“We have still two hours.  Fifteen minutes; perhaps a little bit late.  Tell you what.  I shall go with you.  You can get on the boat.”

We have said that the detective had intuition.  He had it still.  Yet he had no rational reason for suspecting either the professor or his strange companion.  Furthermore he had never heard of the Blind Spot in any way whatsoever; nor did he know a single thing of philosophy or anything else in Holcomb’s teaching.  He knew the doctor as a man of eminent standing and respectability.  It was hardly natural that he should suspect anything sinister to grow out of this meeting of two refined scholars.  He attached no great importance to the trend of their conversation.  It was strange, to be sure; but he felt, no doubt, that living in their own world they had a way and a language of their own.  He was no scholar.

Still, he could think.  The man Rhamda had made an assertion that he could not quite uncover.  It puzzled him.  Something told him that for the safety of his old friend it might be well for him to shadow the strange pair to the city.

When the next train pulled out for the pier the two scholars were seated in the forward part of the car.  In the last seat was a man deeply immersed in a morning paper.

It is rather unfortunate.  In the natural delicacy of the situation Jerome could not crowd too closely.  He had no certainty of trouble; no proof whatever; he was known to the professor.  The best he could do was to keep aloof and follow their movements.  At the ferry building they hailed a taxi and started up Market Street.  Jerome watched them.  In another moment he had another driver and was winding behind in their wheel tracks.  The cab made straight for Chatterton Place.  In front of a substantial two-story house it drew up.  The two men alighted.  Jerome’s taxi passed them.

They were then at the head of the steps; a woman of slender beauty with a wonderful loose fold of black hair was talking.  It seemed to the detective that her voice was fearful, of a pregnant warning, that she was protesting.  Nevertheless, the old men entered and the door slammed behind them.  Jerome slipped from the taxi and spoke a few words to the driver.  A moment later the two men were holding the house under surveillance.

They did not have long to wait.  The man called Rhamda had asked for fifteen minutes.  At the stroke of the second the front door re-opened.  Someone was laughing; a melodious enchanting laugh and feminine.  A woman was speaking.  And then there were two forms in the doorway.  A man and a woman.  The man was Rhamda Avec, tall, immaculate, black clad and distinguished.  The woman, Jerome was not certain that she was the same who opened the door or not; she was even more beautiful.  She was laughing.  Like her companion she was clad in black, a beautiful shimmering material which sparkled in the sun like the rarest silk.  The man glanced carelessly up and down the street for a moment.  Then he assisted the lady down the steps and into the taxi.  The door slammed; and before the detective could gather his scattered wits they were lost in the city.