Looking back over what has just been written, I am sensible of a
profound gratitude. I am grateful, both because I have been given the
privilege of relating these events, and because I shall not have to
leave this wilderness of facts for someone else to explain.
Really, if I did not know that I shall have the pleasure of piecing
together these phenomena and of setting my finger upon the comparatively
simple explanation; if I had to go away and leave this account
unfinished, a mere collection of curiosity-provoking mysteries, I should
not speak at all. I should leave the whole affair for another to finish,
as it ought to be finished.
All of which, it will soon appear, I am setting forth largely in order
to brace and strengthen myself against what I must now relate.
Before resuming, however, I should mention one detail which Harry was
too modest to mention. He was--or is--unusually good-looking. I don't
mean to claim that he possessed any Greek-god beauty; such wouldn't gibe
with a height of five foot seven. No; his good looks were due to the
simple outward expression, through his features, of a certain noble
inward quality which would have made the homeliest face attractive.
Selfishness will spoil the handsomest features; unselfishness will
glorify.
Moreover, simply because he had given his word to Chick Watson that he
would wear the ring, Harry took upon himself the most dangerous task
that any man could assume, and he had lost. But had he known in advance
exactly what was going to happen to him, he would have stuck to his
word, anyhow. And since there was a sporting risk attached to it, since
the thing was not perfectly sure to end tragically, he probably enjoyed
the greater part of his experience.
But I'm not like that. Frankly, I'm an opportunist; essentially, a
practical sort of fellow. I have a great admiration for idealists, but
a much greater admiration for results. For instance, I have seldom given
my word, even though the matter is unimportant; for I will cheerfully
break my word if, later on, it should develop that the keeping of my
word would do more harm than good.
I realise perfectly well that it is dangerous ground to tread upon; yet
I must refer the reader to what I have accomplished in this world, as
proof that my philosophy is not as bad as it looks.
I beg nobody's pardon for talking about myself so much at the outset.
This account will be utterly incomprehensible if I am not understood. My
method of solving the Blind Spot mystery is, when analysed, merely the
expression of my personality. My sole idea has been to get RESULTS.
As Harry has put it, a proposition must be reduced to concrete form
before I will have anything to do with it. If the Blind Spot had been
a totally occult affair, demanding that the investigation be conducted
under cover of darkness, surrounded by black velvet, crystal spheres and
incense; demanding the aid of a clairvoyant or other “medium,” I should
never have gone near it. But as soon as the mystery began to manifest
itself in terms that I could understand, appreciate and measure, then I
took interest.
That is why old Professor Holcomb appealed to me; he had proposed that
we prove the occult by physical means. “Reduce it to the scope of our
five senses,” he had said, in effect. From that moment on I was his
disciple.
I have told of hearing that sharp, welcoming bark, emitted either from
the gem or from the air surrounding it. This event took place on the
front porch of the house at 288 Chatterton Place, as Charlotte and I sat
there talking it over. We had taken a suite at the hotel, but had come
to the house of the Blind Spot in order to decide upon a course of
action. And, in a way, that mysterious barking decided it for us.
We returned to the hotel, and gave notice that we would leave the next
day. Next, we began to make preparations for moving into the Chatterton
Place dwelling.
That afternoon, while in the midst of giving orders for furnishings and
the like, there at the hotel, I was called to the telephone. It was from
a point outside the building.
“Mr. Fenton?”--in a man's voice. And when I had assured him; “You have
no reason to recognise my voice. I am--Rhamda Avec.”
“The Rhamda! What do you want?”
“To speak with your sister, Mr. Fenton.” Odd how very agreeable the
man's tones! “Will you kindly call her to the telephone?”
I saw no objection. However, when Charlotte came to my side I whispered
for her to keep the man waiting while I darted out into the corridor and
slipped downstairs, where the girl at the switchboard put an instrument
into the circuit for me. Money talks. However--
“My dear child,” the voice of Avec was saying, “you do me an injustice.
I have nothing but your welfare at heart. I assure you that if anything
should happen to you and your brother while at Chatterton Place, it will
be through no fault of mine.
“At the same time I can positively assure you that, if you stay away
from there, no harm will come to either of you; absolutely none! I can
guarantee that. Don't ask me why; but, if you value your safety, stay
where you are, or go elsewhere, anywhere other than to the house in
Chatterton Place.”
“I can hardly agree with you, Mr. Avec.” Plainly Charlotte was deeply
impressed with the man's sincerity and earnestness. “My brother's
judgment is so much better than mine, that I--” and she paused
regretfully.
“I only wish,” with his remarkable gracefulness, “that your intuition
were as strong as your loyalty to your brother. If it were, you would
know that I speak the truth when I say that I have only your welfare at
heart.”
“I--I am sorry, Mr. Avec.”
“Fortunately, there is one alternative,” even more agreeable than
before. “If you prefer not to take my advice, but cling to your
brother's decision, you can still avoid the consequences of his
determination to live in that house. As I say, I cannot prevent harm
from befalling you, under present conditions; but these conditions
can be completely altered if you will make a single concession, Miss
Fenton.”
“What is it?” eagerly.
“That you give me the ring!”
He paused for a very tense second. I wished I could see his peculiar,
young-old face--the face with the inscrutable eyes; the face that urged,
rather than inspired, both curiosity and confidence.
Then he added:
“I know why you wear it; I realise that the trinket carries some very
tender associations. And I would never ask such a concession did I not
know, were your beloved here at this moment, he would endorse every word
that I say, and--”
“Harry!” cried Charlotte, her voice shaking. “He would tell me to give
it to you?”
“I am sure of it! It is as though he, through me, were urging you to do
this!”
For some moments there was silence. Charlotte must have been
tremendously impressed. It certainly was amazing the degree of
confidence that Avec's voice induced. I wouldn't have been greatly
surprised had my sister--
“Mr. Avec,” came Charlotte's voice, hesitatingly, almost sorrowfully.
“I--I would like to believe you; but--but Harry himself gave me the
ring, and I feel--oh, I'm sure that my brother would never agree to it!”
“I understand.” Somehow the fellow managed to conceal any disappointment
he may have felt. He contrived to show only a deep sympathy for
Charlotte as he finished: “If I find it possible to protect you, I
shall, Miss Fenton.”
After it was all over, and I returned to the rooms, Charlotte and
I concluded that it might have been better had we made some sort of
compromise. If we had made a partial concession, he might have told us
something of the mystery. We ought to have bargained. We decided that if
he made any attempt to carry out what I felt sure were merely a thinly
veiled threat to punish us for keeping the gem, we must not only be
ready for whatever he might do, but try to trap and keep him as well.
That same day found us back at Chatterton Place. Inside, there was
altogether too much evidence that the place had been bachelors'
quarters.
The first step was to clean up. We hired lots of help, and made a quick
thorough job of both floors. The basement we left untouched. And the
next day we put a force of painters and decorators to work; whereby
hangs the tale.
“Mr. Fenton,” called the head painter, as he varnished the “trim” in the
parlour, “I wish you'd come and see what to make of this.”
I stepped into the front room. He was pointing to the long piece of
finish which spanned the doorway leading into the dining-room. And he
indicated a spot almost in the exact middle, a spot covering a space
about five inches broad and as high as the width of the wood. In outline
it was roughly octagonal.
“I've been trying my best,” stated Johnson, “to varnish that spot for
the past five minutes. But I'll be darned if I can do it!”
And he showed what he meant. Every other part of the door glistened
with freshly applied varnish; but the octagonal region remained dull, as
though no liquid had ever touched it. Johnson dipped his brush into the
can, and applied a liberal smear of the fluid to the place. Instantly
the stuff disappeared.
“Blamed porous piece of wood,” eyeing me queerly. “Or--do you think it's
merely porous, Mr. Fenton?”
For answer I took a brush and repeatedly daubed the place. It was like
dropping ink on a blotter. The wood sucked up the varnish as a desert
might suck up water.
“There's about a quart of varnish in the wood already,” observed
Johnson, as I stared and pondered. “Suppose we take it down and weigh
it?”
Inside of a minute we had that piece of trim down from its place. First,
I carefully examined the timber framework behind, expecting to see
traces of the varnish where, presumably, it had seeped through. There
was no sign. Then I inspected the reverse side of the finish, just
behind the peculiar spot. I thought I might see a region of wide open
pores in the grain of the pine. But the back looked exactly the same as
the front, with no difference in the grain at any place.
Placing the finish right side up, I proceeded to daub the spot some
more. There was no change in the results. At last I took the can, and
without stopping, poured a quart and a half of the fluid into that
paradoxical little area.
“Well I'll be darned!”--very loudly from Johnson. But when I looked up I
saw his face was white, and his lips shaking.
His nerves were all a-jangle. To give his mind a rest, I sent him for a
hatchet. When he came back his face had regained its colour. I directed
him to hold the pine upright, while I, with a single stroke, sank the
tool into the end of the wood.
It split part way. A jerk, and the wood fell in two halves.
“Well?” from Johnson, blankly.
“Perfectly normal wood, apparently.” I had to admit that it was
impossible to distinguish the material which constituted the peculiar
spot from that which surrounded it.
I sent Johnson after more varnish. Also, I secured several other fluids,
including water, milk, ink, and machine oil. And when the painter
returned we proceeded with a very thorough test indeed.
Presently it became clear that we were dealing with a phenomenon of the
Blind Spot. All told, we poured about nine pints of liquid into an area
of about twenty square inches; all on the outer surface, for the
split side would absorb nothing. And to all appearances we might have
continued to pour indefinitely.
Ten minutes later I went down into the basement to dispose of some
rubbish. (Charlotte didn't know of this defection in our housekeeping.)
It was bright sunlight outside. Thanks to the basement windows, I needed
no artificial luminant. And when my gaze rested upon the ground directly
under the parlour, I saw something there that I most certainly had never
noticed before.
The fact is, the basement at 288 Chatterton Place never did possess
anything worthy of special notice. Except for the partition which
Harry Wendel and Jerome, the detective, were the first in years to
penetrate--except for that secret doorway, there was nothing down there
to attract attention. To be sure, there was a quantity of up-turned
earth, the result of Jerome's vigorous efforts to see whether or not
there was any connection between the Blind Spot phenomena which he had
witnessed and the cellar. He had secured nothing but an appetite for all
his digging.
However, it was still too dark for me to identify what I saw at once. I
stood for a few moments, accustoming my eyes to the light. Except that
the thing gleamed oddly like a piece of glass, and that it possessed
a nearly circular outline about two feet across, I couldn't tell much
about it.
Then I stooped and examined it closely. At once I became conscious of a
smell which, somehow, I had hitherto not noticed. Small wonder; it
was as indescribable a smell as one could imagine. It seemed to be a
combination of several that are not generally combined.
Next instant it flashed upon me that the predominating odour was a
familiar one. I had been smelling it, in fact, all the morning.
But this did not prevent me from feeling very queer, indeed, as I
realised what lay before me. A curious chill passed around my shoulders,
and I scarcely breathed.
At my feet lay a pool, composed of all the various liquids that had been
poured, upstairs, into that baffling spot in the wood.