I was a bit ashamed. I had hoped. I had counted upon myself. I
had trusted in the full strength of my individuality. I had been
healthy--strong--full blooded. On the fullness of vitality one would
live forever. There is no tomorrow. It was not a year ago. I was eighty.
It had been so with Watson. What was this subtle thing that ate into
one's marrow? I had read of banshees, lemures and leprechauns; they were
the ghosts and the fairies of ignorance but they were not like this. It
was impersonal, hidden, inexorable. It was mystery. And I believed that
it was Nature.
I know it now. Even as I write I can sense the potency of the force
about me. Some law, some principle, some force that science has not
uncovered.
What is that law that shall bridge the chaos between the mystic and the
substantial? I am standing on the bridge; and I cannot see it. What is
the great law that was discovered by Dr. Holcomb? Who is the Rhamda? Who
is the Nervina?
Jerome has not returned. I cannot understand it. It has been a week. I
am living on brandy--not much of anything else--I am waiting for Fenton.
I have taken all my elaborations and notes and put them together.
Perhaps I--
(This is the last of the strange document left by Harry Wendel. The
following memorandum is written by Charlotte Fenton.)