The other dropped feebly into the chair.  The body that had once been so powerful was a skeleton.  His coat was a disguise of padding.

“Hello, Hobart; hello, Harry,” he spoke in a whisper.  “Not much like the old Chick, am I?  First thing, I’ll take some brandy.”

It was almost tragic.  I glanced at Hobart and nodded to the waiter.  Could it be Chick Watson?  I had seen him a year before, hale, healthy, prosperous.  And here he was—­a wreck!”

“No,” he muttered, “I’m not sick—­not sick.  Lord, boys, it’s good to meet you.  I just thought I would come out for this one last night, hear some music, see a pretty face, perhaps meet a friend.  But I am afraid—­” He dropped off like one suddenly drifting into slumber.

“Hustle that waiter,” I said to Hobart.  “Hurry that brandy.”

The stimulant seemed to revive him.  He lifted up suddenly.  There was fear in his eyes; then on seeing himself among friends—­ relief.  He turned to me.

“Think I’m sick, don’t you?” he asked.

“You certainly are,” I answered.

“Well, I’m not.”

For a moment silence.  I glanced at Hobart.  Hobart nodded.

“You’re just about in line for a doctor, Chick, old boy,” I said.  “I’m going to see that you have one.  Bed for you, and the care of mother—­”

He started; he seemed to jerk himself together.

“That’s it, Harry; that’s what I wanted.  It’s so hard for me to think.  Mother, mother!  That’s why I came downtown.  I wanted a friend.  I have something for you to give to mother.”

“Rats,” I said.  “I’ll take you to her.  What are you talking about?”

But he shook his head.

“I wish that you were telling the truth, Harry.  But it’s no use—­ not after tonight.  All the doctors in the world could not save me.  I’m not sick, boys, far from it.”

Hobart spoke up.

“What is it, Chick?  I have a suspicion.  Am I right?”

Chick looked up; he closed his eyes.

“All right, Hobart, what’s your suspicion?”

Fenton leaned over.  It seemed to me that he was peering into the other’s soul.  He touched his forearm.

“Chick, old boy, I think I know.  But tell me.  Am I right?  It’s the Blind Spot.”

At the words Watson opened his eyes; they were full of hope and wonder, for a moment, and then, as suddenly of a great despair.  His body went to a heap.  His voice was feeble.

“Yes,” he answered, “I am dying—­of the Blind Spot”

VII

THE RING

It was a terrible thing; death stalking out of the Blind Spot.  We had almost forgotten.  It had been a story hitherto—­a wonderful one to be sure, and one to arouse conjecture.  I had never thought that we were to be brought to its shivering contact.  It was out of the occult; it had been so pronounced by the professor; a great secret of life holding out a guerdon of death to its votaries.  Witness Chick Watson, the type of healthy, fighting manhood—­come to this.  He opened his eyes feebly; one could see the light; the old spirit was there—­fighting for life.  What was this struggle of soul and flesh?  Why had the soul hung on?  He made another effort.