such profile, poise—the witching, laughing, night-black of her eyes; the perfectly bridged nose and the red, red lips that smiled, it seemed to me, in sadness. She hesitated, and as if puzzled, lifted a jewelled hand to her raven mass of hair. To this minute I cannot account for my action, unless, perchance, it was the ring. Perhaps it was. Anyway I had risen.
How well do I remember.
It seemed to me that I had known her a long, long time. There was something about her that was not seduction; but far, far above it. Somewhere I had seen her, had known her. She was looking and she was waiting for me. There was something about her that was super feminine. I thought it then, and I say it now.
Just then her glance came my way. She smiled, and nodded; there was a note of sadness in her voice.
"Harry Wendel!"
There is no accounting for my action, nor my wonder; she knew me. Then it was true! I was not mistaken! Somewhere I had seen her. I felt a vague and dim rush of dreamy recollections. Ah, that was the answer! She was a girl of dreams and phantoms. Even then I knew it; she was not a woman; not as we conceive her; she was some materialisation out of Heaven. Why do I talk so? Ah! this strange beauty that is woman! From the very first she held me in the thrall that has no explanation.
"Do we dance?" she asked simply.
The next moment I had her in my arms and we were out among the dancers. That my actions were queer and entirely out of reason never occurred to me. There was a call about her beautiful body and in her eyes that I could not answer. There was a fact between us, some strange bond that was beyond even passion. I danced, and in an extreme emotion of happiness. A girl out of the dreams and the ether—a sprig of life woven out of the moonbeams!
"Do you know me?" she asked as we danced.
"Yes," I answered, "and no. I have seen you; but I do not remember; you come from the sunshine."
She laughed prettily.
"Do you always talk like this?"
"You are out of my dreams," I answered: "it is sufficient. But who are you?"
She held back her pretty head and looked at me; her lips drooped slightly at the corners, a sad smile, and tender, in the soft wonderful depths of her eyes—a pity.
"Harry," she asked, "are you going to wear this ring?"
So that was it. The ring and the maiden. What was the bond? There was weirdness in its colour, almost cabalistic—a call out of the occult. The strange beauty of the girl, her remarkable presence, and her concern. Whoever and whatever she was her anxiety was not personal. In some way she was woven up with this ring and poor Watson.
"I think I shall," I answered.
Again the strange querulous pity and hesitation; her eyes grew darker, almost pleading.
"You won't give it to me?"
How near I came to doing it I shall not tell. It would be hard to say it. I knew vaguely that she was playing; that I was the plaything. It is hard for a man to think of himself as being toyed with. She was certain; she was confident of my weakness. It was resentment, perhaps, and pride of self that gave the answer.
"I think I shall keep it."
"Do you know the danger, Harry? It is death to wear it. A thousand perils—"
"Then I shall keep it. I like peril. You wish for the ring. If I keep it I may have you. This is the first time I have danced with the girl out of the moonbeams."
Her eyes snapped, and she stopped dancing. I don't think my words displeased her. She was still a woman.
"Is this final? You're a fine young man, Mr. Wendel. I know you. I stepped in to save you. You are playing with something stranger than the moonbeams. No man may wear that ring and hold to life. Again, Harry, I ask you; for your own sake."
At this moment we passed Watson. He was watching; as our eyes glanced he shook his head. Who was this girl? She was as beautiful as sin and as tender as a virgin. What interest had she in myself?
"That's just the reason," I laughed. "You are too interested. You are too beautiful to wear it. I am a man; I revel in trouble; you are a girl. It would not be honourable to allow you to take it. I shall keep it."
She had overreached herself, and she knew it. She bit her lip. But she took it gracefully; so much so, in fact, that I thought she meant it.
"I'm sorry," she answered slowly. "I had hopes. It is terrible to look at Watson and then to think of you. It is, really"—a faint tremor ran through her body; her hand trembled—"it is terrible. You young men are so unafraid. It's too bad."
Just then the door was opened; outside I could see the bank of fog; someone passed. She turned a bit pale.
"Excuse me. I must be going. Don't you see I'm sorry—"
She held out her hand—the same sad little smile. On the impulse of the moment, unmindful of place, I drew it to my lips and kissed it. She was gone.
> I returned to the table. The three men were watching me: Watson analytically, the doctor with wonder, and Hobart with plain disgust. Hobart spoke first.
"Nice for sister Charlotte, eh, Harry?"
I had not a word to say. In the full rush of the moment I knew that he was right. It was all out of reason. I had no excuse outside of sheer insanity—and dishonour. The doctor said nothing. It was only in Watson's face that there was a bit of understanding.
"Hobart," he said, "I have told you. It is not Harry's fault. It is the Nervina. No man may resist her. She is beauty incarnate; she weaves with the hearts of men, and she loves no one. It is the ring. She, the Rhamda, the Blind Spot, and the ring. I have never been able to unravel them. Please don't blame Harry. He went to her even as I. She has but to beckon. But he kept the ring. I watched them. This is but the beginning."
But Hobart muttered: "She's a beauty all right—a beauty. That's the rub. I know Harry—I know him as a brother, and I want him so in fact. But I'd hate to trust that woman."
Watson smiled.
"Never fear, Hobart, your sister is safe enough. The Nervina is not a woman. She is not of the flesh."
"Brr," said the doctor, "you give me the creeps."
Watson reached for the brandy; he nodded to the doctor.
"Just a bit more of that stuff if you please. Whatever it is, on the last night one has no fear of habit. There—Now, gentlemen, if you will come with me, I shall take you to the house of the Blind Spot."
IX
"NOW THERE ARE THREE"
I shall never forget that night. When we stepped to the pavement the whole world was shrouded. The heavy fog clung like depression; life was gone out—a foreboding of gloom and disaster. It was cold, dank, miserable; one shuddered instinctively and battered against the wall with steaming columns of breath. Just outside the door we were detained.
"Dr. Hansen?"
Someone stepped beside us.
"Dr. Hansen?"
"Yes, sir."
"A message, sir."
The doctor made a gesture of impatience.
"Bother!" he spoke. "Bother! A message. Nothing in the world would stop me! I cannot leave."
Nevertheless he stepped back into the light.
"Just a minute, gentlemen."
He tore open the envelope. Then he looked up at the messenger and then at us. His face was startled—almost frightened.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I am sorry. Not a thing in the world would detain me but this. I would go with you, but I may not. My duty as a physician. I had hopes." He came over to me and spoke softly. "I am going to send you one of the greatest specialists in the city in my stead. This young man should have attention. Have you the address?"
"288 Chatterton Place," I answered.
"Very well. I am sorry, very much disappointed. However, it is my daughter, and I cannot do otherwise. Continue the brandy for a while—and this." He slipped an envelope into my hand. "By that time Dr. Higgins will be with you."
"You think there is hope?" I asked.
"There's always hope," replied the doctor.
I returned to my companions. They were walking slowly. It was work for poor Watson. He dragged on, leaning on Hobart's arm. But at last he gave up.
"No," he said, "I can't make it. I'm too far gone. I had thought— Oh, what a lapse it has been! I am eighty years of age; one year ago I was a boy. If only I had some more brandy. I have some at the house. We must make that. I must show you; there I can give you the details."
"Hail a cab," I said. "Here's one now."
A few minutes later we were before the House of the Blind Spot. It was a two storey drab affair, much like a thousand others, old- fashioned, and might have been built in the early nineties. It had been outside of the fire limits of 1906, and so had survived the great disaster. Chatterton Place is really a short street running lengthwise along the summit of the hill. A flight of stone steps descended to the pavement.
Watson straightened up with an effort.
"This is the house," he spoke. "I came here a year ago. I go away tonight. I had hoped to find it. I promised Bertha. I came alone. I had reasons to believe I had solved it. I found the Rhamda and the Nervina. I had iron will and courage—also strength. The Rhamda was never able to control me. My life is gone but not my will. Now I have left him another. Do not surrender, Harry. It is a gruesome task; but hold on to the end. Help me up the steps. There now. Just wait a minute till I fetch a stimulant."
He did not ring for a servant. That I noticed. Instead he groped about for a key, unlocked the door and stumbled into a room. He fumbled for a minute among some glasses.
"Will you switch on a light?" he asked.
Hobart struck a match; when he found it he pressed the switch.
The room in which we were standing was a large one, fairly well furnished, and lined on two sides with bookshelves; in the centre was an oak table cluttered with papers, a couple of chairs, and on one of them, a heavy pipe, which, somehow, I did not think of as Watson's. He noticed my look.
"Jerome's," he explained. "We live here—Jerome, the detective, and myself. He has been here since the day of the doctor's disappearance. I came here a year ago. He is in Nevada at present. That leaves me alone. You will notice the books, mostly occult: partly mine, partly the detective's. We have gone at it systematically from the beginning. We have learned almost everything but what would help us. Mostly sophistry—and guesswork. Beats all how much ink has been wasted to say nothing. We were after the Blind Spot."
"But what is it? Is it in this house?"
"I can answer one part of your question," he answered, "but not the other. It is here somewhere, in some place. Jerome is positive of that. You remember the old lady? The one who died? Her actions were rather positive even if feeble. She led Jerome to this next room." He turned and pointed; the door was open. I could see a sofa and a few chairs; that was all.
"It was in here. The bell. Jerome never gets tired of telling. A church bell. In the centre of the room. At first I didn't believe; but now I accept it all. I know, but what I know is by intuition."
"Sort of sixth sense?'
"Yes. Or foresight."
"You never saw this bell nor found it? Never were able to arrive at an explanation?"
"No."
"How about the Rhamda? The Nervina? Do they come to this house?"
"Not often."
"How do they come in? Through the window?"
He smiled rather sadly. "I don't know. At least they come. You shall see them youself. The Rhamda still has something to do with Dr. Holcomb. Somehow his very concern tells me the doctor is safe. Undoubtedly the professor made a great discovery. But he was not alone. He had a co-worker—the Rhamda. For reasons of his own the Rhamda wishes to control the Blind Spot."
"Then the professor is in this Blind Spot?"
"We think so. At least it is our conjecture. We do not know."
"Then you don't think it trickery?"
"No, hardly. Harry, you know better than that. Can you imagine the great doctor the dupe of a mere trickster? The professor was a man of great science and was blessed with an almighty sound head. But he had one weakness."
Hobart spoke up.
"What is it, Chick? I think I know what you mean. The old boy was honest?"
"Exactly. He had been a scholar all his life. He taught ethics. He believed in right. He practised his creed. When he came to the crucial experiment he found himself dealing with a rogue. The Rhamda helped him just so far; but once he had the professor in his power it was not his purpose to release him until he was secure of the Blind Spot."
"I see," I spoke. "The man is a villain. I think we can handle him."
But Watson shook his head.
"That's just it, Harry! The man! If he were a man I could have handled him in short order. That's what I thought at first. Don't make any mistake. Don't try violence. That's the whole crux of the difficulty. If he were only a man! Unfortunately, he is not."
>
"Not a man!" I exclaimed. "What do you mean? Then, what is he?"
"He is a phantom."
I glanced at Hobart and caught his eye. Hobart believed him! The poor pallid face of Watson, the athlete; there was nothing left to him but his soul! I shall not forget Watson as he sat there, his lean, long fingers grasping the brandy glass, his eyes burning and his life holding back from the pit through sheer will and courage. Would I come to this? Would I have the strength to measure up to his standard?
Hobart broke the tension.
"Chick's right. There is something in it, Harry. Not all the secrets of the universe have been unlocked by any means. Now, Chick, about details. Have you any data—any notes?"
Watson rose. I could see he was grateful.
"You believe me, don't you, Hobart? It is good. I had hoped to find someone, and I found you two. Harry, remember what I have told you. Hold the ring. You take my place. Whatever happens, stick out to the end. You have Hobart here to help you. Now just a minute. The library is here; you can look over my books. I shall return in a moment."
He stepped out into the hall; we could hear his weary feet dragging down the hallway—a hollow sound and a bit uncanny. Somehow my mind rambled back to that account I had read in the newspaper—Jerome's story—"Like weary bones dragging slippers." And the old lady. Who was she? Why was everyone in this house pulled down to exhaustion—the words of the old lady, I could almost hear them; the dank air murmuring their recollection. "Now there are two. Now there are two!"
"What's the matter, Harry?"
Perhaps I was frightened. I do not know. I looked around. The sound of Watson's footsteps had died away; there was a light in the back of the building coming toward us.
"Nothing! Only—damn this place, Hobart. Don't you notice it? It's enough to eat your heart out."
"Rather interesting," said Hobart. It was too interesting for me. I stepped over to the shelves and looked at the titles. Sanskrit and Greek; German and French—the Vedas, Sir Oliver Lodge, Besant, Spinoza, a conglomeration of all ages and tongues; a range of metaphysics that was as wide as Babel, and about as enlightening. As Babel? Over my shoulders came the strangest sound of all, weak, piping, tremulous, fearful—"Now there are two. Now there are two." My heart gave a fearful leap. "Soon there will be three! Soon—"
