Jerome was a strong man, of iron nerve, and well set against emotion;
in the run of his experience he had been plumped into many startling
situations; but none like this. The croon of the old lady thrummed in
his ears with endless repetition. He picked her up tenderly and bore her
to another room and placed her on a ragged sofa. There were still marks
on her face of former beauty. He wondered who she was and what had been
her life to come to such an ending.
“Now there are two,” the words were withering with oppression.
Subconsciously he felt the load that crushed her spirit. It was as if
the burden had been shifted; he sensed the weight of an unaccountable
disaster.
The place was musty and ill-lighted. He looked about him, the dank,
close air was unwashed by daylight. A stray ray of sunshine filtering
through the broken shutter slanted across the room and sought vainly
to dispel the shadow. He thought of Dr. Holcomb and the old lady.
“Now there are two.” Was it a double tragedy? First of all he must
investigate.
The place was of eleven rooms, six downstairs and five on the upper
story. With the exception of one broken chair there was no furniture
upstairs; four of the rooms on the lower floor were partly furnished,
two not at all. A rear room had evidently been to the old lady the
whole of her habitation, serving as a kitchen, bedroom, and living-room
combined. Except in this room there were no carpets what-ever. His steps
sounded hollow and ghostly; the boards creaked and each time he opened
a door he was oppressed by the same gloom of dankness and stagnation.
There was no trace of Dr. Holcomb.
He remembered the bell and sought vainly on both floors for anything
that would give him a clue to the sound. There was nothing. The only
thing he heard was the echoing of his own creaking footsteps and the
unceasing tune that dinned in his spirit, “Now there are two.”
At last he came to the door and looked out into the street. The sun
was shining and the life and pulse was rising from the city. It was
daylight; plain, healthy day. It was good to look at. On the threshold
of the door he felt himself standing on the border of two worlds. What
had become of the doctor and who was the old lady; and lastly and just
as important, who was the Rhamda and his beautiful companion?
Jerome telephoned to headquarters.
It was a strange case.
At the precise minute when his would-be auditors were beginning to
fidget over his absence, the police of San Francisco had started the
search for the great doctor. Jerome had followed his intuition. It had
led him into a tragedy and he was ready to swear almost on his soul
that it was twofold. The prominence of the professor, together with his
startling announcement of the day previous and the world-wide comment
that it had aroused, elevated the case to a national interest.
What was the Blind Spot? The world conjectured, and like the world has
been since beginning, it scoffed and derided. Some there were, however,
men well up in the latest discoveries of science, who did not laugh.
They counselled forbearance; they would wait for the doctor and his
lecture.
There was no lecture. In the teeth of our expectation came the startling
word that the doctor had disappeared. Apparently when on the very verge
of announcing his discovery he had been swallowed by the very force that
he had loosened. There was nothing in known science outside of optics,
that could in any way be blended with the Blind Spot. There were but two
solutions; either the professor had been a victim of a clever rogue, or
he had been overcome by the rashness of his own wisdom. At any rate, it
was known from that minute on as “THE BLIND SPOT.”
Perhaps it is just as well to take up the findings of the police. The
police of course never entertained any suggestion of the occult. They
are material; and were convinced from the start that the case had its
origin in downright villainy. Man is complex; but being so, is oft
overbalanced by evil Some genius had made a fool of the doctor.
In the first place a thorough search was made for the professor. The
house at No. 288 Chatterton Place was ransacked from cellar to attic.
The records were gone over and it was found that the property had for
some time been vacant; that the real ownership was vested in a number of
heirs scattered about the country.
The old lady had apparently been living on the place simply through
sufferance. No one could find out who she was. A few tradesman in the
vicinity had sold her some scant supplies and that was all. The stress
that Jerome placed upon her actions and words was; given its due
account. There were undoubtedly two villains; but there were two
victims. That the old lady was such as well as the professor no one has
doubted. The whole secret lay in the gentleman with the Eastern cast and
complexion. Who was Rhamda Avec?
And now comes the strangest part of the story. Ever, when we re-count
the tale, there is something to overturn the theories of the police.
It has become a sort of legend in San Francisco; one to be taken with
a grain of salt, to be sure, but for all that, one at which we may well
wonder. Here the supporters of the professor's philosophy hold their
strongest point--if it is true. Of course we can venture no private
opinion, never having been a witness. It is this:
Rhamda Avec is with us and in our city. His description and drawn
likeness have been published many times. There are those who aver that
they have seen him in reality of the flesh walking through the crowds of
Market Street.
He is easily distinguished, tall and distinctive, refined to a high
degree, and with the poise and alertness of a gentleman of reliance and
character. Women look twice and wonder; he is neither old nor young;
when he smiles it is like youth breaking in laughter. And with him often
is his beautiful companion.
Men vouch for her beauty and swear that it is of the kind that drives to
distraction. She is fire and flesh and carnal--she is more than beauty.
There is allurement about her body; sylph-like, sinuous; the olive
tint of her complexion, the wonderful glory of her hair and the glowing
night-black of her eyes. Men pause; she is of the superlative kind that
robs the reason, a supreme glory of passion and life and beauty, at
whose feet fools and wise men would slavishly frolic and folly. She
seldom speaks, but those who have heard her say that it is like rippling
water, of gentleness and softness and of the mellow flow that comes from
love and passion and from beauty.
Of course there is nothing out of the ordinary in their walking down the
streets. Anybody might do that. The wonder comes in the manner in which
they elude the police. They come and go in the broad, bright daylight.
Hundreds have seen them. They make no effort at concealment, nor
disguise. And yet no phantoms were ever more unreal than they to those
who seek them. Who are they? The officers have been summoned on many
occasions; but each and every time in some manner or way they had
contrived to elude them. There are some who have consigned them to the
limbo of illusion. But we do not entirely agree.
In a case like this it is well to take into consideration the
respectability and character of those who have witnessed. Phantoms are
not corporeal; these two are flesh and blood. There is mystery about
them; but they are substance, the same as we are.
And lastly:
If you will take the Key Route ferry some foggy morning you may see
something to convince you. It must be foggy and the air must be grey and
drab and sombre. Take the lower deck. Perhaps you will see nothing. If
not try again; for they say you shall be rewarded. Watch the forward
part of the boat; but do not leave the inner deck. The great Rhamda
watching the grey swirl of the water!
He stands alone, in his hands the case of reddish leather, his feet
slightly apart and his face full of a great hungry wonder. Watch his
features: they are strong and aglow with a great and wondrous wisdom;
mark if you see evil. And remember. Though he is like you he is
something vastly different. He is flesh and blood; but perhaps the
master of one of the greatest laws that man can attain to. He is the
fact and the substance that was promised, but was not delivered by the
professor.
This account has been largely taken from one of the Sunday editions of
our papers. I do not agree with it entirely. Nevertheless, it will serve
as an excellent foundation for my own adventures; and what is best of
all, save labour.
V