Was it a dream? The next I knew somebody was dousing water down my neck.
It was Hobart Fenton. “Lord,” he was saying, “I thought you were never
coming to. What hit us? You are pretty well cut up. That was some fight.
This Rhamda, who is he? Can you figure him out? Did you hear that bell?
What was it?”
I sat up. “Where is the Nervina?” I asked. “The who?” He was bewildered.
“Oh, down at the cafe, I suppose. Thought you had forgotten her. Wasn't
her mate enough? It might be healthy to forget his Nervina.”
He was a fine sight; his clothes were in ribbons; his plump figure was
breaking out at the seams. He regarded me critically.
“What d'you think of the Blind Spot?” he asked. “Who is the Rhamda? He
put us out pretty easily.”
“But the girl?” I interrupted. “The girl? Confound it, the girl?”
It was sometime before I could make him understand; even then he refused
to believe me.
“It was all a dream,” he said; “all a dream.”
But I was certain.
Fenton began prodding about the room. I do not believe any apartment was
ever so thoroughly ransacked. We even tore up the carpet. When we were
through he sat in the midst of the debris and wiped his forehead.
“It's no use, Harry--no use. We might have known better. It can't be
done. Yet you say you saw a string of incandescence.”
“A single string; the form of Watson; a blur--then nothing,” I answered.
He thought. He quoted the professor:
“'Out of the occult I shall bring you the proof and the substance. It
will be concrete--within the reach of your senses.' Isn't that what the
doctor said?”
“Then you believe Professor Holcomb?”
“Why not? Didn't we see it? I know a deal of material science; but
nothing like this. I always had faith in Dr. Holcomb. After all, it's
not impossible. First we must go over the house thoroughly.”
We did. Most of all, we were interested in that bell. We did not think,
either of us, that so much noise could come out of nothing. It was too
material. The other we could credit to the occult; but not the sound. It
had drowned our consciousness; perhaps it had saved us from the Rhamda.
But we found nothing. We went over the house systematically. It was much
as it had been previously described, only now a bit more furnished. The
same dank, musty smell and the same suggestive silence. We returned to
the lower floor and the library. It was a sorry sight. We straightened
up the shelves and returned the books to their places.
It was getting along toward morning. Hobart sailed at nine o'clock. We
must have new clothing and some coffee; likewise we must collect our
wits. I had the ring, and had given my pledge to Watson. I was muddled.
We must get down to sane action. First of all we must return to our
rooms.
The fog had grown thicker; one could almost taste it. I couldn't
suppress a shudder. It was cold, dank, repressive. Neither of us spoke
a word on our way downtown. Hobart opened the door to our apartment; he
turned on the lights.
In a few moments we had hot, steaming cups of coffee. Still we did not
speak. Hobart sat in his chair, his elbows on the table and his head
between his hands. My thoughts ran back to that day in college when he
said “I was just thinking, Harry, if I had one hundred thousand dollars,
I would solve the Blind Spot.”
That was long ago. We had neither of us thought that we would come to
the fact.
“Well,” I spoke, “have you got that hundred thousand dollars? You had an
idea once.”
He looked up. “I've got it yet. I am not certain. It is merely a theory.
But it's not impossible.”
“Well, what is it?”
He took another drink of coffee and settled back in his chair.
“It is energy, Harry--force. Nothing but energy--and Nature.”
“Then it's not occult?” I asked.
“Certainly it is. I didn't say that. It is what the professor promised.
Something concrete for our senses. If the occult is, it can certainly be
proven. The professor was right. It is energy, force, vibration. It has
a law. The old doctor was caught somehow. We must watch our step and
see that we aren't swallowed up also. Perhaps we shall go the way of
Watson.”