Budge Kennedy was not so easily found. There were many Kennedys. About two-thirds of Ireland had apparently migrated to San Francisco under that name and had lodged in the directory. We went through the lists on both sides of the bay, but found nothing; the old directories had mostly been destroyed by fire or had been thrown away as worthless; but at last we unearthed one. In it we found the name of Budge Kennedy.
He had two sons—Patrick and Henry. One of these, Henry, we ran down in the Mission. He was a great, red-headed, broad-shouldered Irishman. He was just eating supper when we called; there were splotches of white plaster on his trousers.
I came right to the point: “Do you know anything about this?” I held out the ring.
He took it in his fingers; his eyes popped. “What, that! Well, I guess I do! Where'd you get it?” He called out to the kitchen: “Say, Mollie, come here. Here's the old man's jool!” He looked at me a bit fearfully. “You aren't wearing it?”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Why? Well, I don't know exactly. I wouldn't wear it for a million dollars. It ain't a jool; it's a piece of the divil. The old man gave it to Dr. Holcomb—or sold it, I don't know which. He carried it in his pocket once, and he came near dying.”
“Unlucky?” I asked.
“No, it ain't unlucky; it just rips your heart out. It would make you hate your grandmother. Lonesome! Lonesome! I've often heard the old man talking.”
“He sold it to Dr. Holcomb? Do you know why?”
“Well, yes. 'Twas that the old doc had some scientific work. Dad told him about his jool. One day he took it over to Berkeley. It was some kind of thing that the professor just wanted. He kept it. Dad made him promise not to wear it.”
“I see. Did your father ever tell you where he got it?”
“Oh, yes. He often spoke about that. The old man wasn't a plasterer, you know—just a labourer. He was digging a basement. It was a funny basement—a sort of blind cellar. There was a stone wall right across the middle, and then there was a door of wood to look like stone. You can go down into the back cellar, but not into the front. If you don't know about the door, you'll never find it. Dad often spoke about that. He was working in the back cellar when he found this. 'Twas sticking in some blue clay.”
“Where was this place? Do you remember?”
“Sure. 'Twas in Chatterton Place. Pat and I was kids then; we took the old man's dinner.”
“Do you know the number?”
“It didn't have no number; but I know the place. 'Tis a two-story house, and was built in 'ninety-one.”
I nodded. “And afterwards you moved to Oakland?”
“Yes.”
“Did your father ever speak of the reason for this partition in the cellar?”
“He never knew of one. It was none of his business. He was merely a labourer, and did what he was paid for.”
“Do you know who built it?”
“Some old guy. He was a cranky cuss with side-whiskers. He used to wear a stove-pipe hat. I think he was a chemist. Whenever he showed up he would run us kids out of the building. I think he was a bachelor.”
This was all the information he could give, but it was a great deal. Certainly it was more than I had hoped for. The house had been built by a chemist; even in the construction there was mystery. I had never thought of a second cellar; when I had explored the building I had taken the stone wall for granted. It was so with Jerome. It was the first definite clue that really brought us down to earth. What had this chemist to do with the phenomena?
After all, behind everything was lurking the mind of man.
We hastened back to the house and into the cellar. By merely sounding along the wall we discovered the door; it was cleverly constructed and for a time defied our efforts; but Jerome got it open by means of a jemmy and a pick. The outside was a clever piece of sham work shaped like stone and smeared over with cement. In the dim light we had missed it.
We had high expectations. But we were disappointed. The space contained nothing; it was smeared with cobwebs and hairy mould; but outside of a few empty bottles and the gloomy darkness there was nothing. We tapped the walls and floor and ceiling. Beyond all doubt the place once held a secret; if it held it still, it was cleverly hidden. After an hour or two of search we returned to the upper part of the building.
Jerome was not discouraged.
“We're on the right track, Mr. Wendel; if we can only get started. I have an idea. The chemist—it was in 'ninety-one—that's more than twenty years.”
“What is your idea?”
“The Rhamda. What is the first thing that strikes you? His age. With everyone that sees him it's the same. At first you take him for an old man; if you study him long enough, you are positive that he is in his twenties. May he not be this chemist?”
“What becomes of the doctor and his Blind Spot?”
“The Blind Spot,” answered Jerome, “is merely a part of the chemistry.”
Next day I hunted up a jeweller. I was careful to choose one with whom I was acquainted. I asked for a private consultation. When we were alone I took the ring from my finger.
“Just an opinion,” I asked. “You know gems. Can you tell me anything about this one?”
He picked it up casually, and turned it over; his mouth puckered. For a minute he studied.
“That? Well, now.” He held it up. “Humph. Wait a minute.”
“Is it a gem?”
“I think it is. At first I thought I knew it right off; but now—wait a minute.”
He reached in the drawer for his glass. He held the stone up for some minutes. His face was a study; queer little wrinkles twisting from the corners of his eyes told his wonder. He did not speak; merely turned the stone round and round. At last he removed his glass and held up the ring. He was quizzical.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“That is something I do not care to answer. I wish to know what it is. Is it a gem? If so, what kind?”
He thought a moment and shook his head.
“I thought I knew every gem on earth. But I don't. This is a new one. It is beautiful—just a moment.” He stepped to the door. In a moment another man stepped in. The jeweller motioned towards the ring. The man picked it up and again came the examination. At last he laid the glass and ring both upon the table.
“What do you make of it, Henry?” asked the jeweller.
“Not me,” answered the second one. “I never saw one like it.”
It was as Watson had said. No man had ever identified the jewel. The two men were puzzled; they were interested. The jeweller turned to me.
“Would you care to leave it with us for a bit; you have no objection to us taking it out of the ring?”
I had not thought of that. I had business down the street. I consulted my watch.
“In half an hour I shall be back. Will that be enough time?”
“I think so.”
It was an hour before I returned. The assistant was standing at the door of the office. He spoke something to the one inside and then made an indication to myself. He seemed excited; when I came closer I noted that his face was full of wonder.
“We've been waiting,” said he. “We didn't examine the stone; it wasn't necessary. It is truly wonderful.” He was a short, squat man with a massive forehead. “Just step inside.”
Inside the office the jeweller was sitting beside a table; he was leaning back in his chair; he had his hands clasped over his stomach. He was gazing toward the ceiling; his face was a study, full of wonder and speculation.
“Well?” I asked.
For an answer he merely raised his finger, pointed towards the ceiling.
“Up there,” he spoke. “Your jewel or whatever it is. A good thing we weren't in open air. 'Twould be going yet.”
I looked up. Sure enough, against the ceiling was the gem. It was a bit disconcerting, though I will confess that in the first moment I did not catch the full significance.
The jeweller closed one eye and studied first myself and then the beautiful thing against the ceiling.
“What do you make of it?” he asked.
Really I had not made anything; it was a bit of a shock; I hadn't grasped the full impossibility. I didn't answer.
“Don't you see, Mr. Wendel? Impossible! Contrary to nature! Lighter than air. We took it out of the ring and it shot out like a bullet. Thought I'd dropped it. Began looking on the floor. Couldn't find it; looked up and saw Reynolds, here, with his eyes popping out like marbles. He was looking at the ceiling.”
I thought for a moment.
“Then it is not a gem?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Not if I'm a jeweller. Whoever heard of a stone without weight? It has no gravity, that is, apparently. I doubt whether it is a substance. I don't know what it is.”
It was puzzling. I would have given a good deal just then for a few words with Dr. Holcomb. The man, Kennedy, had kept it in his pocket. How had he held it a prisoner? The professor had use for it in some scientific work! No wonder! Certainly it was not a jewel. What could it be? It was solid. It was lighter than air. Could it be a substance? If not; what is it?
“What would you advise?”
In answer the jeweller reached for the telephone. He gave a number.
“Hello. Say, is Ed there? This is Phil. Tell him to step to the phone. Hello! Say, Ed, I want you to come over on the jump. Something to show you. Too busy! No, you're not. Not for this. I'm going to teach you some chemistry. No; this is serious. What is it? I don't know. What's lighter than air? Lots of things? Oh, I know. But what solid? That's why I'm asking. Come over. All right. At once.”
He hung up the receiver.
“My brother,” he spoke. “It has passed beyond my province and into his. He is a chemist. As an expert he may give you a real opinion.”
Surely we needed one. It was against reason. It had taken me completely off my balance. I took a chair and joined the others in the contemplation of the blue dot on the ceiling. We could speculate and conjecture; but there was not one of us deep enough even to start a theory. Plainly it was what should not be. We had been taught physics and science; we had been drilled to fundamentals. If this thing could be, then the foundations upon which we stood were shattered. But one little law! Back in my mind was buzzing the enigma of the Blind Spot. They were woven together. Some law that had eluded the ken of mankind.
The chemist was a tall man with a hook nose and black eyes that clinched like rivets. He was a bit impatient. He looked keenly at his brother.
“Well, Phil, what is it?” He pulled out a watch, “I haven't much time.”
There was a contrast between them. The jeweller was fat and complacent. He merely sat in his chair, his hand on his waistband and a stubby finger elevated toward the jewel. He seemed to enjoy it.
“You're a chemist, Ed. Here's a test for your wisdom. Can you explain that? No, over here. Above your head. That jewel?”
The other looked up.
“What's the idea? New notion for decoration? Or”?—a bit testily—“is this a joke?” He was a serious man; his black eyes and the nose spoke his character.
The jeweller laughed gently.
“Listen, Ed—” Then he went into explanation; when he was through the chemist was twitching with excitement.
“Get me a ladder. Here, let me get on the table; perhaps I can reach it. Sounds impossible, but if it's so, it's so; it must have an explanation.”
Without ado and in spite of the protests of his brother he stepped upon the polished surface of the table. He was a tall man; he could just barely reach it with the tip of his finger. He could move it; but each time it clung as to a magnet. After a minute of effort he gave it up. When he looked down he was a different man; his black eyes glowed with wonder.
“Can't make it,” he said. “Get a step-ladder. Strange!”
With the ladder it was easy. He plucked it off the ceiling. We pressed about the table. The chemist turned it about with his fingers.
“I wonder,” he was saying. “It's a gem. Apparently. You say it has no gravity. It can't be. Whoop!” He let it slip out of his fingers. Again it popped on its way to the ceiling. He caught it with a deft movement of his hand. “The devil! Did you ever see! And a solid! Who owns this?”
That brought it back to me. I explained what I could of the manner of my possession.
“I see. Very interesting. Something I've never seen—and—frankly—something strictly against what I've been taught. Nevertheless, it's not impossible. We are witnesses at least. Would you care if I take this over to the laboratory?”
It was a new complication. If it were not a jewel there was a chance of its being damaged. I was as anxious as he; but I had been warned as to its possession.
“I shan't harm it. I'll see to that. I have suspicions and I'd like to verify them. A chemist doesn't blunder across such a thing every day. I am a chemist.” His eyes glistened.
“Your suspicions?” I asked.
“A new element.”
This gem. A new element. Perhaps that would explain the Blind Spot. It was not exactly of earth. Everything had confirmed it.
“You—A new element? How do you account for it? It defies your laws. Most of your elements are evolved through tedious process. This is picked up by chance.”
“That is so. But there are still a thousand ways. A meteor, perhaps; a bit of cosmic dust—there are many shattered comets. Our chemistry is earthly. There are undoubtedly new elements that we don't know of. Perhaps in enormous proportion.”
I let him have it. It was the only night I had been away from the ring. I may say that it is the only time I have been free from its isolation.
When I called at his office next day I found he had merely confirmed his suspicions. It defied analysis; there was no reaction. Under all tests it was a stranger. The whole science that had been built up to explain everything had here explained nothing. However there was one thing that he had uncovered—heat. Perhaps I should say magnetism. It was cold to man. I have spoken about the icy blue of its colour. It was cold even to look at. The chemist placed it in my hand.
“Is it not so?”
It was. The minute it touched my palm I could sense the weird horror of the isolation; the stone was cold. Just like a piece of ice.
This was the first time I had ever had it in direct contact with the flesh. Set in the ring its impulse had always been secondary.
“You notice it? It is so with me. Now then. Just a minute.”
He pressed a button. A young lady answered his ring; she glanced first at myself and then at the chemist.
“Miss Mills, this is Mr. Wendel. He is the owner of the gem. Would you take it in your hand? And please tell Mr. Wendel how it feels—”
She laughed; she was a bit perplexed.
“I don't understand”—she turned to me—“we had the same dispute yesterday. See, Mr. White says that it's cold; but it is not. It is warm; almost burning. All the other girls think just as I do.”
“And all the men as I do,” averred the chemist, “even Mr. Wendel.”
“Is it cold to you?” she asked. “Really—”
It was a turn I hadn't looked for. It was akin to life—this relation to sex. Could it account for the strange isolation and the weariness? I was a witness to its potency. Watson! I could feel myself dragging under. I had just one question:
“Tell me, Miss Mills. Can you sense anything else; I mean beyond its temperature?”
She smiled a bit. “I don't know what you mean exactly. It is a beautiful stone. I would like to have it.”
“You think its possession would make you happy?”
Her eyes sparkled.
“Oh,” she exclaimed. “I know it would! I can feel it!”
It was so. Whatever there was in the bit of sapphirine blue, it had life. What was it? It had relation to sex. In the strict line of fact it was impossible.
When we were alone again I turned to the chemist.
“Is there anything more you uncovered? Did you see anything in the stone?”
He frowned. “No. Nothing else. This magnetism is the only thing. Is there anything more?”
Now I hadn't said anything about its one great quality. He hadn't stumbled across the image of the two men. I couldn't understand it. I didn't tell him. Perhaps I was wrong. Down inside me I sensed a subtle reason for secrecy. It is hard to explain. It was not perverseness; it was a finer the jeweller again and had it reset.
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