How could he make his discovery fit with the words of Dr. Holcomb, and with what philosophy he knew?  Somehow there was too much life, too much reality, to fit in with any spiritistic hypothesis.  He was surrounded by real matter, atomic, molecular, cellular.  He was certain that if he were put to it he could prove right here every law from those put forth by Newton to the present.

It was still the material universe; that was certain.  Therefor it was equally certain that the doctor had made a most prodigious discovery.  But—­what was it?  What was the law that had fallen out of the Blind Spot?

He gave it up, and stepped to one of the suite’s numerous windows.  They were all provided with clear glass.  Now was his opportunity for an uninterrupted, leisurely survey of the world about him.

As before, he noted the maze of splendid, dazzling opalescence, all the colours of the spectrum blending, weaving, vibrant, like a vast plain of smooth, Gargantuan jewels.  Then he made out innumerable round domes, spread out in rows and in curves, without seeming order or system; buildings, every roof a perfect gleaming dome, its surface fairly alive with the reflected light of that amazing sun.  Of such was the landscape made.

As before, he could hear the incessant undertone of vague music, of rhythmical, shimmering and whispering sound.  And the whole air was laden with the hint of sweet scents; tinged with the perfume of attar and myrrh—­of a most delicate ambrosia.

He opened the window.

For a moment he stood still, the air bathing his face, the unknown fragrance filling his nostrils.  The whole world seemed thrumming with that hitherto faint quiver of sound.  Now it was resonant and strong, though still only an undertone.  He looked below him; as he did so, something dropped from the side of the window opening—­a long, delicate tendril, sinuous and alive.  It touched his face, and then—­It drooped, drooped like a wounded thing.  He reached out his hand and plucked it, wondering.  And he found, at its tip, a floating crimson blossom as delicate as the frailest cobweb, so inconceivably delicate that it wilted and crumbled at the slightest touch.

Chick thrust his head out of the window.  The whole building, from ground to dome, was covered—­waving, moving, tenuous, a maze of colour—­with orchids!

He had never dreamed of anything so beautiful, or so splendid.  Everywhere these orchids; to give them the name nearest to the unknown one.  As far as he could see, living beauty!

And then he noticed something stranger still.

From the petals and the foliage about him, little clouds of colour wafted up, like mists of perfume, forever rising and intermittently settling.  It was mysteriously harmonious, continuous—­like life itself.  Chick looked closer, and listened.  And then he knew.

These mists were clouds of tiny, multi-coloured insects.