I realised it vaguely, and wondered.  This feeling of aloofness?  It was intrinsic, coming from within, like the withering of one’s marrow.  I laughed at my foreboding; it was not natural; I tried to shake myself together.

I had no difficulty with the records.  In less than an hour I traced out the owners, “an estate,” and had located the agent.  It just so happened that he was a man with whom I had some acquaintance.  We were not long in coming to business.

“The house at No. 288 Chatterton Place?”

I noticed that he was startled; there was a bit of wonder in his look—­a quizzical alertness.  He motioned me to a chair and closed the door.

“Sit down, Mr. Wendel; sit down.  H-m!  The house at No. 288 Chatterton Place?  Did I hear you right?”

Again I noted the wonder; his manner was cautious and curious.  I nodded.

“Want to buy it or just lease it?  Pardon me, but you are sort of a friend.  I would not like to lose your friendship for the sake of a mere sale.  What is your—­”

“Just for a residence,” I insisted.  “A place to live in.”

“I see.  Know anything about this place?”

“Do you?”

He fumbled with some papers.  For an agent he did not strike me as being very solicitous for a commission.

“Well,” he said, “in a way, yes.  A whole lot more than I’d like to.  It all depends.  One gets much from hearsay.  What I know is mostly rumour.”  He began marking with a pencil.  “Of course I don’t believe it.  Nevertheless I would hardly recommend it to a friend as a residence.”

“And these rumours?”

He looked up; for a moment he studied; then: 

“Ever hear of the Blind Spot?  Perhaps you remember Dr. Holcomb—­in 1905, before the ’quake.  It was a murder.  The papers were full of it at the time; since then it has been occasionally featured in the supplements.  I do not believe in the story; but I can trust to facts.  The last seen of Dr. Holcomb was in this house.  It is called the Blind Spot.”

“Then you believe in the story?” I asked.

He looked at me.

“Oh, you know it, eh?  No, I do not.  It’s all bunkum; reporters’ work and exaggeration.  If you like that kind of stuff, it’s weird and interesting.  But it hurts property.  The man was undoubtedly murdered.  The tale hangs over the house.  It’s impossible to dispose of the place.”

“Then why not sell it to me?”

He dropped his pencil; he was a bit nervous.

“A fair question, Mr. Wendel—­a very fair question.  Well, now, why don’t I?  Perhaps I shall.  There’s no telling.  But I’d rather not.  Do you know, a year ago I would have jumped at an offer.  Fact is, I did lease it—­the lease ran out yesterday—­to a man named Watson.  I don’t believe a thing in this nonsense; but what I have seen during the past year has tested my nerve considerably.”

“What about Watson?”