Perhaps I was frightened.  I do not know.  I looked around.  The sound of Watson’s footsteps had died away; there was a light in the back of the building coming toward us.

“Nothing!  Only—­damn this place, Hobart.  Don’t you notice it?  It’s enough to eat your heart out.”

“Rather interesting,” said Hobart.  It was too interesting for me.  I stepped over to the shelves and looked at the titles.  Sanskrit and Greek; German and French—­the Vedas, Sir Oliver Lodge, Besant, Spinoza, a conglomeration of all ages and tongues; a range of metaphysics that was as wide as Babel, and about as enlightening.  As Babel?  Over my shoulders came the strangest sound of all, weak, piping, tremulous, fearful—­“Now there are two.  Now there are two.”  My heart gave a fearful leap.  “Soon there will be three!  Soon—­”

I turned suddenly about.  I had a fearful thought.  I looked at Hobart.  A strange, insidious fear clutched at me.  Was the thought intrinsic?  If not, where had it come from?  Three?  I strained my ears to hear Watson’s footsteps.  He was in the back part of the building.  I must have some air.

“I’m going to open the door, Hobart,” I spoke.  “The front door, and look out into the street.”

“Don’t blame you much.  Feel a bit that way myself.  About time for Dr. Higgins.  Here comes Chick again.  Take a look outside and see if the doc is coming.”

I opened the door and looked out into the dripping fog bank.  What a pair of fools we were!  We both knew it, and we were both seeking an excuse.  In the next room through the curtains I could see the weak form of Watson; he was bearing a light.

Suddenly the light went out.

I was at high tension; the mere fact of the light was nothing, but it meant a world at that moment—­a strange sound—­a struggle—­then the words of Watson—­Chick Watson’s: 

“Harry!  Harry!  Hobart!  Harry!  Come here!  It’s the Blind Spot!”

It was in the next room.  The despair of that call is unforgettable, like that of one suddenly falling into space.  Then the light dropped to the floor.  I could see the outlines of his figure and a weird, single string of incandescence.  Hobart turned and I leaped.  It was a blur, the form of a man melting into nothing.  I sprang into the room, tearing down the curtains.  Hobart was on top of me.  But we were too late.  I could feel the vibrancy of something uncanny as I rushed across the space intervening.  Through my mind darted the thrill of terror.  It had come suddenly, and in climax.  It was over before it had commenced.  The light had gone out.  Only by the gleam from the other room could we make out each others’ faces.  The air was vibrant, magnetic.  There was no Watson.  But we could hear his voice.  Dim and fearful, coming down the corridors of time.

“Hold that ring, Harry!  Hold that ring!” Then the faint despair out of the weary distance, faint, but a whole volume: