“NOW THERE ARE TWO”
The rest of the story is unfortunately all too easily told. We go back
to Jerome and his strange companion.
At Centre Street station they alighted and walked up to the university.
Under the Le Conte oaks they met the professor. He was trim and happy,
his short, well-built figure clothed in black, his snow-white whiskers
trimmed to the usual square crop and his pink skin glowing with splendid
health. The fog had by this time lifted and the sun was just beginning
to overcome the chilliness of the air. There was no necessity for an
introduction.
The two men apparently recognised each other at once. So we have it from
the detective. There was sincerity in the delight of their hand-clasp. A
strange pair, both of them with the distinction and poise that come
from refinement and intellectual training; though in physique they were
almost opposite, there was still a strange, almost mutual, bond between
them. Dr. Holcomb was beaming.
“At last!” he greeted. “At last! I was sure we could not fail. This, my
dear Dr. Avec, is the greatest day since Columbus.”
The other took the hand.
“So this is the great Dr. Holcomb. Yes, indeed, it is a great day;
though I know nothing about your Columbus. So far it has been simply
wonderful. I can scarcely credit my senses. So near and yet so far. How
can it be? A dream? Are you sure, Dr. Holcomb?”
“My dear Rhamda, I am sure that I am the happiest man that ever lived.
It is the culmination. I was certain we could not fail; though, of
course, to me also it is an almost impossible climax of fact. I should
never have succeeded without your assistance.”
The other smiled.
“That was of small account, my dear doctor. To yourself must go the
credit; to me the pleasure. Take your sun, for instance, I--but I have
not the language to tell you.”
But the doctor had gone in to abstraction.
“A great day,” he was beaming. “A great day! What will the world say? It
is proved.” Then suddenly: “You have eaten?”
“Not yet. You must allow me a bit of time. I thought of it; but I had
not quite the courage to venture.”
“Then we shall eat,” said the other man. “Afterward we shall go up to
the lecture-room. Today I shall deliver my lecture on the Blind Spot.
And when I am through you shall deliver the words that will astonish the
world.”
But here it seems there was a hitch. The other shook his head kindly.
It was evident that while the doctor was the leader, the other was a
co-worker who must be considered.
“I am afraid, professor, that you have promised a bit too much. I am not
entirely free yet, you know. Two hours is the most that I can give you;
and not entirely that. There are some details that may not be neglected.
It is a far venture and now that we have succeeded this far there is
surely no reason why we cannot go on. However, it is necessary that I
return to the house on Chatterton Place. I have but slightly over an
hour left.”
The doctor was plainly disappointed.
“But the lecture?”
“It means my life, professor, and the subsequent success of our
experiment. A few details, a few minutes. Perhaps if we hurry we can get
back in time.”
The doctor glanced at his watch. “Twenty minutes for the train, twenty
minutes for the boat, ten minutes; that's an hour, two hours. These
details? Have you any idea how long, Rhamda?”
“Perhaps not more than fifteen minutes.”
“We have still two hours. Fifteen minutes; perhaps a little bit late.
Tell you what. I shall go with you. You can get on the boat.”
We have said that the detective had intuition. He had it still. Yet
he had no rational reason for suspecting either the professor or his
strange companion. Furthermore he had never heard of the Blind Spot
in any way whatsoever; nor did he know a single thing of philosophy
or anything else in Holcomb's teaching. He knew the doctor as a man
of eminent standing and respectability. It was hardly natural that he
should suspect anything sinister to grow out of this meeting of two
refined scholars. He attached no great importance to the trend of their
conversation. It was strange, to be sure; but he felt, no doubt, that
living in their own world they had a way and a language of their own. He
was no scholar.
Still, he could think. The man Rhamda had made an assertion that he
could not quite uncover. It puzzled him. Something told him that for the
safety of his old friend it might be well for him to shadow the strange
pair to the city.
When the next train pulled out for the pier the two scholars were
seated in the forward part of the car. In the last seat was a man deeply
immersed in a morning paper.
It is rather unfortunate. In the natural delicacy of the situation
Jerome could not crowd too closely. He had no certainty of trouble; no
proof whatever; he was known to the professor. The best he could do was
to keep aloof and follow their movements. At the ferry building they
hailed a taxi and started up Market Street. Jerome watched them. In
another moment he had another driver and was winding behind in their
wheel tracks. The cab made straight for Chatterton Place. In front of a
substantial two-story house it drew up. The two men alighted. Jerome's
taxi passed them.
They were then at the head of the steps; a woman of slender beauty
with a wonderful loose fold of black hair was talking. It seemed to the
detective that her voice was fearful, of a pregnant warning, that she
was protesting. Nevertheless, the old men entered and the door slammed
behind them. Jerome slipped from the taxi and spoke a few words to
the driver. A moment later the two men were holding the house under
surveillance.
They did not have long to wait. The man called Rhamda had asked for
fifteen minutes. At the stroke of the second the front door re-opened.
Someone was laughing; a melodious enchanting laugh and feminine. A woman
was speaking. And then there were two forms in the doorway. A man and
a woman. The man was Rhamda Avec, tall, immaculate, black clad and
distinguished. The woman, Jerome was not certain that she was the
same who opened the door or not; she was even more beautiful. She
was laughing. Like her companion she was clad in black, a beautiful
shimmering material which sparkled in the sun like the rarest silk.
The man glanced carelessly up and down the street for a moment. Then he
assisted the lady down the steps and into the taxi. The door slammed;
and before the detective could gather his scattered wits they were lost
in the city.
Jerome was expecting the professor. Naturally when the door opened he
looked for the old gentleman and his companion. It was the doctor he was
watching, not the other. Though he had no rational reason for expecting
trouble he had still his hunch and his intuition. The man and woman
aroused suspicion; and likewise upset his calculation. He could not
follow them and stay with the professor. It was a moment for quick
decision. He wondered. Where was Dr. Holcomb? This was the day he was to
deliver his lecture on the Blind Spot. He had read the announcement in
the paper on the way back, together with certain comments by the editor.
In the lecture itself there was mystery. This strange one, Rhamda,
was mixed in the Blind Spot. Undoubtedly he was the essential fact and
substance. Until now he had not scented tragedy. Why had Rhamda and the
woman come out together? Where was the professor?
Where indeed?
At the end of a half-hour Jerome ventured across the street. He noted
the number 288. Then he ascended the steps and clanged at the knocker.
From the sounds that came from inside, the place was but partly
furnished. Hollow steps sounded down the hallway, shuffling, like weary
bones dragging slippers. The door opened and an old woman, very old,
peered out of the crack. She coughed. Though it was not a loud cough
it seemed to the detective that it would be her last one; there was so
little of her.
“Pardon me, but is Dr. Holcomb here?”
The old lady looked up at him. The eyes were of blank expressionless
blue; she was in her dotage.
“You mean--oh, yes, I think so, the old man with the white whiskers. He
was here a few minutes ago, with that other. But he just went out, sir,
he just went out.”
“No, I don't think so. There was a man went out and a woman. But not Dr.
Holcomb.”
“A woman? There was no woman.”
“Oh, yes, there was a woman--a very beautiful one.”
The old lady dropped her hand. It was trembling.
“Oh, dear,” she was saying. “This makes two. This morning it was a man
and now it is a woman, that makes two.”
It seemed to the man as he looked down in her eyes that he was looking
into great fear; she was so slight and frail and helpless and so old;
such a fragile thing to bear burden and trouble. Her voice was cracked
and just above a shrill whisper, almost uncanny. She kept repeating:
“Now there are two. Now there are two. That makes two. This morning
there was one. Now there are two.”
Jerome could not understand. He pitied the old lady.
“Did you say that Dr. Holcomb is here?”
Again she looked up: the same blank expression, she was evidently trying
to gather her wits.
“Two. A woman. Dr. Holcomb. Oh, yes, Dr. Holcomb. Won't you come in?”
She opened the door.
Jerome entered and took off his hat. Judicially he repeated the doctor's
name to keep it in her mind. She closed the door carefully and touched
his arm. It seemed to him that she was terribly weak and tottering; her
old eyes, however expressionless, were full of pitiful pleading. She was
scarcely more than a shadow.
“You are his son?”
Jerome lied; but he did it for a reason. “Yes.”
“Then come.”
She took him by the sleeve and led him to a room, then across it to a
door in the side wall. Her step was slow and feeble; twice she stopped
to sing the dirge of her wonder. “First a man and then a woman. Now
there is one. You are his son.” And twice she stopped and listened. “Do
you hear anything? A bell? I love to hear it: and then afterward I am
afraid. Did you ever notice a bell? It always makes you think of church
and the things that are holy. This is a beautiful bell--first--”
Either the woman was without her reason or very nearly so: she was very
frail.
“Come, mother, I know, first a bell, but Dr. Holcomb?”
The name brought her back again. For a moment she was blank trying to
recall her senses. And then she remembered. She pointed to the door.
“In there--Dr. Holcomb. That's where they come. That's where they
go. Dr. Holcomb. The little old man with the beautiful whiskers. This
morning it was a man; now it is a woman. Now there are two. Oh, dear;
perhaps we shall hear the bell.”
Jerome began to scent a tragedy. Certainly the old lady was uncanny; the
house was bare and hollow; the scant furniture was threadbare with
age and mildew; each sound was exaggerated and fearful, even their
breathing. He placed his hand on the knob and opened the door.
“Now there are two. Now there are two.”
The room was empty. Not a bit of furniture; a blank, bare apartment with
an old-fashioned high ceiling. Nothing else. Whatever the weirdness and
adventure, Jerome was getting nowhere. The old lady was still clinging
to his arm and still droning:
“Now there are two. Now there are two. This morning a man; now a woman.
Now there are two.”
“Come, mother, come. This will not do. Perhaps--”
But just then the old lady's lean fingers clinched into his arm; her
eyes grew bright; her mouth opened and she stopped in the middle of her
drone. Jerome grew rigid. And no wonder. From the middle of the room
not ten feet away came the tone of a bell, a great silvery voluminous
sound--and music. A church bell. Just one stroke, full toned, filling
all the air till the whole room was choked with music. Then as suddenly
it died out and faded into nothing. At the same time he felt the fingers
on his arm relax; and a heap was at his feet. He reached over. The life
and intelligence that was so near the line was just crossing over the
border. The poor old lady! Here was a tragedy he could not understand.
He stooped over to assist her. He was trembling. As he did so he heard
the drone of her soul as it wafted to the shadow:
“Now there are two.”