Watson rose. I could see he was grateful.

"You believe me, don't you, Hobart? It is good. I had hoped to find someone, and I found you two. Harry, remember what I have told you. Hold the ring. You take my place. Whatever happens, stick out to the end. You have Hobart here to help you. Now just a minute. The library is here; you can look over my books. I shall return in a moment."

He stepped out into the hall; we could hear his weary feet dragging down the hallway--a hollow sound and a bit uncanny. Somehow my mind rambled back to that account I had read in the newspaper--Jerome's story--"Like weary bones dragging slippers." And the old lady. Who was she? Why was everyone in this house pulled down to exhaustion--the words of the old lady, I could almost hear them; the dank air murmuring their recollection. "Now there are two. Now there are two!"

"What's the matter, Harry?"

Perhaps I was frightened. I do not know. I looked around. The sound of Watson's footsteps had died away; there was a light in the back of the building coming toward us.

"Nothing! Only--damn this place, Hobart. Don't you notice it? It's enough to eat your heart out."

"Rather interesting," said Hobart. It was too interesting for me. I stepped over to the shelves and looked at the titles. Sanskrit and Greek; German and French--the Vedas, Sir Oliver Lodge, Besant, Spinoza, a conglomeration of all ages and tongues; a range of metaphysics that was as wide as Babel, and about as enlightening. As Babel? Over my shoulders came the strangest sound of all, weak, piping, tremulous, fearful--"Now there are two. Now there are two." My heart gave a fearful leap. "Soon there will be three! Soon--"

I turned suddenly about. I had a fearful thought. I looked at Hobart.

A strange, insidious fear clutched at me. Was the thought intrinsic? If not, where had it come from? Three? I strained my ears to hear Watson's footsteps. He was in the back part of the building. I must have some air.

"I'm going to open the door, Hobart," I spoke. "The front door, and look out into the street."

"Don't blame you much. Feel a bit that way myself. About time for Dr.

Higgins. Here comes Chick again. Take a look outside and see if the doc is coming."

I opened the door and looked out into the dripping fog bank. What a pair of fools we were! We both knew it, and we were both seeking an excuse.

In the next room through the curtains I could see the weak form of Watson; he was bearing a light.

Suddenly the light went out.

I was at high tension; the mere fact of the light was nothing, but it meant a world at that moment--a strange sound--a struggle--then the words of Watson--Chick Watson's:

"Harry! Harry! Hobart! Harry! Come here! It's the Blind Spot!"

It was in the next room. The despair of that call is unforgettable, like that of one suddenly falling into space. Then the light dropped to the floor. I could see the outlines of his figure and a weird, single string of incandescence. Hobart turned and I leaped. It was a blur, the form of a man melting into nothing. I sprang into the room, tearing down the curtains. Hobart was on top of me. But we were too late. I could feel the vibrancy of something uncanny as I rushed across the space intervening. Through my mind darted the thrill of terror. It had come suddenly, and in climax. It was over before it had commenced. The light had gone out. Only by the gleam from the other room could we make out each others' faces. The air was vibrant, magnetic. There was no Watson.

But we could hear his voice. Dim and fearful, coming down the corridors of time.

"Hold that ring, Harry! Hold that ring!" Then the faint despair out of the weary distance, faint, but a whole volume:

"The Blind Spot!"

It was over as quickly as that. The whole thing climaxed into an instant. It is difficult to describe. One cannot always analyse sensations. Mine, I am afraid, were muddled. A thousand insistent thoughts clashed through my brain. Horror, wonder, doubt! I have only one persistent and predominating recollection. The old lady! I could almost feel her coming out of the shadows. There was sadness and pity; out of the stillness and the corners. What had been the dirge of her sorrow?

"NOW THERE ARE THREE!"

X

MAN OR PHANTOM

It was Hobart who came to first. His voice was good to hear. It was natural; it was sweet and human, but it was pregnant with disappointment: "We are fools, Harry; we are fools!"

But I could only stare. I remember saying: "The Blind Spot?"

"Yes," returned Hobart, "the Blind Spot. But what is it? We saw him go.

Did you see it?"

"It gets me," I answered. "He just vanished into space. It--" Frankly I was afraid.

"It tallies well with the reports. The old lady and Jerome. Remember?"

"And the bell?" I looked about the room.

"Exactly. Phenomena! Watson was right. I just wonder--but the bell?

Remember the doctor? 'The greatest day since Columbus.' No, don't cross the room, Harry, I'm a bit leery: A great discovery! I should say it was. How do you account for it?"

"Supernatural."

Fenton shook his head.

"By no means! It's the gateway to the universe--into Cosmos." His eyes sparkled. "My Lord, Harry! Don't you see! Once we control it. The Blind Spot! What is beyond? We saw Chick Watson go. Before our eyes. Where did he go to? It beats death itself."

I started across the room, but Hobart caught me with both arms: "No, no, no, Harry. My Lord! I don't want to lose you. No! You foolhardly little cuss--stand back!"

He threw me violently against the wall. The impact quite took my breath.

On the instant the old rush of temper surged up in me. From boyhood we had these moments. Hobart settled himself and awaited the rush that he knew was coming. In his great, calm, brute strength there was still a greatness of love.

"Harry," he was saying, "for the love of Heaven, listen to reason! Have we got to have a knock-down and drag-out on this of all nights? Have I got to lick you again? Do you want to roll into the Blind Spot?"

Why did God curse me with such a temper? On such moments as this I could feel something within me snapping. It was fury and unreason. How I loved him! And yet we had fought a thousand times over just such provocation.

Over his shoulders I could see the still open door that led into the street. A heavy form was looming through the opening; out of the corner of my eye I caught the lines of the form stepping out of the shadows--it crossed the room and stood beside Hobart Fenton. It was Rhamda Avec!

I leaped. The fury of a thousand conflicts--and the exultation. For the glory of such moments it is well worth dying. One minute flying through the air--the old catapult tackle--and the next a crashing of bone and sinew. We rolled over, head on, and across the floor. Curses and execrations; the deep bass voice of Hobart:

"Hold him, Harry! Hold him! That's the way! Hold him! Hold him!"

We went crashing about the room. He was the slipperiest thing I had ever laid hold of. But he was bone--bone and sinew; he was a man! I remember the wild thrill of exultation at the discovery. It was battle! And death! The table went over, we went spinning against the wall, a crash of falling bookcases, books and broken glass, a scurry and a flying heap of legs and arms. He was wonderfully strong and active, like a panther.

Each time I held him he would twist out like a cat, straighten, and throw me out of hold. I clung on, fighting, striving for a grip, working for the throat. He was a man--a man! I remembered that he must never get away. He must account for Watson.

In the first rush I was a madman. The mere force of my onslaught had borne him down. But in a moment he had recovered and was fighting systematically. As much as he could he kept over on one side of me, always forcing me toward the inner room where Watson had disappeared. In spite of my fury he eluded every effort that I made for a vital part. We rolled, fought, struck and struggled.

I could hear Hobart's bass thundering: "Over! Over! Under! Look out! Now you've got him! Harry! Harry! Look out! Hold him, for the love of Heaven I see his trick. That's his trick. The Blind Spot!"

We were rolled clear over, picked, heaved, shoved against the front wall. There were three! The great heaving bulk of Fenton; the fighting tiger between us; and myself! Surely such strength was not human; we could not pin him; his quickness was uncanny; he would uncoil, twist himself and throw us loose. Gradually he worked us away from the front wall and into the centre of the room.

Could any mere man fight so? Hobart was as good as a ton; I was as much for action. Slowly, slowly in spite of our efforts, he was working us towards the Blind Spot. Confident of success, he was over, around, and in and under. In a spin of a second he went into the attack. He fairly bore us off our feet. We were on the last inch of our line; the stake was--

What was it? We all went down. A great volume of sound! We were inside a bell! My whole head buzzed to music and a roar; the whir of a thousand vibrations; the inside of sound. I fell face downwards; the room went black.