“Yes.”
“Did your father ever speak of the reason for this partition in the
cellar?”
“He never knew of one. It was none of his business. He was merely a
labourer, and did what he was paid for.”
“Do you know who built it?”
“Some old guy. He was a cranky cuss with side-whiskers. He used to wear
a stove-pipe hat. I think he was a chemist. Whenever he showed up he
would run us kids out of the building. I think he was a bachelor.”
This was all the information he could give, but it was a great deal.
Certainly it was more than I had hoped for. The house had been built
by a chemist; even in the construction there was mystery. I had never
thought of a second cellar; when I had explored the building I had taken
the stone wall for granted. It was so with Jerome. It was the first
definite clue that really brought us down to earth. What had this
chemist to do with the phenomena?
After all, behind everything was lurking the mind of man.
We hastened back to the house and into the cellar. By merely sounding
along the wall we discovered the door; it was cleverly constructed and
for a time defied our efforts; but Jerome got it open by means of a
jemmy and a pick. The outside was a clever piece of sham work shaped
like stone and smeared over with cement. In the dim light we had missed
it.
We had high expectations. But we were disappointed. The space contained
nothing; it was smeared with cobwebs and hairy mould; but outside of a
few empty bottles and the gloomy darkness there was nothing. We tapped
the walls and floor and ceiling. Beyond all doubt the place once held
a secret; if it held it still, it was cleverly hidden. After an hour or
two of search we returned to the upper part of the building.
Jerome was not discouraged.
“We're on the right track, Mr. Wendel; if we can only get started.
I have an idea. The chemist--it was in 'ninety-one--that's more than
twenty years.”
“What is your idea?”
“The Rhamda. What is the first thing that strikes you? His age. With
everyone that sees him it's the same. At first you take him for an old
man; if you study him long enough, you are positive that he is in his
twenties. May he not be this chemist?”
“What becomes of the doctor and his Blind Spot?”
“The Blind Spot,” answered Jerome, “is merely a part of the chemistry.”
Next day I hunted up a jeweller. I was careful to choose one with whom I
was acquainted. I asked for a private consultation. When we were alone I
took the ring from my finger.
“Just an opinion,” I asked. “You know gems. Can you tell me anything
about this one?”
He picked it up casually, and turned it over; his mouth puckered. For a
minute he studied.
“That? Well, now.” He held it up. “Humph. Wait a minute.”
“Is it a gem?”
“I think it is. At first I thought I knew it right off; but now--wait a
minute.”
He reached in the drawer for his glass. He held the stone up for some
minutes. His face was a study; queer little wrinkles twisting from the
corners of his eyes told his wonder. He did not speak; merely turned
the stone round and round. At last he removed his glass and held up the
ring. He was quizzical.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“That is something I do not care to answer. I wish to know what it is.
Is it a gem? If so, what kind?”
He thought a moment and shook his head.
“I thought I knew every gem on earth. But I don't. This is a new one.
It is beautiful--just a moment.” He stepped to the door. In a moment
another man stepped in. The jeweller motioned towards the ring. The man
picked it up and again came the examination. At last he laid the glass
and ring both upon the table.
“What do you make of it, Henry?” asked the jeweller.
“Not me,” answered the second one. “I never saw one like it.”
It was as Watson had said. No man had ever identified the jewel. The two
men were puzzled; they were interested. The jeweller turned to me.
“Would you care to leave it with us for a bit; you have no objection to
us taking it out of the ring?”
I had not thought of that. I had business down the street. I consulted
my watch.
“In half an hour I shall be back. Will that be enough time?”
“I think so.”
It was an hour before I returned. The assistant was standing at the door
of the office. He spoke something to the one inside and then made an
indication to myself. He seemed excited; when I came closer I noted that
his face was full of wonder.
“We've been waiting,” said he. “We didn't examine the stone; it wasn't
necessary. It is truly wonderful.” He was a short, squat man with a
massive forehead. “Just step inside.”
Inside the office the jeweller was sitting beside a table; he was
leaning back in his chair; he had his hands clasped over his stomach. He
was gazing toward the ceiling; his face was a study, full of wonder and
speculation.
“Well?” I asked.
For an answer he merely raised his finger, pointed towards the ceiling.
“Up there,” he spoke. “Your jewel or whatever it is. A good thing we
weren't in open air. 'Twould be going yet.”
I looked up. Sure enough, against the ceiling was the gem. It was a bit
disconcerting, though I will confess that in the first moment I did not
catch the full significance.
The jeweller closed one eye and studied first myself and then the
beautiful thing against the ceiling.
“What do you make of it?” he asked.
Really I had not made anything; it was a bit of a shock; I hadn't
grasped the full impossibility. I didn't answer.
“Don't you see, Mr. Wendel? Impossible! Contrary to nature! Lighter than
air. We took it out of the ring and it shot out like a bullet. Thought
I'd dropped it. Began looking on the floor. Couldn't find it; looked up
and saw Reynolds, here, with his eyes popping out like marbles. He was
looking at the ceiling.”