“The Blind Spot!”

It was over as quickly as that.  The whole thing climaxed into an instant.  It is difficult to describe.  One cannot always analyse sensations.  Mine, I am afraid, were muddled.  A thousand insistent thoughts clashed through my brain.  Horror, wonder, doubt!  I have only one persistent and predominating recollection.  The old lady!  I could almost feel her coming out of the shadows.  There was sadness and pity; out of the stillness and the corners.  What had been the dirge of her sorrow?

“Now there are three!”

X

MAN OR PHANTOM

It was Hobart who came to first.  His voice was good to hear.  It was natural; it was sweet and human, but it was pregnant with disappointment:  “We are fools, Harry; we are fools!”

But I could only stare.  I remember saying:  “The Blind Spot?”

“Yes,” returned Hobart, “the Blind Spot.  But what is it?  We saw him go.  Did you see it?”

“It gets me,” I answered.  “He just vanished into space.  It—­” Frankly I was afraid.

“It tallies well with the reports.  The old lady and Jerome.  Remember?”

“And the bell?” I looked about the room.

“Exactly.  Phenomena!  Watson was right.  I just wonder—­but the bell?  Remember the doctor?  ‘The greatest day since Columbus.’  No, don’t cross the room, Harry, I’m a bit leery:  A great discovery!  I should say it was.  How do you account for it?”

“Supernatural.”

Fenton shook his head.

“By no means!  It’s the gateway to the universe—­into Cosmos.”  His eyes sparkled.  “My Lord, Harry!  Don’t you see!  Once we control it.  The Blind Spot!  What is beyond?  We saw Chick Watson go.  Before our eyes.  Where did he go to?  It beats death itself.”

I started across the room, but Hobart caught me with both arms:  “No, no, no, Harry.  My Lord!  I don’t want to lose you.  No!  You foolhardly little cuss—­stand back!”

He threw me violently against the wall.  The impact quite took my breath.

On the instant the old rush of temper surged up in me.  From boyhood we had these moments.  Hobart settled himself and awaited the rush that he knew was coming.  In his great, calm, brute strength there was still a greatness of love.

“Harry,” he was saying, “for the love of Heaven, listen to reason!  Have we got to have a knock-down and drag-out on this of all nights?  Have I got to lick you again?  Do you want to roll into the Blind Spot?”

Why did God curse me with such a temper?  On such moments as this I could feel something within me snapping.  It was fury and unreason.  How I loved him!  And yet we had fought a thousand times over just such provocation.  Over his shoulders I could see the still open door that led into the street.  A heavy form was looming through the opening; out of the corner of my eye I caught the lines of the form stepping out of the shadows—­it crossed the room and stood beside Hobart Fenton.  It was Rhamda Avec!