“NOW THERE ARE THREE”
I shall never forget that night. When we stepped to the pavement the
whole world was shrouded. The heavy fog clung like depression; life
was gone out--a foreboding of gloom and disaster. It was cold, dank,
miserable; one shuddered instinctively and battered against the wall
with steaming columns of breath. Just outside the door we were detained.
“Dr. Hansen?”
Someone stepped beside us.
“Dr. Hansen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A message, sir.”
The doctor made a gesture of impatience.
“Bother!” he spoke. “Bother! A message. Nothing in the world would stop
me! I cannot leave.”
Nevertheless he stepped back into the light.
“Just a minute, gentlemen.”
He tore open the envelope. Then he looked up at the messenger and then
at us. His face was startled--almost frightened.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I am sorry. Not a thing in the world would detain
me but this. I would go with you, but I may not. My duty as a physician.
I had hopes.” He came over to me and spoke softly. “I am going to send
you one of the greatest specialists in the city in my stead. This young
man should have attention. Have you the address?”
“288 Chatterton Place,” I answered.
“Very well. I am sorry, very much disappointed. However, it is
my daughter, and I cannot do otherwise. Continue the brandy for a
while--and this.” He slipped an envelope into my hand. “By that time Dr.
Higgins will be with you.”
“You think there is hope?” I asked.
“There's always hope,” replied the doctor.
I returned to my companions. They were walking slowly. It was work for
poor Watson. He dragged on, leaning on Hobart's arm. But at last he gave
up.
“No,” he said, “I can't make it. I'm too far gone. I had thought--Oh,
what a lapse it has been! I am eighty years of age; one year ago I was
a boy. If only I had some more brandy. I have some at the house. We must
make that. I must show you; there I can give you the details.”
“Hail a cab,” I said. “Here's one now.”
A few minutes later we were before the House of the Blind Spot. It was a
two storey drab affair, much like a thousand others, old-fashioned, and
might have been built in the early nineties. It had been outside of the
fire limits of 1906, and so had survived the great disaster. Chatterton
Place is really a short street running lengthwise along the summit of
the hill. A flight of stone steps descended to the pavement.
Watson straightened up with an effort.
“This is the house,” he spoke. “I came here a year ago. I go away
tonight. I had hoped to find it. I promised Bertha. I came alone. I had
reasons to believe I had solved it. I found the Rhamda and the Nervina.
I had iron will and courage--also strength. The Rhamda was never able
to control me. My life is gone but not my will. Now I have left him
another. Do not surrender, Harry. It is a gruesome task; but hold on
to the end. Help me up the steps. There now. Just wait a minute till I
fetch a stimulant.”
He did not ring for a servant. That I noticed. Instead he groped about
for a key, unlocked the door and stumbled into a room. He fumbled for a
minute among some glasses.
“Will you switch on a light?” he asked.
Hobart struck a match; when he found it he pressed the switch.
The room in which we were standing was a large one, fairly well
furnished, and lined on two sides with bookshelves; in the centre was an
oak table cluttered with papers, a couple of chairs, and on one of them,
a heavy pipe, which, somehow, I did not think of as Watson's. He noticed
my look.
“Jerome's,” he explained. “We live here--Jerome, the detective, and
myself. He has been here since the day of the doctor's disappearance. I
came here a year ago. He is in Nevada at present. That leaves me alone.
You will notice the books, mostly occult: partly mine, partly the
detective's. We have gone at it systematically from the beginning.
We have learned almost everything but what would help us. Mostly
sophistry--and guesswork. Beats all how much ink has been wasted to say
nothing. We were after the Blind Spot.”
“But what is it? Is it in this house?”
“I can answer one part of your question,” he answered, “but not the
other. It is here somewhere, in some place. Jerome is positive of that.
You remember the old lady? The one who died? Her actions were rather
positive even if feeble. She led Jerome to this next room.” He turned
and pointed; the door was open. I could see a sofa and a few chairs;
that was all.
“It was in here. The bell. Jerome never gets tired of telling. A church
bell. In the centre of the room. At first I didn't believe; but now I
accept it all. I know, but what I know is by intuition.”
“Sort of sixth sense?'
“Yes. Or foresight.”
“You never saw this bell nor found it? Never were able to arrive at an
explanation?”
“No.”
“How about the Rhamda? The Nervina? Do they come to this house?”
“Not often.”
“How do they come in? Through the window?”
He smiled rather sadly. “I don't know. At least they come. You shall see
them yourself. The Rhamda still has something to do with Dr. Holcomb.
Somehow his very concern tells me the doctor is safe. Undoubtedly
the professor made a great discovery. But he was not alone. He had
a co-worker--the Rhamda. For reasons of his own the Rhamda wishes to
control the Blind Spot.”
“Then the professor is in this Blind Spot?”
“We think so. At least it is our conjecture. We do not know.”
“Then you don't think it trickery?”
“No, hardly. Harry, you know better than that. Can you imagine the great
doctor the dupe of a mere trickster? The professor was a man of great
science and was blessed with an almighty sound head. But he had one
weakness.”
Hobart spoke up.
“What is it, Chick? I think I know what you mean. The old boy was
honest?”
“Exactly. He had been a scholar all his life. He taught ethics. He
believed in right. He practised his creed. When he came to the crucial
experiment he found himself dealing with a rogue. The Rhamda helped him
just so far; but once he had the professor in his power it was not his
purpose to release him until he was secure of the Blind Spot.”
“I see,” I spoke. “The man is a villain. I think we can handle him.”
But Watson shook his head.
“That's just it, Harry! The man! If he were a man I could have handled
him in short order. That's what I thought at first. Don't make any
mistake. Don't try violence. That's the whole crux of the difficulty. If
he were only a man! Unfortunately, he is not.”
“Not a man!” I exclaimed. “What do you mean? Then, what is he?”
“He is a phantom.”
I glanced at Hobart and caught his eye. Hobart believed him! The poor
pallid face of Watson, the athlete; there was nothing left to him but
his soul! I shall not forget Watson as he sat there, his lean, long
fingers grasping the brandy glass, his eyes burning and his life holding
back from the pit through sheer will and courage. Would I come to this?
Would I have the strength to measure up to his standard?
Hobart broke the tension.
“Chick's right. There is something in it, Harry. Not all the secrets of
the universe have been unlocked by any means. Now, Chick, about details.
Have you any data--any notes?”
Watson rose. I could see he was grateful.
“You believe me, don't you, Hobart? It is good. I had hoped to find
someone, and I found you two. Harry, remember what I have told you. Hold
the ring. You take my place. Whatever happens, stick out to the end. You
have Hobart here to help you. Now just a minute. The library is here;
you can look over my books. I shall return in a moment.”
He stepped out into the hall; we could hear his weary feet dragging down
the hallway--a hollow sound and a bit uncanny. Somehow my mind rambled
back to that account I had read in the newspaper--Jerome's story--“Like
weary bones dragging slippers.” And the old lady. Who was she? Why was
everyone in this house pulled down to exhaustion--the words of the
old lady, I could almost hear them; the dank air murmuring their
recollection. “Now there are two. Now there are two!”
“What's the matter, Harry?”
Perhaps I was frightened. I do not know. I looked around. The sound of
Watson's footsteps had died away; there was a light in the back of the
building coming toward us.
“Nothing! Only--damn this place, Hobart. Don't you notice it? It's
enough to eat your heart out.”
“Rather interesting,” said Hobart. It was too interesting for me. I
stepped over to the shelves and looked at the titles. Sanskrit and
Greek; German and French--the Vedas, Sir Oliver Lodge, Besant, Spinoza,
a conglomeration of all ages and tongues; a range of metaphysics that
was as wide as Babel, and about as enlightening. As Babel? Over my
shoulders came the strangest sound of all, weak, piping, tremulous,
fearful--“Now there are two. Now there are two.” My heart gave a fearful
leap. “Soon there will be three! Soon--”
I turned suddenly about. I had a fearful thought. I looked at Hobart.
A strange, insidious fear clutched at me. Was the thought intrinsic? If
not, where had it come from? Three? I strained my ears to hear Watson's
footsteps. He was in the back part of the building. I must have some
air.
“I'm going to open the door, Hobart,” I spoke. “The front door, and look
out into the street.”
“Don't blame you much. Feel a bit that way myself. About time for Dr.
Higgins. Here comes Chick again. Take a look outside and see if the doc
is coming.”
I opened the door and looked out into the dripping fog bank. What a pair
of fools we were! We both knew it, and we were both seeking an excuse.
In the next room through the curtains I could see the weak form of
Watson; he was bearing a light.
Suddenly the light went out.
I was at high tension; the mere fact of the light was nothing, but it
meant a world at that moment--a strange sound--a struggle--then the
words of Watson--Chick Watson's:
“Harry! Harry! Hobart! Harry! Come here! It's the Blind Spot!”
It was in the next room. The despair of that call is unforgettable, like
that of one suddenly falling into space. Then the light dropped to the
floor. I could see the outlines of his figure and a weird, single string
of incandescence. Hobart turned and I leaped. It was a blur, the form
of a man melting into nothing. I sprang into the room, tearing down the
curtains. Hobart was on top of me. But we were too late. I could
feel the vibrancy of something uncanny as I rushed across the space
intervening. Through my mind darted the thrill of terror. It had come
suddenly, and in climax. It was over before it had commenced. The light
had gone out. Only by the gleam from the other room could we make out
each others' faces. The air was vibrant, magnetic. There was no Watson.
But we could hear his voice. Dim and fearful, coming down the corridors
of time.
“Hold that ring, Harry! Hold that ring!” Then the faint despair out of
the weary distance, faint, but a whole volume:
“The Blind Spot!”
It was over as quickly as that. The whole thing climaxed into an
instant. It is difficult to describe. One cannot always analyse
sensations. Mine, I am afraid, were muddled. A thousand insistent
thoughts clashed through my brain. Horror, wonder, doubt! I have only
one persistent and predominating recollection. The old lady! I could
almost feel her coming out of the shadows. There was sadness and pity;
out of the stillness and the corners. What had been the dirge of her
sorrow?
“NOW THERE ARE THREE!”
X