by Anthology
In the natural weakness of futility they had come to associate the aspect of death or terror with the Blind Spot. Yet, here was Watson! Watson, alive and strong; he was the reverse of what they had subconsciously expected.
"What is this Blind Spot?" inquired Sir Henry evenly. "And what do you mean by giving thanks that Fenton has gone into it?"
"Not now. Not one word of explanation until—What time is it?" Watson broke off to demand.
They told him. He began to talk rapidly, with amazing force and decision, and in a manner whose sincerity left no chance for doubt.
"Then we have five hours! Not one second to lose. Do what I say, and answer my questions!" Then: "We must not fail; one slip, and the whole world will be engulfed—in the unknown! Turn on the lights."
There was that in the personality and the vehemence of the man that precluded opposition. Out of the Blind Spot had come a dynamic quality, along with the man; a quickening influence that made Watson swift, sure, and positive. Somehow they knew it was a moment of Destiny.
Watson went on:
"First, did Hobart Fenton open the Spot? Or was it a period? By 'period' I mean, did it open by chance, as it did when it caught Harry and me? Just what did Hobart do? Tell me!"
It was a singular question. How could they answer it? However, Dr. Malloy related as much as he knew of what Hobart had done; his wires and apparatus were now merely a tangled mass of fused metals. Nothing remained intact but the blue gem and the red pebble.
"I see. And this pebble: you found it by digging in the cellar, I suppose."
How did he know that? Dr. Hansen brought that curiously heavy little stone and laid it in Watson's hand. The newcomer touched it with his finger, and for a brief moment he studied it. Then he looked up.
"It's the small one," he stated. "And you found it in the cellar. It was very fortunate; the opening of the Spot was perhaps a little more than half chance. But it was wonderfully lucky. It let me out. And with the help of God and our own courage we may open it again, long enough to rescue Hobart, Harry, and Dr. Holcomb. Then—we must break the chain—we must destroy the revelation; we must close the Spot forever!"
Small wonder that they couldn't understand what he meant. Dr. Hansen thought to cut in with a practical question:
"My dear Chick, what's inside the Spot? We want to know!"
But it was not Watson who answered. It was Mme. Le Fabre.
"Spirits, of course."
Watson gave a sudden laugh. This time he answered:
"My dear lady, if you know what I know, and what Dr. Holcomb has discovered, you would ask YOURSELF a question or so. Possibly you yourself are a spirit!"
"What!" she gasped. "I—a spirit!"
"Exactly. But there is no time for questions. Afterwards—not now. Five hours, and we must—"
Someone came to the door. It was Jerome. At the sight of Watson he stopped, clutching the stub of his cigar between his teeth. His grey eyes took in the other's form from head to shoe leather.
"Back?" he inquired. "What did you find out, Watson? They must have fed you well over yonder!"
And Jerome pointed toward the ceiling with his thumb. It wasn't in his dour nature to give way to enthusiasm; this was merely his manner of welcome. Watson smiled.
"The eats were all right, Jerome, but not all the company. You're just the man I want. We have little time; none to spare for talk. Are you in touch with Bertha Holcomb?"
The detective nodded.
Watson took the chair that Fenton had so strangely vacated and reached for paper and pencil. Once or twice he stopped to draw a line, but mostly he was calculating. He referred constantly to a paper he took from his pocket. When he was through he spread his palm over what he had written.
"Jerome!"
"Yes."
"You are no longer connected with headquarters, I presume. But— can you get men?"
"If need be."
"You will need them!" Just then Watson noticed the uniform of General Hume. "Jerome, can you give this officer a bodyguard?"
It was both unusual and lightning-sudden. Nevertheless, there was something in Watson's manner that called for no challenge; something that would have brooked no refusal. And the general, although a sceptic, was acting solely from force of habit when he objected:
"It seems to me, Watson, that you—"
Those who were present are not likely to forget it. Some men are born, some rise, to the occasion; but Watson was both. He was clear-cut, dominant, inexorable. He levelled his pencil at the general.
"It SEEMS to you! General, let me ask you: If your country's safety were at stake, would you hesitate to throw reinforcements into the breach?"
"Hardly."
"All right. It's settled. Take care of your red tape AFTERWARDS."
He wheeled to the detective. "Jerome, this is a sketch of the compartments of Dr. Holcomb's safe. Not the large one in his house, but the small one in his laboratory. Go straight to Dwight Way. Give this note," indicating another paper, "to Bertha Holcomb. Tell her that her father is safe, and that I am out of the Blind Spot. Tell her you have come to open the laboratory safe. I've written down the combination. If it doesn't work use explosives; there's nothing inside which force can harm. In the compartment marked 'X' you will find a small particle about the size of a pea, wrapped in tin-foil, and locked in a small metal box. You will have to break the box. As for the contents, once you see the stone you can't mistake it; it will weigh about six pounds. Get it, and guard it with your life!"
"All right."
Jerome put Watson's instructions in his wallet, at the same time glancing about the room.
"Where is Fenton?" he asked.
It was Watson who answered. He gave us the first news that had ever come from the Blind Spot. He spoke with firm deliberation, as though in full realisation of the sensation:
"Hobart Fenton has gone through the Blind Spot. Just now he is right here in this room."
Sir Henry jumped.
"In this room! Is that what you said, Watson?"
The other ignored him.
"Jerome, you haven't a minute to lose! You and the general; bring that stone back to this house at ANY cost! Hurry!"
In another moment Jerome and Hume were gone. And few people, that day, suspected the purport of that body of silent men who crossed over the Bay of San Francisco. They were grim, and trusted, and under secret orders. They had a mission, did they but know it, as important as any in history. But they knew only that they were to guard Jerome and the general at all hazards. One peculiarly heavy stone, "the size of a pea"! How are we ever to calculate its value?
As for the group remaining with Watson, not one of them ever dreamed that any danger might come out of the Blind Spot. Its manifestations had been local and mostly negative. No; the main incentive of their interest had been simply curiosity.
But apparently Watson was above them all. He paid no further attention to them for a while; he bent at Fenton's desk and worked swiftly. At length he thrust his papers aside.
"I want to see that cellar," he announced. "That is, the point where you found that red pebble!"
Down in the basement, Sir Henry gave the details. When he came to mention the various liquids which Fenton had poured into the woodwork upstairs Watson examined the pool intently.
"Quite so. They would come out here—naturally."
"Naturally!"
Sir Henry could not understand. His perplexity was reflected in the faces of Herold, the two physicians, Dr. Malloy, Miss Clarke, and Mme. Le Fabre—and Charlotte spoke for them all:
"Can't you explain, Mr. Watson? The woodwork had nothing whatever to do with the cellar. There was the floor between, just as you see it now."
"Naturally," Watson repeated. "It could be no other place! It was on its way to the other side, but it could go only half-way. Simply a matter of focus, you know. I beg pardon; you must hold your curiosity a little longer."
He began measuring. First he located th
e line across the floorjoists overhead, where rested the partition separating the dining-room from the parlour. Finding the middle of this line, he dropped an improvised plumb-line to the ground; and from this spot as centre, using a string about ten feet long, he described a circle on the earth. Then, referring to his calculations, he proceeded to locate several points with small stakes pressed into the soil. Then he checked them off and nodded.
"It's even better than the professor thought. His theory is all but proven. If Jerome and Hume can deliver the other stone without accident, we can save those now inside the Spot." Then, very solemnly: "But we face a heavy task. It will be another Thermopylae. We must hold the gate against an occult Xerxes, together with all his horde."
"The hosts of the dead!" exclaimed Mme. Le Fabre.
"No; the living! Just give me time, Madame, and you will see something hitherto undreamed of. As for your theory—tomorrow you may doubt whether you are living or dead! In other words, Dr. Holcomb has certainly proved the occult by material means. He has done it with a vengeance. In so doing he has left us in doubt as to ourselves; and unless he discovers the missing factor within the next few hours we are going to be in the anomalous position of knowing plenty about the next world, but nothing about ourselves."
He paused. He must have known that their curiosity could not hold out much longer. He said:
"Now, just one thing more, friends, and I can tell you everything, while we are waiting for Jerome and the general to return. But first I must see the one who preceded me out of the spot."
"Ariadne!" from Charlotte, in wonder.
"Ariadne!" exclaimed Watson. He was both puzzled and amazed. "Did you call her—Ariadne?"
"She is upstairs," cut in Dr. Higgins.
"I must see her!"
A minute or two later they stood in the room where the girl lay. The coverlet was thrown back somewhat revealing the bare left arm and shoulder, and the delicately beautiful face upon the pillow. Her golden hair was spread out in riotous profusion. The other hand was just protruding from the coverlet, and displayed a faint red mark, showing where Hobart's bracelet had been fastened at the moment he disappeared.
Charlotte stepped over and laid her hand against the girl's cheek. "Isn't she wonderful!" she murmured.
But Dr. Higgins looked to Watson.
"Do you know her?"
The other nodded. He stooped over and listened to her breathing. His manner was that of reverence and admiration. He touched her hand.
"I see how it must have happened. Precisely what I experienced, only—" Then: "You call her Ariadne?"
"We had to call her something," replied Charlotte. "And the name— it just came, I suppose."
"Perhaps. Anyhow, it was a remarkably good guess. Her true name is the Aradna."
"THE Aradna? Who—what is she?"
"Just that: the Aradna. She is one of the factors that may save us. And on earth we would call her queen." Then, without waiting for the inevitable question, Watson said:
"Your professional judgment will soon come to the supreme test, Dr. Higgins. She is simply numbed and dazed from coming through the Spot." Charlotte had already described to him the girl's arrival. "The mystery is that she was permitted an hour of rationality before this came upon her. I wonder if Hobart's vitality had anything to do with it?"—half to himself. "As for the Rhamda"—he smiled—"he is merely interested in the Spot; that is all. He would never harm the Aradna; he had nothing whatever to do with her condition. We were mistaken about the man. Anyway, it is the Spot of Life that interests us now."
"The Spot of Life," repeated Sir Henry. "Is that—"
"Yes; the Blind Spot, as it is known from the other side. It overtops all your sciences, embraces every cult, and lies at the base of all truth. It is—it is everything." ^
"Explain!"
Watson turned to the head upon the pillow. He ventured to touch the cheek, with a trace of tenderness in his action and of wistfulness near to reverence. It was not love; it was rather as one might touch a fairy. In both spirit and substance she was truly of another world. Watson gave a soft sigh and looked up at the Englishman.
"Yes, I can explain. Now that I know she is well, I shall tell you all I know from the beginning. It's certainly your turn to ask questions. I may not be able to tell you all that you want to know; but at least I know more than any other person this side of the Spot. Let us go down to the library."
He glanced at a clock. "We have nearly five hours remaining. Our test will come when we open the Spot. We must not only open it, but we must close it at all costs."
They had reached the lower hall. At the front door Watson paused and turned to the others.
"Just a moment. We may fail tonight. In case we do, I would like one last look at my own world—at San Francisco."
He opened the door. The rest hung back; though they could not understand, they could sense, vaguely, the emotion of this strange man of brave adventure. The scene, the setting, the beauty, were all akin to the moment. Watson, stood bareheaded, looking down at the blinking lights of the city of the Argonauts. The moon in a starlit sky was drifting through a ragged lace of cloud. And over it all was a momentary hush, as though the man's emotion had called for it.
No one spoke. At last Watson closed the door. And there was just the trace of tears in his eyes as he spoke:
"Now my friends—" And led the way into the parlour.
XXIX
THE OCCULT WORLD
"In telling what I know," began Watson, "I shall use a bit of a preface. It's necessary, in a way, if you are to understand me; besides, it will give you the advantage of looking into the Blind Spot with the clear eyes of reason. I intend to tell all, to omit nothing. My purpose in doing this is that, in case we should fail tonight, you will be able to give my account to the world."
It was a strange introduction. His listeners exchanged thoughtful glances. But they all affirmed, and Sir Henry hitched his chair almost impatiently.
"All right, Mr. Watson. Please proceed."
"To begin with," said Watson, "I assume that you all know of Dr. Holcomb's announcement concerning the Blind Spot. You remember that he promised to solve the occult; how he foretold that he would prove it not by immaterial but by the very material means; that he would produce the fact and the substance.
"Now, the professor had promised to deliver something far greater than he had thought it to be. At the same time, what he knew of the Blind Spot was part conjecture and part fact. Like his forebears and contemporaries, he looked upon man as the real being.
"But it's a question, now, as to which is reality and which is not. There is not a branch of philosophy that looks upon the question in that light. Bishop Berkeley came near and he has been followed by others; but they all have been deceived by their own sophistry. However, except for the grossest materialists, all thinkers take cognizance of a hereafter.
"No one dreamed of a Blind Spot and what it may lead to, what it might contain. We are five-sensed; we interpret the universe by the measure of five yardsticks. Yet, the Blind Spot takes even those away; the more we know, it seems, the less certain we are of ourselves. As I said to Mme. Le Fabre, it is a difficult question to determine, after all, just who are the ghosts. At any rate, I KNOW"—and he paused for effect—"I know that there are uncounted millions who look upon us and our workings as entirely supernatural!
"Remember that what I have to tell you is just as real as your own lives have been since babyhood.
"It was slightly over a year ago that my last night on the earth arrived.
"I had gone out for the evening, in the forlorn hope of meeting a friend, of having some slight taste of pleasure before the end came.
"For several days I had been labouring under a sort of premonition, knowing that my life was slowly seeping away and that my vitality was slipping, bit by bit, to what I thought must be death. Had I then known what I know now, I could have saved myself. But if I had done it, if I had saved myself, we would
never have found Dr. Holcomb.
"Perhaps it was the same fate that led me to Harry, that night. I don't know. Nevertheless, if there is any truth in what I have learned on the other side of the Blind Spot, it would seem that there is something higher than mere fate. I had never believed in luck; but when everything works out to a fraction of a breath, one ceases to be sceptical on the question of destiny and chance. I say, everything that happened that night was FORCED from the other side. In short, my giving that ring to Harry was simply a link in the chain of circumstances. It just had to be; the PROPHECY would not have had it otherwise."
Without stopping to explain what he meant by the word "prophecy," Watson went on:
"That's what makes it puzzling. I have never been able to understand how every bit has dovetailed with such exactness. We— you and I—are certainly not supernatural; and yet, on the other side of the Spot, the proof is overwhelmingly convincing.
"I was very weak that night. So weak that it is difficult for me to remember. The last I recollect was my going to the back of the house; to the kitchen, I think. I had a light in my hands. The boys were in the front room, waiting. One of them had opened a door some yards away from where I stood.
"Coming as it did, on the instant, it is difficult to describe. But I knew it instinctively for what it was: the dot of blue on the ceiling, and the string of light. Then, a sensation of falling, like dropping into space itself. It is hard to describe the horrifying terror of plunging head on from an immense height to a plain at a vastly lower level.
"And that's all that I remember—from this side." [Footnote: NOTE.—In justice to Mr. Watson, the present writers have thought it best at this stage to transpose the story from the first to the third person. Any narrative, unless it is negative in its material, is hard to give in the first person; for where the narrator has played an active, positive part, he must either curb himself or fall under the slur of braggadocio. Yet, the world wants the details exactly as they happened; hence the transposition. EDITORS.]
Watson opened his eyes.
The first thing was light and a sense of great pain. There was a pressure at the back of the eyeballs, a poignant sensation not unlike a knife-thrust; that, and a sudden fear of madness, of drivelling helplessness.
