Jerome stayed with me.  Rather I should say he spent the nights with me.  Most of the time he was on the elusive trail of the Rhamda.  From the minute of our conversation with Kennedy he held to one conviction.  He was positive of that chemist back in the nineties.  He was certain of the Rhamda.  Whatever the weirdness of his theory it would certainly bear investigation.  When he was not on the trail over the city he was at work in the cellar.  Here we worked together.

We dug up the concrete floor and did a bit of mining.  I was interested in the formation.

From the words of Budge Kennedy the bit of jewel had been discovered at the original excavation.  We found the blue clay that he spoke of, but nothing else.  Jerome dissected every bit of earth carefully.  We have spent many hours in that cellar.

But most of the time I was alone.  When not too worn with the loneliness and weariness I worked at my notes.  It has been a hard task from the beginning.  Inertia, lack of energy!  How much of our life is impulse!  What is the secret that backs volition?  It has been will—­will-power from the beginning.  I must thank my ancestors.  Without the strength and character built up through generations, I would have succumbed utterly.

Even as it is I sometimes think I am wrong in following the dictates of Watson.  If I were only sure.  I have pledged my word and my honour.  What did he know?  I need all the reserve of character to hold up against the Nervina.  From the beginning she has been my opponent.  What is her interest in the Blind Spot and myself?  Who is she?  I cannot think of her as evil.  She is too beautiful, too tender; her concern is so real.  Sometimes I think of her as my protector, that it is she, and she alone who holds back the power which would engulf me.  Once she made a personal appeal.

Jerome had gone.  I was alone.  I had dragged myself to the desk and my notes and data.  It was along toward spring and in the first shadows of the early evening.  I had turned on the lights.  It was the first labour I had done for several days.  I had a great deal of work before me.  I had begun sometime before to take down my temperature.  I was careful of everything now, as much as I could be under the depression.  So far I had discerned nothing that could be classed as pathological.

There is something subtle about the Nervina.  She is much like the Rhamda.  Perhaps they are the same.  I hear no sound, I have no notion of a door or entrance.  Watson had said of the Rhamda, “Sometimes you see him, sometimes you don’t.”  It is so with the Nervina.  I remember only my working at the data and the sudden movement of a hand upon my desk—­a girl’s hand.  It was bewildering.  I looked up.

I had not seen her since that night.  It was now eight months—­did I not know, I would have recorded them as years.  Her expression was a bit more sad—­and beautiful.  The same wonderful glow of her eyes, night-black and tender; the softness that comes from passion, and love, and virtue.  The same wistful droop of the perfect mouth.  What a wondrous mass of hair she had!  I dropped my pen.  She took my hand.  I could sense the thrill of contact; cool and magnetic.