“I think it has, Miss Holcomb. And I can understand poor Chick. He is a
very brave man. It's a strange jewel and of terrible potency; that much
I know. It devitalises; it destroys. I can feel it already. It covers
life with a fog of decay. The same solitude has come upon myself.
Nevertheless I am certain it has much to do with the Blind Spot. It is a
key of some sort. The very interest of the Rhamda and the Nervina tells
us that. I think it was through this stone that your father made his
discovery.”
She thought a moment.
“Hadn't you better return it? While you still have health? If you keep
it, it will be only one more.”
“You forget, Miss Holcomb, my promise to Chick. I loved your father,
and I was fond of Watson. It's a great secret and, if the professor is
right, one which man has sought through the ages. I'd be a coward to
forgo my duty. If I fail, I have another to take my place.”
“Oh,” she said, “it's horrible. First father; then Chick; now you; and
afterwards it will be Mr. Fenton.”
“It is our duty,” I returned. “One by one. Though we may fail, each one
of us may pass a bit more on to his successor. In the end we win. It is
the way of man.”
I had my way. She turned over all the data and notes that had been
left by the professor; but I never found a thing in them that could be
construed to an advantage. My real quest was to trace down the jewel.
The man Kennedy's full name was, I learned, Budge Kennedy. He had lived
in Oakland. It was late in the afternoon when I parted with Miss Holcomb
and started for the city.
I remember it well because of a little incident that occurred
immediately after our parting. I was just going down the steps when I
looked up one of the side streets. A few students were loitering here
and there. But there was one who was not a student. I recognised him
instantly, and I wondered. It was the Rhamda. This was enough to make
me suspicious. But there was one thing more. Farther up the street was
another figure.
When I came down the steps the Rhamda moved, and his move was somehow
duplicated by the other. In itself this was enough to clear up some of
my doubts concerning the phantom. His actions were too simple for an
apparition. Only a man would act like that, and a crude one. I didn't
know then the nerve of the Rhamda. There was no doubt that I was being
shadowed.
To make certain, I took the by-streets and meandered by a devious route
to the station. There was no question; one and two they followed. I knew
the Rhamda; but who was the other?
At the station we purchased tickets, and when the train pulled in I
boarded a smoker. The other two took another coach--the stranger was a
thick-set individual with a stubby, grey moustache. On the boat I didn't
see them; but at the ferry building I made a test to see that I was
followed. I hailed a taxi and gave specific instructions to the driver.
“Drive slowly,” I told him. “I think we shall be followed.”
And I was right; in a few minutes there were two cars dogging our
wheel-tracks. I had no doubt concerning the Rhamda; but I couldn't
understand the other. At No. 288 Chatterton Place we stopped and I
alighted. The Rhamda's car passed, then the other. Neither stopped. Both
disappeared round the corner. I took the numbers; then I went into the
house. In about a half hour a car drew up at the curb. I stepped to
the window. It was the car that had tracked the Rhamda's. The stubby
individual stepped out; without ceremony he ran up the steps and opened
the door. It was a bit disconcerting, I think, for both. He was plain
and blunt--and honest.
“Well,” he said, “where's Watson? Who are you? What do you want?”
“That,” I answered, “is a question for both of us. Who are you, and what
do you want? Where is Watson?”
Just then his eyes dropped and his glance fell and eyes widened.
“My name is Jerome,” he said simply. “Has something happened to Watson?
Who are you?”
We were standing in the library; I made an indication towards the other
room. “In there,” I said. “My name is Wendel.”
He took off his hat and ran the back of his hand across his forehead.
“So that pair got him, too! I was afraid of them all the while. And I
had to be away. Do you know how they did it? What's the working of their
game? It's devilish and certainly clever. They played that boy for a
year; they knew they would get him in the end. So did I.
“He was a fine lad, a fine lad. I knew this morning when I came down
from Nevada that they had him. Found your duds. A stranger. House looked
queer. But I had hopes he might have gone over to see his girl. Just
thought I'd wander over to Berkeley. Found that bird Rhamda under a palm
tree watching the Holcomb bungalow. It was the first time I'd seen
him since that day things went amiss with the professor. In about ten
minutes you came out. I stayed with him while he tracked you back here;
I followed him back down town and lost him. Tell me about Watson.”
He sat down; during my recital he spoke not a word. He consumed one
cigar after another; when I stopped for a moment he merely nodded his
head and waited until I continued. He was sturdy and frank, of an iron
way and vast common sense. I liked him. When I had finished he remained
silent; his grief was of a solid kind! he had liked poor Watson.
“I see,” he said. “It is as I thought. He told you more than he ever
told me.”
“He never told you?”
“Not much. He was a strange lad--about the loneliest one I've ever seen.
There was something about him from the very first that was not natural;
I couldn't make him out. You say it is the ring. He always wore it.
I laid it to this Rhamda. He was always meeting him. I could never
understand it. Try as I would, I could not get a trace of the phantom.”
“The phantom?”
“Most assuredly. Would you call him human?” His grey eyes were flecked
with light. “Come now, Mr. Wendel, would you?”
“Well,” I answered, “I don't know. Not after what I have seen. But for
all that, I have proof of his sinews. I am inclined to blend the
two. There is a law somewhere, a very natural one. The Blind Spot is
undoubtedly a combination of phenomena; it has a control. We do not know
what it is, or where it leads to; neither do we know the motive of the
Rhamda. Who is he? If we knew that, we would know everything.”
“And this ring?”
“I shall wear it.”
“Then God help you. I watched Watson. It's plain poison. You have a
year; but you had better count on half a year; the first six months
aren't so bad; but the last--it takes a man! Wendel, it takes a man!
Already you're eating your heart out. Oh, I know--you have opened the
windows; you want sunshine and air. In six months I shall have to fight
to get one open. It gets into the soul; it is stagnation; you die by
inches. Better give me the ring.”
“This Budge Kennedy,” I evaded, “we must find him. We have time. One
clue may lead us on. Tell me what you know of the Blind Spot.”
“Very easy,” he answered; “you have it all. I have been here a number of
years. You will remember I fell into the case through intuition. I never
had any definite proof, outside the professor's disappearance, the
old lady, and that bell; unless perhaps it is the Rhamda. But from the
beginning I've been positive.
“Taking that lecture in ethics as a starter, I built up my theory.
All the clues lead to this building. It's something that I cannot
understand. It's out of the occult. It's a bit too much for me. I moved
into the place and waited. I've never forgotten that bell, nor that old
lady. You and Fenton are the only ones who have seen the Blind Spot.”