XXII. — THE ROUSING OF A MIND
It was a girl. Not the Nervina. No; this girl was quite another person.
Even now I find it curiously hard to describe her. For me to say that she was the picture of innocence, of purity, and of youth, is still to leave unsaid the secret of her loveliness.
For this stranger, coming out of the thin air into our midst, held me with a glorious fascination. From the first I felt no misgivings, such as Harry confesses he experienced when he fell under the Nervina's charm. I knew as I watched the stranger's wondering, puzzled features, that I had never before seen anyone so lovely, so attractive, and so utterly beyond suspicion.
It was only later that I noted her amazingly delicate complexion, fair as her hair was golden; her deep blue eyes, round face, and the girlish supple figure; or her robe-like garments of very soft, white material. For she commenced almost instantly to talk.
But we understood only with the greatest of difficulty. She spoke as might one who, after living in perfect solitude for a score of years, is suddenly called upon to use language. And I remembered that Rhamda Avec had told Jerome that he had only BEGUN the use of language.
“Who are you?” was her first remark, in the sweetest voice conceivable. But there was both fear and anxiety in her manner. “How—did I—get—here?”
“You came out of the Blind Spot!” I spoke, jerking out the words nervously and, as I saw, too rapidly. I repeated them more slowly. But she did not comprehend.
“The—Blind—Spot,” she pondered. “What—is that?”
Next instant, before I could think to warn her, the room trembled with the terrific clang of the Blind Spot bell. Just one overwhelming peal; no more. At the same time there came a revival of the luminous spot in the ceiling. But, with the last tones of the bell, the spot faded to nothing.
The girl was pitifully frightened. I sprang to my feet and steadied her with one hand—something that I had not dared to do as long as the Spot remained open. The touch of my fingers, as she swayed, had the effect of bringing her to herself. She listened intelligently to what I said.
“The Blind Spot”—speaking with the utmost care—“is the name we have given to a certain mystery. It is always marked by the sound you have just heard; that bell always rings when the phenomenon is at an end.”
“And—the—phenomenon,” uttering the word with difficulty, “what is that?”
“You,” I returned. “Up till now three human beings have disappeared into what we call the Blind Spot. You are the first to be seen coming out of it.”
“Hobart,” interrupted Charlotte, coming to my side. “Let me.”
I stepped back, and Charlotte quietly passed an arm round the girl's waist. Together they stepped over to Charlotte's chair.
I noted the odd way in which the newcomer walked, unsteadily, uncertainly, like a child taking its first steps. I glanced at Jerome, wondering if this tallied with what he recalled of the Rhamda; and he gave a short nod.
“Don't be frightened,” said Charlotte softly, “we are your friends. In a way we have been expecting you, and we shall see to it that no harm comes to you.
“Which would you prefer—to ask questions, or to answer them?”
“I”—the girl hesitated—“I—hardly—know. Perhaps—you had—better—ask something first.”
“Good. Do you remember where you came from? Can you recall the events just prior to your arrival here?”
The girl looked helplessly from the one to the other of us. She seemed to be searching for some clue. Finally she shook her head in a hopeless, despairing fashion.
“I can't remember,” speaking with a shade less difficulty. “The last thing—I recall is—seeing—you three—staring—at me.”
This was a poser. To think, a person who, before our very eyes, had materialised out of the Blind Spot, was unable to tell us anything about it!
Still this lack of memory might be only a temporary condition, brought on by the special conditions under which she had emerged; an after-effect, as it were, of the semi-electrical phenomena. And it turned out that I was right.
“Then,” suggested Charlotte, “suppose you ask us something.”
The girl's eyes stopped roving and rested definitely, steadily, upon my own. And she spoke; still a little hesitantly:
“Who are you? What is your name?”
“Name?” taken wholly by surprise. “Ah—it is Hobart Fenton. And”—automatically—“this is my sister Charlotte. The gentleman over there is Mr. Jerome.”
“I am glad to know you, Hobart,” with perfect simplicity and apparent pleasure; “and you, Charlotte,” passing an arm round my sister's neck; “and you—Mister.” Evidently she thought the title of “mister” to be Jerome's first name.
Then she went on to say, her eyes coming back to mine:
“Why do you look at me that way, Hobart?”
Just like that! I felt my cheeks go hot and cold by turns. For a moment I was helpless; then I made up my mind to be just as frank and candid as she.
“Because you're so good to look at!” I blurted out. “I never appreciated my eyesight as I do right now!”
“I am glad,” she returned, simply and absolutely without a trace of confusion or resentment. “I know that I rather like to look at you—too.”
Another stunned silence. And this time I didn't notice any change in the temperature of my face; I was too busily engaged in searching the depths of those warm blue eyes.
She didn't blush, or even drop her eyes. She smiled, however, a gentle, tremulous smile that showed some deep feeling behind her unwavering gaze.
I recovered myself with a start, drew my chair up in front of her and took both her hands firmly in mine. Whereupon my resolution nearly deserted me. How warm and soft, and altogether adorable they were. I drew a long breath and began:
“My dear—By the way, what is your name?”
“I”—regretfully, after a moment's thought—“I don't know, Hobart.”
“Quite so,” as though the fact was commonplace. “We will have to provide you with a name. Any suggestions?”
Charlotte hesitated only a second. “Let's call her Ariadne; it was Harry's mother's name.”
“That's so; fine! Do you like the name—Ariadne?”
“Yes,” both pleased and relieved. At the same time she looked oddly puzzled, and I could see her lips moving silently as she repeated the name to herself.
Not for an instant did I let go of those wonderful fingers. “What I want you to know, Ariadne, is that you have come into a world that is, perhaps, more or less like the one that you have just left. For all I know it is one and the same world, only, in some fashion not yet understood, you may have transported yourself to this place. Perhaps not.
“Now, we call this a room, a part of the house. Outside is a street. That street is one of hundreds in a vast city, which consists of a multitude of such houses together with other and vastly larger structures. And these structures all rest upon a solid material which we call the ground or earth.
“The fact that you understand our language indicates that either you have fallen heir to a body and a brain which are thoroughly in tune with ours, or else—and please understand that we know very little of this mystery—or else your own body has somehow become translated into a condition which answers the same purpose.
“At any rate, you ought to comprehend what I mean by the term 'earth.' Do you?”
“Oh, yes,” brightly. “I seem to understand everything you say, Hobart.”
“Then there is a corresponding picture in your mind to each thought I have given you?”
“I think so,” not so positively.
“Well,” hoping that I could make it clear, “this earth is formed in a huge globe, part of which is covered by another material, which we term water. And the portions which are not so covered, and are capable of supporting the structures which constitute the city, we call by still another name. Can you supply that name?”
“Continents,” without hesitation.
“Fine!” This was a starter anyhow. “We'll soon have your memory working!
“However, what I really began to say is this; each of these continents—and they are several in number—is inhabited by people more or less like ourselves. There is a vast number, all told. Each is either male or female, like ourselves—you seem to take this for granted, however—and you will find them all exceedingly interesting.
“Now, in all fairness,” letting go her hands at last “you must understand that there are, among the people whom you have yet to see, great numbers who are far more—well, attractive, than I am.
“And you must know,” even taking my gaze away, “that not all persons are as friendly as we. You will find some who are antagonistic to you, and likely to take advantage of—well, your unsophisticated viewpoint. In short”—desperately—“you must learn right away not to accept people without question; you must form the habit of reserving judgment, of waiting until you have more facts, before reaching an opinion of others.
“You must do this as a matter of self-protection, and in the interests of your greatest welfare.”
And I stopped.
She seemed to be thinking over what I said. In the end she observed: “This seems reasonable. I feel sure that wherever I came from such advice would have fitted.
“However”—smiling at me in a manner to which I can give no description other than affectionate—“I have no doubts about you, Hobart. I know you are absolutely all right.”
And before I could recover from the bliss into which her statement threw me, she turned to Charlotte with “You too, Charlotte; I know I can trust you.”
But when she looked at Jerome she commented: “I can trust you, Mister, too; almost as much, but not quite. If you didn't suspect me I could trust you completely.”
Jerome went white. He spoke for the first time since the girl's coming.
“How—how did you know that I suspected you?”
“I can't explain; I don't know myself.” Then wistfully: “I wish you would stop suspecting me, Mister. I have nothing to conceal from you.”
“I know it!” Jerome burst out, excitedly, apologetically. “I know it now! You're all right, I'm satisfied of that from now on!”
She sighed in pure pleasure. And she offered one hand to Jerome. He took it as though it were a humming-bird's egg, and turned almost purple. At the same time the honest, fervid manliness which backed the detective's professional nature shone through for the first time in my knowledge of him. From that moment his devotion to the girl was as absolute as that of the fondest father who ever lived.
Well, no need to detail all that was said during the next hour. Bit by bit we added to the girl's knowledge of the world into which she had emerged, and bit by bit there unfolded in her mind a corresponding image of the world from which she had come. And when, for an experiment, we took her out on the front porch and showed her the stars, we were fairly amazed at the thoughts they aroused.
“Oh!” she cried, in sheer rapture. “I know what those are!” By now she was speaking fairly well. “They are stars!” Then: “They don't look the same. They're not outlined in the same way as I know. But they can't be anything else!”
NOT OUTLINED THE SAME. I took this to be a very significant fact. What did it mean?
“Look”—showing her the constellation Leo, on the ecliptic, and therefore visible to both the northern and southern hemispheres—“do you recognise that?”
“Yes,” decisively. “That is, the arrangement; but not the appearance of the separate stars.”
And we found this to be true of the entire sky. Nothing was entirely familiar to her; yet, she assured us, the stars could be nothing else. Her previous knowledge told her this without explaining why, and without a hint as to the reason for the dissimilarity.
“Is it possible,” said I, speaking half to myself, “that she has come from another planet?”
For we know that the sky, as seen from any of the eight planets in this solar system, would present practically the same appearance; but if viewed from a planet belonging to any other star-sun, the constellations would be more or less altered in their arrangement, because of the vast distance involved. As for the difference in the appearance of the individual stars, that might be accounted for by a dissimilarity in the chemical make-up of the atmosphere.
“Ariadne, it may be you've come from another world!”
“No,” seemingly quite conscious that she was contradicting me. For that matter there wasn't anything offensive about her kind of frankness. “No, Hobart. I feel too much at home to have come from any other world than this one.”
Temporarily I was floored. How could she, so ignorant of other matters, feel so sure of this? There was no explaining it.
We went back into the house. As it happened, my eye struck first the gramophone. And it seemed a good idea to test her knowledge with this.
“Is this apparatus familiar to you?”
“No. What is it for?”
“Do you understand what is meant by the term 'music'?”
“Yes,” with instant pleasure. “This is music.” She proceeded, without the slightest self-consciousness, to sing in a sweet clear soprano, and treated us to the chorus of “I Am Climbing Mountains!”
“Good heavens!” gasped Charlotte. “What can it mean?”
For a moment the explanation evaded me. Then I reasoned: “She must have a sub-conscious memory of what was being played just before she materialised.”
And to prove this I picked out an instrumental piece which we had not played all the evening. It was the finale of the overture to “Faust”; a selection, by the way, which was a great favourite of Harry's and is one of mine. Ariadne listened in silence to the end.
“I seem to have heard something like it before,” she decided slowly. “The melody, not the—the instrumentation. But it reminds me of something that I like very much.” Whereupon she began to sing for us. But this time her voice was stronger and more dramatic; and as for the composition—all I can say is it had a wild, fierce ring to it, like “Men of Harlech”; only the notes did not correspond to the chromatic scale. SHE SANG IN AN ENTIRELY NEW MUSICAL SYSTEM.
“By George!” when she had done. “Now we HAVE got something! For the first time, we've heard some genuine, unadulterated Blind Spot stuff!”
“You mean,” from Charlotte, excitedly, “that she has finally recovered her memory?”
It was the girl herself who answered. She shot to her feet, and her face became transfigured with a wonderful joy. At the same time she blinked hurriedly, as though to shut off a sight that staggered her.
“Oh, I remember!”—she almost sobbed in her delight—“it is all plain to me, now! I know who I am!”
XXIII. — THE RHAMDA AGAIN
I could have yelled for joy. We were about to learn something of the Blind Spot—something that might help us to save Harry, and Chick, and the professor!
Ariadne seemed to know that a great deal depended upon what she was about to tell us. She deliberately sat down, and rested her chin upon her hand, as though determining upon the best way of telling something very difficult to express.
As for Charlotte, Jerry, and myself, we managed somehow to restrain our curiosity enough to keep silence. But we could not help glancing more or less wonderingly at our visitor. Presently I realised this, and got up and walked quietly about, as though intent upon a problem of my own.
Which was true enough. I had come to a very startling conclusion—I, Hobart Fenton, had fallen in love!
What was more, this affection of the heart had come to me, a very strong man, just as an affection of the lungs is said to strike such men—all of a sudden and hard. One moment I had been a sturdy, independent soul, intent upon scientific investigation, the only symptoms of sentimental potentialities being my perfectly normal love for my sister and for my old friend. Then, before my very eyes, I had been smitten thus!
And the worst part of it was, I found myself ENJOYING the sensation. It made not the slightest difference to me that I had fallen in love with a girl who was only a step removed from a wraith. Mysteriously she had come to me; as mysteriously she might depart. I had yet to know from what sort of country she had come!
But that made no difference. She was HERE, in the same house with me; I had held her hands; and I knew her to be very, very real indeed just then. And when I considered the possibility of her disappearing just as inexplicably as she had come—well, my face went cold, I admit. But at the same time I felt sure of this much—I should never love any other woman.
The thought left me sober. I paused in my pacing and looked at her. As though in answer to my gaze she glanced up and smiled so affectionately that it was all I could do to keep from leaping forward and taking her right into my arms.
I turned hastily, and to cover my confusion I began to hum a strain from the part of “Faust” to which I have referred. I hummed it through, and was beginning again, when I was startled to hear this from the girl: “Oh, then you are Hobart!”
I wheeled, to see her face filled with a wonderful light.
“Hobart,” she repeated, as one might repeat the name of a very dear one. “That—that music you were humming! Why, I heard Harry Wendel humming that yesterday!”
I suppose we looked very stupid, the three of us, so dumbfounded that we could do nothing but gape incredulously at that extraordinary creature and her equally extraordinary utterance. She immediately did her best to atone for her sensation.
“I'm not sure that I can make it clear,” she said, smiling dubiously, “but if you will use your imaginations and try to fill in the gaps in what I say you may get a fair idea of the place I have come from, and where Harry is.”
We leaned forward, intensely alert. I shall never forget the pitiful eagerness in poor Charlotte's face. It meant more to her, perhaps, than to anyone else.
At the precise instant I heard a sound, off in the breakfast room. It seemed to be a subdued knocking, or rather a pounding at the door.
Frowning at the interruption, I stepped through the dining-room into the breakfast room, where the sounds came from. And I was not a little puzzled to note that the door to the basement was receiving the blows.
Now I had been the last to visit the basement and had locked the door—from force of habit, I suppose—leaving the key in the lock. It was still there. And there is but one way to enter that basement: through this one door, and no other.
“Who is it?” I called out peremptorily. No answer; only a repetition of the pounds.
“What do you want?”—louder.
“Open this door, quick!” cane a muffled reply.
The voice was unrecognisable. I stood and thought quickly; then shouted:
“Wait a minute, until I get a key!”
I motioned to Charlotte. She tip-toed to my side. I whispered something in her ear; and she slipped off into the kitchen, there to phone Miss Clarke and warn her to notify her colleagues at once. And so, as I unlocked the door, I was fortified by the knowledge that I would be assisted by the combined mind-force of a score of highly developed intellects.
I was little surprised, a second later, to see that the intruder was Rhamda Avec. What reason to expect anyone else?
“How did you get down there?” I demanded. “Don't you realise that you are liable to arrest for trespass?”
I said it merely to start conversation but it served only to bring a slight smile to the face of this professed friend of ours, for whom we felt nothing but distrust and fear.
“Let us not waste time in trivialities, Fenton,” he rejoined gently. He brushed a fleck of cobweb from his coat. “By this time you ought to know that you cannot deal with me in any ordinary fashion.”
I made no comment as, without asking my leave or awaiting an invitation, he stepped through into the dining-room and thence into the parlour. I followed, half tempted to strike him down from behind, but restrained more by the fact that I must spare him than from any compunctions. Seemingly he knew this as well as I, he was serenely at ease.
And thus he stood before Jerome and Ariadne. The detective made a single exclamation, and furtively shifted his coat sleeves. He was getting that infernal breast gun into action. As for Ariadne, she stared at the new arrival as though astonished at first.
When Charlotte returned, a moment later, she showed only mild surprise. She quietly took her chair and as quietly moved her hand so that the gem shone in full view of our visitor.
But he gave her and the stone only a single glance, and then rested his eyes upon our new friend. To my anxiety, Ariadne was gazing fixedly at him now, her expression combining both agitation and a vague fear.
It could not have been due entirely to his unusual appearance; for there was no denying that this grey-haired yet young-faced man with the distinguished, courteous bearing, looked even younger that night than ever before. No; the girl's concern was deeper, more acute. I felt an unaccountable alarm.
From Ariadne to me the Rhamda glanced, then back again; and a quick satisfied smile came to his mouth. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. And, keeping his gaze fixed upon her eyes, he remarked carelessly:
“Which of these chairs shall I sit in, Fenton?”
“This one,” I replied instantly, pointing to the one I had just quit.
Smiling, he selected a chair a few feet away.
Whereupon I congratulated myself. The man feared me, then; yet he ranked my mentality no higher than that! In other words, remarkably clever though he might be, and as yet unthwarted, he could by no means be called omnipotent.
“For your benefit, Mr. Jerome, let me say that I phoned Miss Fenton and her brother a few days ago, and urged them to give up their notion of occupying this house or of attempting to solve the mystery that you are already acquainted with. And I prophesied, Mr. Jerome, that their refusal to accept my advice would be followed by events that would justify me.
“They refused, as you know; and I am here tonight to make a final plea, so that they may escape the consequences of their wilfulness.”
“You're a crook! And the more I see of you, Avec, the more easily I can understand why they turned you down!”
“So you too, are prejudiced against me. I cannot understand this. My motives are quite above question, I assure you.”
“Really!” I observed sarcastically. I stole a glance at Ariadne; her eyes were still riveted, in a rapt yet half-fearful abstraction, upon the face of the Rhamda. It was time I took her attention away.
I called her name. She did not move her head, or reply. I said it louder: “Ariadne!”
“What is it, Hobart?”—very softly.
“Ariadne, this gentleman possesses a great deal of knowledge of the locality from which you came. We are interested in him, because we feel sure that, if he chose to, he could tell us something about our friends who—about Harry Wendel.” Why not lay the cards plainly on the table? The Rhamda must be aware of it all, anyhow. “And as this man has said, he has tried to prevent us from solving the mystery. It occurs to me, Ariadne, that you might recognise this man. But apparently—”
She shook her head just perceptibly. I proceeded:
“He is pleased to call his warning a prophecy; but we feel that a threat is a threat. What he really wants is that ring.”
Ariadne had already, earlier in the hour, given the gem several curious glances. Now she stirred and sighed, and was about to turn her eyes from the Rhamda to the ring when he spoke again; this time in a voice as sharp as a steel blade:
“I do not enjoy being misunderstood, much less being misrepresented, Mr. Fenton. At the same time, since you have seen fit to brand me in such uncomplimentary terms, suppose I state what I have to say very bluntly, so that there may be no mistake about it. If you do not either quit this house, or give up the ring—NOW—you will surely regret it the rest of your lives!”
From the corner of my eye I saw Jerome moving slowly in his chair, so that he could face directly towards the Rhamda. His hands were ready for the swift, upward jerk which, I knew, would stifle our caller.
As for my sister, she merely turned the ring so that the gem no longer faced the Rhamda; and with the other hand she reached out and grasped Ariadne's firmly.
Avec sat with his two hands clasping the arms of his chair. His fingers drummed nervously but lightly on the wood. And then, suddenly, they stopped their motion.
“Your answer, Fenton,” in his usual gentle voice. “I can give you no more time,” I did not need to consult Charlotte or Jerome. I knew what they would have said.
“You are welcome to my answer. It is—no!”
As I spoke the last word my gaze was fixed on the Rhamda's eyes. He, on the other hand, was looking towards Ariadne. And at the very instant an expression, as of alarm and sorrow, swept into the man's face.
My glance jumped to Ariadne. Her eyes were closed, her face suffused; she seemed to be suffocating. She gave a queer little sound, half gasp and half cry.
Simultaneously Jerome's hands shot into the air. The room shivered with the stunning report of his breast gun. And every pellet struck the Rhamda and burst.
A look of intense astonishment came into his face. He gave Jerome a fleeting glance, almost of admiration; then his nostrils contracted with pain as the gas attacked his lungs.
Another second, and each of us were reeling with the fumes. Jerome started toward the window, to raise it, then sank back into his chair. And when he turned round—
He and I and Charlotte saw an extraordinary thing. Instead of succumbing to the gas, Rhamda Avec somehow recovered himself. And while the rest of us remained still too numbed to move or speak, he found power to do both.
“I warned you plainly, Fenton,” as though nothing in particular had happened. “And now see what you have brought upon the poor child!”
I could only roll my head stupidly, to stare at Ariadne's now senseless form.
“As usual, Fenton, you will blame me for it. I cannot help that. But it may still be possible for you to repent of your folly and escape your fate. You are playing with terrible forces. If you do repent, just follow these instructions”—laying a card on the table—“and I will see what I can do for you. I wish you all good night.”
And with that, pausing only to make a courtly bow to Charlotte, Rhamda Avec turned and walked deliberately, dignifiedly from the room, while the two men and a woman stared helplessly after him and allowed him to go in peace.
XXIV. — THE LIVING DEATH
As soon as the fresh air had revived us somewhat, we first of all examined Ariadne. She still lay unconscious, very pale, and alarmingly limp. I picked her up and carried her into the next room, where there was a sofa, while Jerome went for water and Charlotte brought smelling-salts.
Neither of these had any effect. Ariadne seemed to be scarcely breathing; her heart beat only faintly, and there was no response to such other methods as friction, slapping, or pinching of fingernails.
“We had better call a doctor,” decided Charlotte promptly, and went to the phone.
I picked up the card which the Rhamda had left. It contained simply his name, together with one other word—the name of a morning newspaper. Evidently he meant for us to insert an advertisement as soon as we were ready to capitulate.
“Not yet!” the three of us decided, after talking it over. And we waited as patiently as we could during the fifteen minutes that elapsed before the telephoning got results.
It brought Dr. Hansen, who, it may be remembered, was closely identified with the Chick Watson disappearance. He made a rapid but very careful examination.
“It has all the appearance of a mild electric shock. What caused it, Fenton?”
I told him. His eyes narrowed when I mentioned Avec, then widened in astonishment and incredulity as I related the man's inexplicable effect upon the girl, and his strange immunity to the poison gas. But the doctor asked nothing further about our situation, proceeding at once to apply several restoratives. All were without result. As a final resort, he even rigged up an electrical connection, making use of some coils which I had upstairs, and endeavoured to arouse the girl in that fashion. Still without result.
“Good Lord, Hansen!” I finally burst out, when he stood back, apparently baffled. “She's simply GOT to be revived! We can't allow her to succumb to that scoundrel's power, whatever it is!”
“Why not a blood transfusion?” I asked eagerly, as an idea came to me. “I'm in perfect condition. What about it? Go to it, doc!”
He slowly shook his head. And beyond a single searching glance into my eyes, wherein he must have read something more than I had said, he regretfully replied:
“This is a case for a specialist, Fenton. Everything considered, I should say that she is suffering from a purely mental condition; but whether it had a physical or a psychic origin, I can't say.”
In short, he did not feel safe about going ahead with any really heroic measures until a brain specialist was called in.
I had a good deal of confidence in Hansen. And what he said sounded reasonable. So we agreed to his calling in a Dr. Higgins—the same man, in fact, who was too late in reaching the house to save Chick on that memorable night a year before.
His examination was swift and convincingly competent. He went over the same ground that Hansen had covered, took the blood pressure and other instrumental data, and asked us several questions regarding Ariadne's mentality as we knew it. Scarcely stopping to think it over, Higgins decided:
“The young woman is suffering from a temporary dissociation of brain centres. Her cerebrum does not co-act with her cerebellum. In other words, her conscious mind, for lack of means to express itself, is for the time being dormant as in sleep.
“But it is not like ordinary sleep. Such is induced by fatigue of the nerve channels. This young woman's condition is produced by shock; and since there was no physical violence, we must conclude that the shock was psychic.
“In that case, the condition will last until one of two things occurs; either she must be similarly shocked back into sensibility—and I can't see how this can happen, Fenton, unless you can secure the co-operation of the man to whom you attribute the matter—or she must lie that way indefinitely.”
“Indefinitely!” I exclaimed, sensing something ominous. “You mean—”
“That there is no known method of reviving a patient in such a condition. It might be called psychic catalepsy. To speak plainly, Fenton, unless this man revives her, she will remain unconscious until her death.”
I shuddered. What horrible thing had come into our lives to afflict us with so dreadful a prospect?
“Is—is there no hope, Dr. Higgins?”
“Very little”—gently but decisively. “All I can assure you is that she will not die immediately. From the general state of her health, she will live at least seventy-two hours. After that—you must be prepared for the worst at any moment.”
I turned away quickly, so that he could not see my face. What an awful situation! Unless we could somehow lay hands on the Rhamda—
I hunted up Jerome. I said:
“Jerry, the thing is plainly up to you and me. Higgins gives us three days. Day after tomorrow morning, if we haven't got results by that time, we've got to give in and put that ad in the paper. But I don't mean to give in, Jerry! Not until I've exhausted every other possibility!”
“What're you going to do?” he asked thoughtfully.
“Work on that ring. I was a fool not to get busy sooner. As for the rest, that's up to you! You've got to get yourself on the Rhamda's trail as soon as you can, and camp there! The first chance you get, ransack his room and belongings, and bring me every bit of data you find. Between him and the ring, the truth ought to come out.”
“All right. But don't forget that—” pointing to the unexplained spot on the wood of the doorway. “You've got a mighty important clue there, waiting for you to analyse it.”
And he went and got his hat, and left the house. His final remark was that we wouldn't see him back until he had something to report about our man.
Five o'clock the next morning found my sister and me out of our beds and desperately busy. She spent a good deal of time, of course in caring for Ariadne. The poor girl showed no improvement at all; and we got scant encouragement from the fact that she looked no worse.
Not a sound escaped her lips; her eyes remained closed; she gave no sign of life, save her barely perceptible breathing. It made me sick at heart just to look at her; so near, and yet so fearfully far away.
But when Charlotte could spare any time she gave me considerable help in what I was trying to do. One great service she was rendering has already been made clear: she wore the ring constantly, thus relieving me of the anxiety of caring for it. I was very cautious not to have it in my possession for more than a few minutes at a time.
My first move was to set down, in orderly fashion, the list of the gem's attributes. I grouped together the fluctuating nature of its pale blue colour, its power of reproducing those who had gone into the Blind Spot, its combination of perfect solidity with extreme lightness; its quality of coldness to the touch of a male, and warmth to that of a female; and finally its ability to induct—I think this is the right term—to induct sounds out of the unknown. This last quality might be called spasmodic or accidental, whereas the others were permanent and constant.
Now, to this list I presently was able to add that the gem possessed no radioactive properties that I could detect with the usual means. It was only when I began dabbling in chemistry that I learned things.
By placing the gem inside a glass bell, and exhausting as much air as possible from around it, the way was cleared for introducing other forms of gases. Whereupon I discovered this:
The stone will absorb any given quantity of hydrogen gas.
In this respect it behaves analogously to that curious place on the door-frame. Only, it absorbs gas, no liquid; and not any gas, either—none but hydrogen.
Now, obviously this gem cannot truly absorb so much material, in the sense of retaining it as well. The simple test of weighing it afterwards proves this; for its weight remains the same in any circumstances.
Moreover, unlike the liquids which I poured into the wood and saw afterwards in the basement, the gas does not escape back into the air. I kept it under the Dell long enough to be sure of that. No; that hydrogen is, manifestly, translated into the Blind Spot.
Learning nothing further about the gem at that time, I proceeded to investigate the trim of the door. I began by trying to find out the precise thickness of that liquid-absorbing layer.
To do this I scraped off the “skin” of the air-darkened wood. This layer was .02 of an inch thick. And—that was the total amount of the active material!
I put these scrapings through a long list of experiments. They told me nothing valuable. I learned only one detail worth mentioning; if a fragment of the scrapings be brought near to the Holcomb gem—say, to within two inches—the scrapings will burst into flame. It is merely a bright, pinkish flare, like that made by smokeless rifle-powder. No ashes remain. After that we took care not to bring the ring near the remaining material on the board.
All this occurred on the first day after Ariadne was stricken. Jerome phoned to say that he had engaged the services of a dozen private detectives, and expected to get wind of the Rhamda any hour. Both Dr. Hansen and Dr. Higgins called twice, without being able to detect any change for the better or otherwise in their patient.
That evening Charlotte and I concluded that we could not hold out any longer. We must give in to the Rhamda. I phoned for a messenger, and sent an advertisement to the newspaper which Avec had indicated.
The thing was done. We had capitulated.
The next development would be another and triumphant call from the Rhamda, and this time we would have to give up the gem to him if we were to save Ariadne.
The game was up.
But instead of taking the matter philosophically, I worried about it all night. I told myself again and again that I was foolish to think about something that couldn't be helped. Why not forget it, and go to sleep?
But somehow I couldn't. I lay wide awake till long past midnight, finding myself growing more and more nervous. At last, such was the tension of it all, I got up and dressed. It was then about one-thirty, and I stepped out on the street for a walk.
Half an hour later I returned, my lungs full of fresh air, hoping that I could now sleep. It was only a hope. Never have I felt wider awake than I did then.
Once more—about three—I took another stroll outside. I seemed absolutely tireless.
Each time that I had turned back home I seemed to feel stronger than ever, more wakeful. Finally I dropped the idea altogether, went to the house, and left a note for Charlotte, then walked down to the waterfront and watched some ships taking advantage of the tide. Anything to pass the time.
And thus it happened, that, about eight o'clock—breakfast time at 288 Chatterton Place—I returned to the house, and sat down at the table with Charlotte. First, however, I opened the morning paper to read our little ad.
It was not there. It had not been printed.