by Anthology
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.
XII
A DEAL IN PROPERTY
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.
"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.
XIII
ALBERT JEROME
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. F
ather 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."
