XXV. — AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR
I dropped the paper in dismay. Charlotte looked up, startled, gave me a single look, and turned pale,
“What—what's the matter?” she stammered fearfully.
I showed her. Then I ran to the phone. In a few seconds I was talking to the very man who had taken the note from the messenger the day before.
“Yes, I handed it in along with the rest,” he replied to my excited query. Then—“Wait a minute,” said he; and a moment later added: “Say, Mr. Fenton, I've made a mistake! Here's the darned ad on the counter; it must have slipped under the blotter.”
I went back and told Charlotte. We stared at one another blankly. Why in the name of all that was baffling had our ad “slipped” under that blotter? And what were we to do?
This was the second day!
Well, we did what we could. We arranged for the insertion of the same notice in each of the three afternoon papers. There would still be time for the Rhamda to act, if he saw it.
The hours dragged by. Never did time pass more slowly; and yet, I begrudged every one. So much for being absolutely helpless.
About ten o'clock the next morning—that is to say, today; I am writing this the same evening—the front door bell rang. Charlotte answered and in a moment came back with a card. It read:
SIR HENRY HODGES
I nearly upset the table in my excitement. I ran into the hall. Who wouldn't? Sir Henry Hodges! The English scientist about whom the whole world was talking! The most gifted investigator of the day; the most widely informed; of all men on the face of the globe, the best equipped, mentally, to explore the unknown! Without the slightest formality I grabbed his hand and shook it until he smiled at my enthusiasm.
“My dear Sir Henry,” I told him, “I'm immensely glad to see you! The truth is, I've been hoping you'd be interested in our case; but I didn't have the nerve to bother you with it!”
“And I,” he admitted in his quiet way, “have been longing to take a hand in it, ever since I first heard of Professor Holcomb's disappearance. Didn't like to offer myself; understood that the matter had been hushed up and—”
“For the very simple reason,” I explained, “that there was nothing to be gained by publicity. If we had given the public the facts, we would have been swamped with volunteers to help us. I didn't know whom to confide in, Sir Henry; couldn't make up my mind. I only knew that one such man as yourself was just what I needed.”
He overlooked the compliment, and pulled out the newspaper from his pocket. “Bought this a few minutes ago. Saw your ad, and jumped to the conclusion that matters had reached an acute stage. Let me have the whole story, my boy, as briefly as you can.”
He already knew the published details. Also, he seemed to be acquainted—in some manner which puzzled me—with much that had not been printed. I sketched the affair as quickly as I could, making it clear that we were face to face with a crisis. When I wound up by saying that it was Dr. Higgins who gave Ariadne three days, ending about midnight, in which she might recover if we could secure Rhamda Avec, he said kindly:
“I'm afraid you made a mistake, my boy, in not seeking some help. The game has reached a point where you cannot have too many brains on your side. Time is short for reinforcements!”
He heartily approved of my course in enlisting the aid of Miss Clarke and her colleagues. “That is the sort of thing you need! People with mentality; plenty of intellectual force!” And he went on to make suggestions.
As a result, within an hour and a half our house was sheltering five more persons.
Miss Clarke has already been introduced. She was easily one of the ten most advanced practitioners in her line. And she had the advantage of a curiosity that was interested in everything odd, even though she labelled it “non-existent.” She said it helped her faith in the real truths to be conversant with the unreal.
Dr. Malloy was from the university, an out-and-out materialist, a psychologist who made life interesting for those who agreed with William James. His investigations of abnormal psychology are world-acknowledged.
Mme. Le Fabre, we afterwards learned, had come from Versailles especially to investigate the matter that was bothering us. She possessed no mediumistic properties of her own but was a staunch proponent of spiritualism, believing firmly in immortality and the omnipotence of “translated” souls.
Professor Herold is most widely known as the inventor of certain apparatus connected with wireless. But he is also considered the West's most advanced student of electrical and radio-active subjects.
I was enormously glad to have this man's expert, high-tension knowledge right on tap.
The remaining member of the quintet which Sir Henry advised me to summon requires a little explanation. Also, I am obliged to give him a name not his own; for it is not often that brigadier-generals of the United States army can openly lend their names to anything so far removed apparently from militarism as the searching of the occult.
Yet we knew that this man possessed a power that few scientists have developed; the power of co-ordination, of handling and balancing great facts and forces, and of deciding promptly how best to meet any given situation. Not that we looked for anything militaristic out of the Blind Spot; far from it. We merely knew not what to expect, which was exactly why we wanted to have him with us; his type of mind is, perhaps, the most solidly comforting sort that any mystery-bound person can have at his side.
By the time these five had gathered, Jerome had neither returned nor telephoned. There was not the slightest trace of Rhamda Avec; no guessing as to whether he had seen the ad. It was then one o'clock in the afternoon. Only six hours ago! It doesn't seem possible.
So there were eight of us—three women and five men—who went upstairs and quietly inspected the all but lifeless form of Ariadne and afterwards gathered in the library below.
All were thoroughly familiar with the situation. Miss Clarke calmly commented to the effect that the entire Blind Spot affair was due wholly and simply to the cumulative effects of so many, many subjects; the result, in other words, of error.
Dr. Malloy was equally outspoken in his announcement that he proposed to deal with the matter from the standpoint of psychic aberration. He mentioned dissociated personalities, group hypnosis, and so on. But he declared that he was open to conviction, and anxious to get any and all facts.
Sir Henry had a good deal of difficulty in getting Mme. Le Fabre to commit herself. Probably she felt that, since Sir Henry had gone on record as being doubtful of the spiritistic explanation of psychic phenomena, she might get into a controversy with him. But in the end she stated that she expected to find our little mystery simply a novel variation on what was so familiar to her.
As might be supposed, General Hume had no opinion. He merely expressed himself as being prepared to accept any sound theory, or portions of such theories as might be advanced, and arrive at a workable conclusion therefrom. Which was exactly what we wanted of him.
Of them all, Professor Herold showed the most enthusiasm. Perhaps this was because, despite his attainments, he is still young. At any rate, he made it clear that he was fully prepared to learn something entirely new in science. And he was almost eager to adjust his previous notions and facts to the new discoveries.
When all these various viewpoints had been cleared up, and we felt that we understood each other, it was inevitable that we should look to Sir Henry to state his position. This one man combined a large amount of the various, specialised abilities for which the others were noted, and they all knew and respected him accordingly. Had he stood and theorised half the afternoon, they would willingly have sat and listened. But instead he glanced at his watch, and observed:
“To me, the most important development of all was hearing the sound of a dog's bark coming from the ring. As I recall the details, the sound was emitted just after the gem had been submitted to considerable handling, from Miss Fenton's fingers to her brother's and back again. In other words, it was subjected to a mixture of opposing animal magnetisms. Suppose we experiment further with it now.”
Charlotte slipped the gem from her finger and passed it around. Each of us held it for a second or two; after which Charlotte clasped the ring tightly in her palm, while we all joined hands.
It was, as I have said, broad daylight; the hour, shortly after one. Scarcely had our hands completed the circuit than something happened.
From out of Charlotte's closed hand there issued an entirely new sound. At first it was so faint and fragmentary that only two of us heard it. Then it became stronger and more continuous, and presently we were all gazing at each other in wonderment.
For the sound was that of footsteps.
XXVI. — DIRECT FROM PARADISE
The sound was not like that of the walking of the human. Nor was it such as an animal would make. It was neither a thud nor a pattering, but more like a scratching shuffle, such as reminded me of nothing that I had ever heard before.
Next moment, however, there came another sort of sound, plainly audible above the footsteps. This was a thin, musical chuckle which ended in a deep, but faint, organ-like throb. It happened only once.
Immediately it was followed by a steady clicking, such as might be made by gently striking a stick against the pavement; only sharper. This lasted a minute, during which the other sounds ceased.
Once more the footsteps. They were not very loud, but in the stillness of that room they all but resounded.
Presently Charlotte could stand it no longer. She placed the ring on the table, where it continued to emit those unplaceable sounds.
“Well! Do—do you people,” stammered Dr. Malloy, “do you people all hear THAT?”
Miss Clarke's face was rather pale. But her mouth was firm. “It is nothing,” said she, with theosophical positiveness. “You must not believe it—it is not the truth of—”
“Pardon me,” interrupted Sir Henry, “but this isn't something to argue about! It is a reality; and the sooner we all admit it, the better. There is a living creature of some kind making that sound!”
“It is the spirit of some two-footed creature,” asserted Mme. Le Fabre, plainly at her ease. She was on familiar ground now. “If only we had a medium!”
Abruptly the sounds left the vicinity of the ring. At first we could not locate their new position. Then Herold declared that they came from under the table; and presently we were all gathered on the floor, listening to those odd little sounds, while the ring remained thirty inches above, on the top of the table!
It may be that the thing, whatever it was, did not care for such a crowd. For shortly the shuffling ceased. And for a while we stared and listened, scarcely breathing, trying to locate the new position.
Finally we went back to our chairs. We had heard nothing further. Nevertheless, we continued to keep silence, with our ears alert for anything more.
“Hush!” whispered Charlotte all of a sudden. “Did you hear that?” And she looked up toward the ceiling.
In a moment I caught the sound. It was exceedingly faint, like the distant thrumming of a zither. Only it was a single note, which did not rise and fall, although there seemed a continual variation in its volume.
Unexpectedly the other sounds came again, down under the table. This time we remained in our seats and simply listened. And presently Sir Henry, referring to the ring, made this suggestion:
“Suppose we seal it up, and see whether it inducts the sound then as well as when exposed.”
This appealed to Herold very strongly; the others were agreeable; so I ran upstairs to my room and secured a small screw-top metal canister, which I knew to be airtight. It was necessary to remove the stone from the ring, in order to get it into the opening in the can. Presently this was done; and while our invisible visitor continued his scratchy little walking as before, I screwed the top of the can down as tightly as I could.
Instantly the footsteps halted.
I unscrewed the top a trifle. As instantly the stepping was resumed.
“Ah!” cried Herold. “It's a question of radioactivity, then! Remember Le Bon's experiments, Sir Henry?”
But Miss Clarke was sorely mystified by this simple matter, and herself repeated the experiments. Equally puzzled was Mme. Le Fabre. According to her theory, a spirit wouldn't mind a little thing like a metal box. Of them all, Dr. Malloy was the least disturbed; so decidedly so that General Hume eyed him quizzically.
“Fine bunch of hallucinations, doctor.”
“Almost commonplace,” retorted Malloy.
Presently I mentioned that the Rhamda had come from the basement on the night that Ariadne had materialised; and I showed that the only possible route into the cellar was through the locked door in the breakfast room, since the windows were all too small, and there was no other door. Query: How had the Rhamda got there? Immediately they all became alert. As Herold said:
“One thing or the other is true; either there is something downstairs which has escaped you, Fenton, or else Avec is able to materialise in any place he chooses. Let's look!”
We all went down except Charlotte, who went upstairs to stay with Ariadne. By turns, each of us held the ring. And as we unlocked the basement door we noted that the invisible, walking creature had reached there before us.
Down the steps went those unseen little feet, jumping from one step to the next just ahead of us all the way. When within three or four steps of the bottom, the creature made one leap do for them all.
I had previously run an extension cord down into the basement, and both compartments could now be lighted by powerful electric lamps. We gave the place a quick examination.
“What's all this newly turned earth mean?” inquired Sir Henry, pointing to the result of Jerome's efforts a few months before. And I explained how he and Harry, on the chance the basement might contain some clue as to the localisation of the Blind Spot, had dug without result in the bluish clay.
Sir Henry picked up the spade, which had never been moved from where Jerome had dropped it. And while I went on to tell about the pool of liquids, which for some unknown reason had not seeped into the soil since forming there, the Englishman proceeded to dig vigorously into the heap I had mentioned.
The rest of us watched him thoughtfully. We remembered that Jerome's digging had been done after Queen's disappearance. And the dog had vanished in the rear room, the one in which Chick and Dr. Holcomb had last been seen. Now, when Jerome had dug the clay from the basement under this, the dining-room, he had thrown it through the once concealed opening in the partition; had thrown the clay, that is, in a small heap under the library. And—after Jerome had done this the phenomena had occurred in the library, not in the dining-room.
“By Jove!” ejaculated General Hume, as I pointed this out. “This may be something more, you know, that mere coincidence!”
Sir Henry said nothing, but continued his spading. He paid attention to nothing save the heap that Jerome had formed. And with each spadeful he bent over and examined the clay very carefully.
Miss Clarke and Mme. Le Fabre both remained very calm about it all. Each from her own viewpoint regarded the work as more or less a waste of time. But I noticed that they did not take their eyes from the spade.
Sir Henry stopped to rest. “Let me,” offered Herold; and went on as the Englishman had done, holding up each spadeful for inspection. And it was thus that we made a strange discovery.
We all saw it at the same time. Embedded in the bluish earth was a small, egg-shaped piece of light-coloured stone. And protruding from its upper surface was a tiny, blood-red pebble, no bigger than a good-sized shot.
Herold thrust the point of his spade under the stone, to lift it up. Whereupon he gave a queer exclamation.
“Well, that's funny!” holding the stone up in front of us. “That little thing's as heavy as—as—it's HEAVIER than lead!”
Sir Henry picked the stone off the spade. Immediately the material crumbled in his hands, as though rotting, so that it left only the small, red pebble intact. Sir Henry weighed this thoughtfully in his palm, then without a word handed it around.
We all wondered at the pebble. It was most astonishingly heavy. As I say, it was no bigger than a fair-sized shot, yet it was vastly heavier.
Afterward we weighed it, upstairs, and found that the trifle weighed over half a pound. Considering its very small bulk, this worked out to be a specific gravity of 192.6 or almost ten times as heavy as the same bulk of pure gold. And gold is heavy.
Inevitably we saw that there must be some connection between this unprecedentedly heavy speck of material and that lighter-than-air gem of mystery. For the time being we were careful to keep the two apart. As for the unexplained footsteps, they were still slightly audible, as the invisible creatures moved around the cellar.
At last we turned to go. I let the others lead the way. Thus I was the last to approach the steps; and it was at that moment that I felt something brush against my foot.
I stooped down. My hands collided with the thing that had touched me. And I found myself clutching—
Something invisible—something which, in that brilliant light, showed absolutely nothing to my eyes. But my hands told me I was grasping a very real thing, as real as my fingers themselves.
I made some sort of incoherent exclamation. The others turned and peered at me.
“What is it?” came Herold's excited voice.
“I don't know!” I gasped. “Come here.”
But Sir Henry was the first to reach me. Next instant he, too, was fingering the tiny, unseen object. And such was his iron nerve and superior self-control, he identified it almost at once.
“By the lord!”—softly. “Why, it's a small bird! Come here.”
Another second and they were all there. I was glad enough of it; for, like a flash, with an unexpectedness that startles me even now as I think of it—
The thing became visible. Right in my grasp, a little fluttering bird came to life.
XXVII. — SOLVED
It was a tiny thing, and most amazingly beautiful. It could not have stood as high as a canary; and had its feathers been made of gleaming silver they could not have been lovelier. And its black-plumed head, and long, blossom-like tail, were such as no man on earth ever set eyes on.
Like a flash it was gone. Not more than a half a second was this enchanting apparition visible to us. Before we could discern any more than I have mentioned, it not only vanished but it ceased to make any sounds whatever. And each of us drew a long breath, as one might after being given a glimpse of an angel.
Right now, five or six hours after the events I have just described, it is very easy for me to smile at my emotions of the time. How startled and mystified I was! And—why not confess it?—just a trifle afraid. Why? Because I didn't understand! Merely that.
At this moment I sit in my laboratory upstairs in that house, rejoicing in having reached the end of the mystery. For the enigma of the Blind Spot is no more. I have solved it!
Now twenty feet away, in another room, lies Ariadne. Already there is a faint trace of colour in her cheeks, and her heart is beating more strongly. Another hour, says Dr. Higgins, and she will be restored to us!
The time is seven p.m. I didn't sleep at all last night; I haven't slept since. For the past five hours we have been working steadily on the mystery, ever since our finding that little, red pebble in the basement. The last three hours of the time I have been treating Ariadne, using means which our discoveries indicated. And in order to keep awake I have been dictating this account to a stenographer.
This young lady, a Miss Dibble, is downstairs, where her typewriter will not bother. Yes, put that down, too, Miss Dibble; I want people to know everything! She has a telephone clamped to her ears, and I am talking into a microphone which is fixed to a stand on my desk.
On that desk are four switches. All are of the four-way two-pole type; and from them run several wires, some going to one end of the room, where they are attached to the Holcomb gem. Others, running to the opposite end, making contact with the tiny heavy stone we found in the basement. Other wires run from the switches to lead bands around my wrists. Also, between switches are several connections—one circuit containing an amplifying apparatus. By throwing these switches in various combinations, I can secure any given alteration of forces, and direct them where I choose.
For there are two other wires. These run from my own lead bracelets to another room; a pair clamped around the wrists of Ariadne.
For I, Hobart Fenton, am now a living, human transforming station. I am converting the power of the Infinite into the Energy of Life. And I am transmitting that power directly out of the ether, as conduced through these two marvellous stones, back into the nervous system of the girl I love. Another hour, and she will Exist!
It was all so very simple, now that I understand it. And yet—well, an absolutely new thing is always very hard to put into words.
To begin with, I must acknowledge the enormous help which I have had from my friends: Miss Clarke, Mme. Le Fabre, General Hume, Dr. Malloy, and Herold. These people are still in the house with me; I think they are eating supper. I've already had mine. Really, I can't take much credit to myself for what I have found out. The others supplied most of the facts. I merely happened to fit them together; and, because of my relationship to the problem, am now doing the heroic end of the work.
As for Harry—he and Dr. Holcomb, Chick Watson and even the dog—I shall have them out of the Blind Spot inside of twelve hours. All I need is a little rest. I'll go straight to bed as soon as I finish reviving Ariadne; and when I wake up, we'll see who's who, friend Rhamda!
I'm too exuberant to hold myself down to the job of telling what I've discovered. But it's got to be done. Here goes!
I practically took my life in my hands when I first made connection. However, I observed the precaution of rigging up a primary connection direct from the ring to the pebble, running the wire along the floor some distance away from where I sat. No ill effects when I ventured into the line of force; so I began to experiment with the switches.
That precautionary circuit was Herold's idea. His, also, the amplifying apparatus. The mental attitude was Miss Clarke's, modified by Dr. Malloy. The lead bracelets were Mme. Le Fabre's suggestion; they work fine. Sir Henry was the one who pointed out the advantage of the microphone I am using. If my hands become paralysed I can easily call for help to my side.
Well, the first connection I tried resulted in nothing. Perfectly blank. Then I tried another and another, meanwhile continually adjusting the amplifier; and as a result I am now able, at will, to do either or all of the following:
(1) I can induct sounds from the Blind Spot; (2) I can induct light, or visibility; or (3) any given object or person, in toto.
And now to tell how. No, I'm just sleepy, not weak.
Let's see; where was I? Oh, yes; those connections. They've got to be done just right, with the proper tension in the coils, and the correct mental attitude, to harmonise. I wish I wasn't so tired!
One moment! No, no; I'm all right. I—Queer! By Jove, that's a funny thing just now! I must have got an inducted current from another wire, mixed with these! And—I got a glimpse into the Blind Spot!
A great—No; it's a—What a terrific crowd! Wonder what they're all—By Jove, it's—Good Lord, it's he! And Chick! No, I'm not wandering! I'm having the experience of my life!
Now—THAT'S the boy! Don't let 'em bluff you! Good! Good! Tell 'em where to head in! That's the boy! Rub it in! I don't know what you're up to, but I'm with you!
Er—there's a big crowd of ugly looking chaps there, and I can't make it out—Just a moment—a moment. What does it mean, anyway? Just—I—
DANGER, by Heaven! THAT'S what it means!
No; I'm all right. The—thing came to an end, abruptly. That's all; everything normal again; the room just the same as it was a moment ago. Hello! I seem to have started something! The wire down on the floor has commenced to hum! Oh, I've got my eye on it, and if anything—
Miss Dibble! Tell Herold to come! On the run! Quick! Did you? Good! don't stop writing! I—
There's Chick! CHICK! How did you get here? What? YOU CAN'T SEE ME! Why—
Chick! Listen! Listen, man! I've gone into the Blind Spot! Write this down! The connection—
That's Herold! Herold, this is Chick Watson! Listen, now, you two! The—the—I can hardly—it's from No. 4 to—to—to the ring—then—coil—
Both switches, Chick! Ah! I've—
NOTE BY MISS L. DIBBLE.—Just as Mr. Fenton made the concluding remark as above, there came a loud crash, followed by the voice of Mr. Herold. Then, there came a very loud clang from a bell; just one stroke. After which I caught Mr. Fenton's voice:
“Herold—Chick can tell you what IT wants us to do—”
And with that, his voice trailed off into nothing, and died away. As for Mr. Fenton himself, I am informed that he has utterly disappeared; and in his stead there now exists a man who is known to Dr. Hansen as Chick Watson.
XXVIII. — THE MAN FROM SPACE
Before starting the conclusion of the Blind Spot mystery it may be just as well for the two publicists who are bringing it to the press to follow Hobart Fenton's example and go into a bit of explanation.
The two men who wrote the first two parts were participants, and necessarily writing almost in the present tense. While they could give an accurate and vivid account of their feelings and experiences, they could only guess at what lay in the future, at the events that would unravel it all.
But the present writers have the advantage of working, of seeing, of weighing in the retrospect. They know just where they are going.
The coming of Chick Watson brought new perspective. Hitherto we had been looking into the darkness. Whatever had been caught in the focus of the Spot had become lost to our five senses.
Yet, facts are facts. It was no mere trickery that had caught Dr. Holcomb in the beginning. One by one, men of the highest standards and character had been either victims or witness to its reality and power.
So the coming of Watson may well be set down as one of the deciding moments of history. He who had been the victim a year before was returning through the very Spot that had engulfed him. He was the herald of the great unknown, an ambassador of the infinite itself.
It will be remembered that of all the inmates of the house, Dr. Hansen was the only one who had a personal acquaintance with Watson. One year before the doctor had seen him a shadow—wasted, worn, exhausted. He had talked with him on that memorable night in the cafe. Well he remembered the incident, and the subject of that strange conversation—the secret of life that had been discovered by the missing Dr. Holcomb. And Dr. Hansen had pondered it often since.
What was the force that was pulsing through the Blind Spot? It had reached out on the earth, and had plucked up youth as well as wisdom. THIS was the first time it had ever given up that which it had taken!
It was Watson, sure enough; but it was not the man he had known one year before. Except for the basic features Hansen would not have recognized him; the shadow was gone, the pallor, the touch of death. He was hale and radiant; his skin had the pink glow of alert fitness; except for being dazed, he appeared perfectly natural. In the tense moment of his arrival the little group waited in silence. What had he to tell them?
But he did not see them at first. He groped about blindly, moving slowly and holding his hands before him. His face was calm and settled; its lines told decision. There was not a question in any mind present but that the man had come for a purpose.
Why could he not see? Perhaps the light was too dim. Some one thought to turn on the extra lights.
It brought the first word from Watson. He threw up both arms before his face; like one shutting out the lightning.
“Don't!” he begged. “Don't! Shut off the lights; you will blind me! Please; please! Darken the room!”
Sir Henry sprang to the switch. Instantly the place went to shadow; there was just enough light from the moon to distinguish the several forms grouped in the middle of the room. Dr. Hansen proffered a chair.
“Thank you! Ah! Dr. Hansen! You are here—I had thought—This is much better! I can see fairly well now. You came very near to blinding me permanently! You didn't know. It's the transition.” Then: “And yet—of course! It's the moon! THE MOON!”
He stopped. There was a strange wistfulness in the last word. And suddenly he rose to his feet. He turned in gladness, as though to drink in the mellow flow of the radiance.
“The moon! Gentlemen—doctor—who are these people? This is the house of the Blind Spot! And it is the moon—the good old earth! And San Francisco!”
He stopped again. There was a bit of indecision and of wonder mixed with his gladness. The stillness was only broken by the scarcely audible voice of Mme. Le Fabre.
“Now we KNOW! It is proven. The sceptics have always asked why the spirits work only in the half light. We know now.”
Watson looked to Dr. Hansen. “Who is this lady? Who are these others?”
“Can you see them?”
“Perfectly. It is the lady in the corner; she thinks—”
“That you are a spirit!”
Watson laughed. “I a spirit? Try me and see!”
“Certainly,” asserted Mme. Le Fabre. “You are out of the Blind Spot. I know; it will prove everything!”
“Ah, yes; the Spot.” Watson hesitated. Again the indecision. There was something latent that he could not recall; though conscious, part of his mind was still in the apparent fog that lingers back into slumber.
“I don't understand,” he spoke. “Who are you?”
It was Sir Henry this time. “Mr. Watson, we are a sort of committee. This is the house at 288 Chatterton Place. We are after the great secret that was discovered by Dr. Holcomb. We were summoned by Hobart Fenton.”
Consciousness is an enigma. Hitherto Watson had been almost inert; his actions and manner of speech had been mechanical. That it was the natural result of the strange force that had thrown him out, no one doubted. The mention of Hobart Fenton jerked him into the full vigour of wide-awake thinking; he straightened himself.
“Hobart! Hobart Fenton! Where is he?”
“That we do not know,” answered Sir Henry. “He was here a moment ago. It is almost too impossible for belief. Perhaps you can tell us.”
“You mean—”
“Exactly. Into the Blind Spot. One and the other; your coming was coincident with his going!”
Chick raised up. Even in that faint light they could appreciate the full vigour of his splendid form. He was even more of an athlete than in his college days, before the Blind Spot took him. And when he realised what Sir Henry had said he held up one magnificent arm, almost in the manner of benediction:
“Hobart has gone through? Thank Heaven for that!”
It was a puzzle. True, in that little group there was represented the accumulated wisdom of human effort. With the possible exception of the general, there was not a sceptic among them. They were ready to explain almost anything—but this.
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 the 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.