Now to go back.
In due time we were both of us graduated from college. I went into the
law and Hobart into engineering. We were both successful. There was
not a thing to foreshadow that either of us was to be jerked from his
profession. There was no adventure, but lots of work and reward in
proportion.
Perhaps I was a bit more fortunate. I was in love and Hobart was still
a confirmed bachelor. It was a subject over which he was never done
joking. It was not my fault. I was innocent. If the blame ran anywhere
it would have to be placed upon that baby sister of his.
It happened as it happened since God first made the maiden. One autumn
Hobart and I started off for college. We left Charlotte at the gate a
girl of fifteen years and ten times as many angles. I pulled one of her
pigtails, kissed her, and told her I wanted her to get pretty. When we
came home next summer I went over to pull the other pigtail. I did not
pull it. I was met by the fairest young woman I had ever looked on. And
I could not kiss her. Seriously, was I to blame?
Now to the incident.
It was a night in September. Hobart had completed his affairs and had
booked passage to South America. He was to sail next morning. We had
dinner that day with his family, and then came up to San Francisco for
a last and farewell bachelor night. We could take in the opera together,
have supper at our favourite cafe, and then turn in. It was a long hark
back to our childhood; but for all that we were still boys together.
I remember that night. It was our favourite opera--“Faust.” It was the
one piece that we could agree on. Looking back since, I have wondered at
the coincidence. The old myth of age to youth and the subcurrent of sin
with its stalking, laughing, subtle Mephistopheles. It is strange that
we should have gone to this one opera on this one evening. I recall
our coming out of the theatre; our minds thrilling to the music and the
subtle weirdness of the theme.
A fog had fallen--one of those thick, heavy, grey mists that sometimes
come upon us in September. Into its sombre depths the crowd disappeared
like shadows. The lights upon the streets blurred yellow. At the cold
sheer contact we hesitated upon the pavement.
I had on a light overcoat. Hobart, bound for the tropics, had no such
protection. It was cold and miserable, a chill wind stirring from the
north was unusually cutting. Hobart raised his collar and dug his hands
into his pockets.
“Brr,” he muttered; “brr, some coffee or some wine. Something.”
The sidewalks were wet and slippery, the mists settling under the lights
had the effect of drizzle. I touched Hobart's arm and we started across
the street.
“Brr is right,” I answered, “and some wine. Notice the shadows, like
ghosts.”
We were half across the street before he answered; then he stopped.
“Ghosts! Did you say ghosts, Harry?” I noted a strange inflection in his
voice. He stood still and peered into the fog bank. His stop was sudden
and suggestive. Just then a passing taxicab almost caught us and we
were compelled to dodge quickly. Hobart ducked out of the way and I
side-stepped in another direction. We came up on the sidewalk. Again he
peered into the shadow.
“Confound that cab,” he was saying, “now we have gone and missed him.”
He took off his hat and then put it back on his head. His favourite
trick when bewildered. I looked up and down the street.
“Didn't you see him? Harry! Didn't you see him? It was Rhamda Avec!”
I had seen no one; that is to notice; I did not know the Rhamda. Neither
did he.
“The Rhamda? You don't know him.”
Hobart was puzzled.
“No,” he said; “I do not; but it was he, just as sure as I am a fat
man.”
I whistled. I recalled the tale that was now a legend. The man had an
affinity for the fog mist. To come out of “Faust” and to run into the
Rhamda! What was the connection? For a moment we both stood still and
waited.
“I wonder--” said Hobart. “I was just thinking about that fellow
tonight. Strange! Well, let's get something hot--some coffee.”
But it had given us something for discussion. Certainly it was unusual.
During the past few days I had been thinking of Dr. Holcomb; and for the
last few hours the tale had clung with reiterating persistence. Perhaps
it was the weirdness and the tremulous intoxication of the music. I was
one of the vast majority who disbelieved it. Was it possible that it
was, after all, other than the film of fancy? There are times when we
are receptive; at that moment I could have believed it.
We entered the cafe and chose a table slightly to the rear. It was
a contrast to the cold outside; the lights so bright, the glasses
clinking, laughter and music. A few young people were dancing. I sat
down; in a moment the lightness and jollity had stirred my blood. Hobart
took a chair opposite. The place was full of beauty. In the back of my
mind blurred the image of Rhamda. I had never seen him; but I had read
the description. I wondered absently at the persistence.
I have said that I do not believe in fate. I repeat it. Man should
control his own destiny. A great man does. Perhaps that is it. I am not
great. Certainly it was circumstance.
In the back part of the room at one of the tables was a young man
sitting alone. Something caught my attention. Perhaps it was his
listlessness or the dreamy unconcern with which he watched the dancers;
or it may have been the utter forlornness of his expression. I noted his
unusual pallor and his cast of dissipation, also the continual working
of his long, lean fingers. There are certain set fixtures in the night
life of any city. But this was not one. He was not an habitue. There was
a certain greatness to his loneliness and his isolation. I wondered.
Just then he looked up. By a mere coincidence our eyes met. He smiled,
a weak smile and a forlorn one, and it seemed to me rather pitiful. Then
as suddenly his glance wandered to the door behind me. Perhaps there
was something in my expression that caught Hobart's attention. He turned
about.
“Say, Harry, who is that fellow? I know that face, I'm certain.”
“Come to think I have seen him myself. I wonder--”
The young man looked up again. The same weary smile. He nodded. And
again he glanced over my shoulder toward the door. His face suddenly
hardened.
“He knows us at any rate,” I ventured.
Now Hobart was sitting with his face toward the entrance. He could see
anyone coming or going. Following the young man's glance he looked over
my shoulder. He suddenly reached over and took me by the forearm.
“Don't look round,” he warned; “take it easy. As I said--on my honour as
a fat man.”
The very words foretold. I could not but risk a glance. Across the room
a man was coming down the aisle--a tall man, dark, and of a very decided
manner. I had read his description many times; I had seen his likeness
drawn by certain sketch artists of the city. They did not do him
justice. He had a wonderful way and presence--you might say, magnetism.
I noticed the furtive wondering glances that were cast, especially by
the women. He was a handsome man beyond denying, about the handsomest I
had ever seen. The same elusiveness.
At first I would have sworn him to be near sixty; the next minute I was
just as certain of his youth. There was something about him that could
not be put to paper, be it strength, force or vitality; he was subtle.
His step was prim and distinctive, light as shadow, in one hand
he carried the red case that was so often mentioned. I breathed an
exclamation.
Hobart nodded.
“Am I a fat man? The famous Rhamda! What say! Ah, ha! He has business
with our wan friend yonder. See!”
And it was so. He took a chair opposite the wan one. The young man
straightened. His face was even more familiar, but I could not place
him. His lips were set; in their grim line--determination; whatever his
exhaustion there was still a will. Somehow one had a respect for this
weak one; he was not a mere weakling. Yet I was not so sure that he
was not afraid of the Rhamda. He spoke to the waiter. The Rhamda began
talking. I noted the poise in his manner; it was not evil, rather was it
calm--and calculating. He made an indication. The young man drew back.
He smiled; it was feeble and weary, but for all of that disdainful.
Though one had a pity for his forlornness, there was still an
admiration. The waiter brought glasses.
The young man swallowed his drink at a gulp, the other picked his up and
sipped it. Again he made the indication. The youth dropped his hand upon
the table, a pale blue light followed the movement of his fingers. The
older man pointed. So that was their contention? A jewel? After all our
phantom was material enough to desire possession; his solicitude was
calmness, but for all that aggression. I could sense a battle, but the
young man turned the jewel to the palm side of his fingers; he shook his
head.
The Rhamda drew up. For a moment he waited. Was it for surrender? Once
he started to speak, but was cut short by the other. For all of his
weakness there was spirit to the young man. He even laughed. The Rhamda
drew out a watch. He held up two fingers. I heard Hobart mumble.
“Two minutes. Well, I'm betting on the young one. Too much soul. He's
not dead; just weary.”
He was right. At exactly one hundred and twenty seconds the Rhamda
closed his watch. He spoke something. Again the young man laughed.
He lit a cigarette; from the flicker and jerk of the flame he was
trembling. But he was still emphatic. The other rose from the table,
walked down the aisle and out of the building. The youth spread out both
arms and dropped his head upon the table.
It was a little drama enacted almost in silence. Hobart and I exchanged
glances. The mere glimpse of the Rhamda had brought us both back to the
Blind Spot. Was there any connection? Who was the young man with the
life sapped out? I had a recollection of a face strangely familiar.
Hobart interrupted my thoughts.
“I'd give just about one leg for the gist of that conversation. That was
the Rhamda; but who is the other ghost?”
“Do you think it has to do with the Blind Spot?”
“I don't think,” averred Hobart. “I know. Wonder what's the time.” He
glanced at his watch. “Eleven thirty.”
Just here the young man at the table raised up his head. The cigarette
was still between his fingers; he puffed lamely for a minute, taking a
dull note of his surroundings. In the well of gaiety and laughter coming
from all parts of the room his actions were out of place. He seemed
dazed; unable to pull himself together. Suddenly he looked at us. He
started.
“He certainly knows us,” I said. “I wonder--by George, he's coming
over.”
Even his step was feeble. There was exertion about every move of his
body, the wanness and effort of vanished vitality; he balanced himself
carefully. Slowly, slowly, line by line his features became familiar,
the underlines of another, the ghost of one departed. At first I could
not place him. He held himself up for breath. Who was he? Then it
suddenly came to me--back to the old days at college--an athlete, one of
the best of fellows, one of the sturdiest of men! He had come to this!
Hobart was before me.
“By all the things that are holy!” he exclaimed. “Chick Watson! Here,
have a seat. In the name of Heavens, Chick! What on earth--”
The other dropped feebly into the chair. The body that had once been so
powerful was a skeleton. His coat was a disguise of padding.
“Hello, Hobart; hello, Harry,” he spoke in a whisper. “Not much like the
old Chick, am I? First thing, I'll take some brandy.”
It was almost tragic. I glanced at Hobart and nodded to the waiter.
Could it be Chick Watson? I had seen him a year before, hale, healthy,
prosperous. And here he was--a wreck!
“No,” he muttered, “I'm not sick--not sick. Lord, boys, it's good to
meet you. I just thought I would come out for this one last night, hear
some music, see a pretty face, perhaps meet a friend. But I am afraid--”
He dropped off like one suddenly drifting into slumber.
“Hustle that waiter,” I said to Hobart. “Hurry that brandy.”
The stimulant seemed to revive him. He lifted up suddenly. There was
fear in his eyes; then on seeing himself among friends--relief. He
turned to me.
“Think I'm sick, don't you?” he asked.
“You certainly are,” I answered.
“Well, I'm not.”
For a moment silence. I glanced at Hobart. Hobart nodded.
“You're just about in line for a doctor, Chick, old boy,” I said. “I'm
going to see that you have one. Bed for you, and the care of mother--”
He started; he seemed to jerk himself together.
“That's it, Harry; that's what I wanted. It's so hard for me to think.
Mother, mother! That's why I came downtown. I wanted a friend. I have
something for you to give to mother.”
“Rats,” I said. “I'll take you to her. What are you talking about?”
But he shook his head.
“I wish that you were telling the truth, Harry. But it's no use--not
after tonight. All the doctors in the world could not save me. I'm not
sick, boys, far from it.”
Hobart spoke up.
“What is it, Chick? I have a suspicion. Am I right?”
Chick looked up; he closed his eyes.
“All right, Hobart, what's your suspicion?”
Fenton leaned over. It seemed to me that he was peering into the other's
soul. He touched his forearm.
“Chick, old boy, I think I know. But tell me. Am I right? It's the Blind
Spot.”
At the words Watson opened his eyes; they were full of hope and wonder,
for a moment, and then, as suddenly of a great despair. His body went to
a heap. His voice was feeble.
“Yes,” he answered, “I am dying--of the Blind Spot”