Watson watched us.  The waiter had brought more brandy, and Watson was sipping it, not because he liked it, he said, but just to keep himself at the proper lift.

“You don’t understand it, eh?  You see nothing?  Hobart, have you a match?  There, that’s it; now give me the ring.  See—­” He struck the match and held the flame against the jewel.  “Gentlemen, there is no need for me to speak.  The stone will give you a volume.  It’s not trickery, I assure you, but fact.  There, now, perfect.  Doctor, you are the sceptic.  Take a look at the stone.”

The doctor picked it up casually and held it up before his eyes.  At first he frowned; then came a look of incredulity; his chin dropped and he rose in his chair.

“My God,” he exclaimed, “the man’s living!  It—­he—­”

But Hobart and I had crowded over.  The doctor held the ring so we could see it.  Inside the stone was Dr. Holcomb!

It was a strenuous moment, and the most incredible.  We all of us knew the doctor.  It was not a photograph, nor a likeness; but the man himself.  It was beyond all reason that he could be in the jewel; indeed there was only the head visible; one could catch the expression of life, the movements of the eyelids.  Yet how could it be?  What was it?  It was Hobart who spoke first.

“Chick,” he asked, “what’s the meaning?  Were it not for my own eyes I would call it impossible.  It’s absurd on the face.  The doctor!  Yet I can see him—­living.  Where is he?”

Chick nodded.

“That’s the whole question.  Where is he?  I know and yet I know nothing.  You are now looking into the Blind Spot.  The doctor sought the secret of life—­and found it.  He was trapped by his own wisdom!”

VIII

THE NERVINA

For a moment we were silent.  The jewel reposed upon the table.  What was the secret of its phenomena?  I could think of nothing in science that would explain it.  How had Watson come into its possession?  What was the tale he had to tell?  The lean, long finger that clutched for brandy!  What force was this that had driven him to such a verge?  He was resigned; though he was defiant he had already conceded his surrender.  Dr. Hansen spoke.

“Watson,” he asked, “what do you know about the Blind Spot?”

“Nothing.”

We all turned to Chick.  Hobart ordered more brandy.  The doctor’s eyes went to slits.  I could not but wonder.

“Chick,” I asked, “who is Rhamda Avec?”

Watson turned.

“You saw him a few minutes ago?  You saw him with me?  Let me ask you.”

“Yes,” I answered, “I saw him.  Most people did.  Is he invisible?  Is he really the phantom they say?”

Somehow the mention of the name made him nervous; he looked cautiously about the room.

“That I don’t know, Harry.  It—­If I can only get my wits together.  Is he a phantom?  Yes, I think so.  I can’t understand him.  At least, he has the powers we attribute to an apparition.  He is strange and unaccountable.  Sometimes you see him, sometimes you don’t.  The first known of him was on the day Professor Holcomb was to deliver his lecture on the Blind Spot.  He was tracked, you know, to the very act.  Then came in the Nervina.”