“Brr,” said the doctor, “you give me the creeps.”

Watson reached for the brandy; he nodded to the doctor.

“Just a bit more of that stuff if you please.  Whatever it is, on the last night one has no fear of habit.  There—­Now, gentlemen, if you will come with me, I shall take you to the house of the Blind Spot.”

IX

“Now there are three”

I shall never forget that night.  When we stepped to the pavement the whole world was shrouded.  The heavy fog clung like depression; life was gone out—­a foreboding of gloom and disaster.  It was cold, dank, miserable; one shuddered instinctively and battered against the wall with steaming columns of breath.  Just outside the door we were detained.

“Dr. Hansen?”

Someone stepped beside us.

“Dr. Hansen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A message, sir.”

The doctor made a gesture of impatience.

“Bother!” he spoke.  “Bother!  A message.  Nothing in the world would stop me!  I cannot leave.”

Nevertheless he stepped back into the light.

“Just a minute, gentlemen.”

He tore open the envelope.  Then he looked up at the messenger and then at us.  His face was startled—­almost frightened.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I am sorry.  Not a thing in the world would detain me but this.  I would go with you, but I may not.  My duty as a physician.  I had hopes.”  He came over to me and spoke softly.  “I am going to send you one of the greatest specialists in the city in my stead.  This young man should have attention.  Have you the address?”

“288 Chatterton Place,” I answered.

“Very well.  I am sorry, very much disappointed.  However, it is my daughter, and I cannot do otherwise.  Continue the brandy for a while—­and this.”  He slipped an envelope into my hand.  “By that time Dr. Higgins will be with you.”

“You think there is hope?” I asked.

“There’s always hope,” replied the doctor.

I returned to my companions.  They were walking slowly.  It was work for poor Watson.  He dragged on, leaning on Hobart’s arm.  But at last he gave up.

“No,” he said, “I can’t make it.  I’m too far gone.  I had thought—­ Oh, what a lapse it has been!  I am eighty years of age; one year ago I was a boy.  If only I had some more brandy.  I have some at the house.  We must make that.  I must show you; there I can give you the details.”

“Hail a cab,” I said.  “Here’s one now.”

A few minutes later we were before the House of the Blind Spot.  It was a two storey drab affair, much like a thousand others, old-fashioned, and might have been built in the early nineties.  It had been outside of the fire limits of 1906, and so had survived the great disaster.  Chatterton Place is really a short street running lengthwise along the summit of the hill.  A flight of stone steps descended to the pavement.