Looking back over what has just been written, I am sensible of a profound gratitude. I am grateful, both because I have been given the privilege of relating these events, and because I shall not have to leave this wilderness of facts for someone else to explain.
Really, if I did not know that I shall have the pleasure of piecing together these phenomena and of setting my finger upon the comparatively simple explanation; if I had to go away and leave this account unfinished, a mere collection of curiosity-provoking mysteries, I should not speak at all. I should leave the whole affair for another to finish, as it ought to be finished.
All of which, it will soon appear, I am setting forth largely in order to brace and strengthen myself against what I must now relate.
Before resuming, however, I should mention one detail which Harry was too modest to mention. He was—or is—unusually good-looking. I don't mean to claim that he possessed any Greek-god beauty; such wouldn't gibe with a height of five foot seven. No; his good looks were due to the simple outward expression, through his features, of a certain noble inward quality which would have made the homeliest face attractive. Selfishness will spoil the handsomest features; unselfishness will glorify.
Moreover, simply because he had given his word to Chick Watson that he would wear the ring, Harry took upon himself the most dangerous task that any man could assume, and he had lost. But had he known in advance exactly what was going to happen to him, he would have stuck to his word, anyhow. And since there was a sporting risk attached to it, since the thing was not perfectly sure to end tragically, he probably enjoyed the greater part of his experience.
But I'm not like that. Frankly, I'm an opportunist; essentially, a practical sort of fellow. I have a great admiration for idealists, but a much greater admiration for results. For instance, I have seldom given my word, even though the matter is unimportant; for I will cheerfully break my word if, later on, it should develop that the keeping of my word would do more harm than good.
I realise perfectly well that it is dangerous ground to tread upon; yet I must refer the reader to what I have accomplished in this world, as proof that my philosophy is not as bad as it looks.
I beg nobody's pardon for talking about myself so much at the outset. This account will be utterly incomprehensible if I am not understood. My method of solving the Blind Spot mystery is, when analysed, merely the expression of my personality. My sole idea has been to get RESULTS.
As Harry has put it, a proposition must be reduced to concrete form before I will have anything to do with it. If the Blind Spot had been a totally occult affair, demanding that the investigation be conducted under cover of darkness, surrounded by black velvet, crystal spheres and incense; demanding the aid of a clairvoyant or other “medium,” I should never have gone near it. But as soon as the mystery began to manifest itself in terms that I could understand, appreciate and measure, then I took interest.
That is why old Professor Holcomb appealed to me; he had proposed that we prove the occult by physical means. “Reduce it to the scope of our five senses,” he had said, in effect. From that moment on I was his disciple.
I have told of hearing that sharp, welcoming bark, emitted either from the gem or from the air surrounding it. This event took place on the front porch of the house at 288 Chatterton Place, as Charlotte and I sat there talking it over. We had taken a suite at the hotel, but had come to the house of the Blind Spot in order to decide upon a course of action. And, in a way, that mysterious barking decided it for us.
We returned to the hotel, and gave notice that we would leave the next day. Next, we began to make preparations for moving into the Chatterton Place dwelling.
That afternoon, while in the midst of giving orders for furnishings and the like, there at the hotel, I was called to the telephone. It was from a point outside the building.
“Mr. Fenton?”—in a man's voice. And when I had assured him; “You have no reason to recognise my voice. I am—Rhamda Avec.”
“The Rhamda! What do you want?”
“To speak with your sister, Mr. Fenton.” Odd how very agreeable the man's tones! “Will you kindly call her to the telephone?”
I saw no objection. However, when Charlotte came to my side I whispered for her to keep the man waiting while I darted out into the corridor and slipped downstairs, where the girl at the switchboard put an instrument into the circuit for me. Money talks. However—
“My dear child,” the voice of Avec was saying, “you do me an injustice. I have nothing but your welfare at heart. I assure you that if anything should happen to you and your brother while at Chatterton Place, it will be through no fault of mine.
“At the same time I can positively assure you that, if you stay away from there, no harm will come to either of you; absolutely none! I can guarantee that. Don't ask me why; but, if you value your safety, stay where you are, or go elsewhere, anywhere other than to the house in Chatterton Place.”
“I can hardly agree with you, Mr. Avec.” Plainly Charlotte was deeply impressed with the man's sincerity and earnestness. “My brother's judgment is so much better than mine, that I—” and she paused regretfully.
“I only wish,” with his remarkable gracefulness, “that your intuition were as strong as your loyalty to your brother. If it were, you would know that I speak the truth when I say that I have only your welfare at heart.”
“I—I am sorry, Mr. Avec.”
“Fortunately, there is one alternative,” even more agreeable than before. “If you prefer not to take my advice, but cling to your brother's decision, you can still avoid the consequences of his determination to live in that house. As I say, I cannot prevent harm from befalling you, under present conditions; but these conditions can be completely altered if you will make a single concession, Miss Fenton.”
“What is it?” eagerly.
“That you give me the ring!”
He paused for a very tense second. I wished I could see his peculiar, young-old face—the face with the inscrutable eyes; the face that urged, rather than inspired, both curiosity and confidence.
Then he added:
“I know why you wear it; I realise that the trinket carries some very tender associations. And I would never ask such a concession did I not know, were your beloved here at this moment, he would endorse every word that I say, and—”
“Harry!” cried Charlotte, her voice shaking. “He would tell me to give it to you?”
“I am sure of it! It is as though he, through me, were urging you to do this!”
For some moments there was silence. Charlotte must have been tremendously impressed. It certainly was amazing the degree of confidence that Avec's voice induced. I wouldn't have been greatly surprised had my sister—
“Mr. Avec,” came Charlotte's voice, hesitatingly, almost sorrowfully. “I—I would like to believe you; but—but Harry himself gave me the ring, and I feel—oh, I'm sure that my brother would never agree to it!”
“I understand.” Somehow the fellow managed to conceal any disappointment he may have felt. He contrived to show only a deep sympathy for Charlotte as he finished: “If I find it possible to protect you, I shall, Miss Fenton.”
After it was all over, and I returned to the rooms, Charlotte and I concluded that it might have been better had we made some sort of compromise. If we had made a partial concession, he might have told us something of the mystery. We ought to have bargained. We decided that if he made any attempt to carry out what I felt sure were merely a thinly veiled threat to punish us for keeping the gem, we must not only be ready for whatever he might do, but try to trap and keep him as well.
That same day found us back at Chatterton Place. Inside, there was altogether too much evidence that the place had been bachelors' quarters.
The first step was to clean up. We hired lots of help, and made a quick thorough job of both floors. The basement we left untouched. And the next day we put a force of painters and decorators to work; whereby hangs the tale.
“Mr. Fenton,” called the head painter, as he varnished the “trim” in the parlour, “I wish you'd come and see what to make of this.”
I stepped into the front room. He was pointing to the long piece of finish which spanned the doorway leading into the dining-room. And he indicated a spot almost in the exact middle, a spot covering a space about five inches broad and as high as the width of the wood. In outline it was roughly octagonal.
“I've been trying my best,” stated Johnson, “to varnish that spot for the past five minutes. But I'll be darned if I can do it!”
And he showed what he meant. Every other part of the door glistened with freshly applied varnish; but the octagonal region remained dull, as though no liquid had ever touched it. Johnson dipped his brush into the can, and applied a liberal smear of the fluid to the place. Instantly the stuff disappeared.
“Blamed porous piece of wood,” eyeing me queerly. “Or—do you think it's merely porous, Mr. Fenton?”
For answer I took a brush and repeatedly daubed the place. It was like dropping ink on a blotter. The wood sucked up the varnish as a desert might suck up water.
“There's about a quart of varnish in the wood already,” observed Johnson, as I stared and pondered. “Suppose we take it down and weigh it?”
Inside of a minute we had that piece of trim down from its place. First, I carefully examined the timber framework behind, expecting to see traces of the varnish where, presumably, it had seeped through. There was no sign. Then I inspected the reverse side of the finish, just behind the peculiar spot. I thought I might see a region of wide open pores in the grain of the pine. But the back looked exactly the same as the front, with no difference in the grain at any place.
Placing the finish right side up, I proceeded to daub the spot some more. There was no change in the results. At last I took the can, and without stopping, poured a quart and a half of the fluid into that paradoxical little area.
“Well I'll be darned!”—very loudly from Johnson. But when I looked up I saw his face was white, and his lips shaking.
His nerves were all a-jangle. To give his mind a rest, I sent him for a hatchet. When he came back his face had regained its colour. I directed him to hold the pine upright, while I, with a single stroke, sank the tool into the end of the wood.
It split part way. A jerk, and the wood fell in two halves.
“Well?” from Johnson, blankly.
“Perfectly normal wood, apparently.” I had to admit that it was impossible to distinguish the material which constituted the peculiar spot from that which surrounded it.
I sent Johnson after more varnish. Also, I secured several other fluids, including water, milk, ink, and machine oil. And when the painter returned we proceeded with a very thorough test indeed.
Presently it became clear that we were dealing with a phenomenon of the Blind Spot. All told, we poured about nine pints of liquid into an area of about twenty square inches; all on the outer surface, for the split side would absorb nothing. And to all appearances we might have continued to pour indefinitely.
Ten minutes later I went down into the basement to dispose of some rubbish. (Charlotte didn't know of this defection in our housekeeping.) It was bright sunlight outside. Thanks to the basement windows, I needed no artificial luminant. And when my gaze rested upon the ground directly under the parlour, I saw something there that I most certainly had never noticed before.
The fact is, the basement at 288 Chatterton Place never did possess anything worthy of special notice. Except for the partition which Harry Wendel and Jerome, the detective, were the first in years to penetrate—except for that secret doorway, there was nothing down there to attract attention. To be sure, there was a quantity of up-turned earth, the result of Jerome's vigorous efforts to see whether or not there was any connection between the Blind Spot phenomena which he had witnessed and the cellar. He had secured nothing but an appetite for all his digging.
However, it was still too dark for me to identify what I saw at once. I stood for a few moments, accustoming my eyes to the light. Except that the thing gleamed oddly like a piece of glass, and that it possessed a nearly circular outline about two feet across, I couldn't tell much about it.
Then I stooped and examined it closely. At once I became conscious of a smell which, somehow, I had hitherto not noticed. Small wonder; it was as indescribable a smell as one could imagine. It seemed to be a combination of several that are not generally combined.
Next instant it flashed upon me that the predominating odour was a familiar one. I had been smelling it, in fact, all the morning.
But this did not prevent me from feeling very queer, indeed, as I realised what lay before me. A curious chill passed around my shoulders, and I scarcely breathed.
poured, upstairs, into that baffling spot in the wood.
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