Chapter XXVIII: The Man From Space

Before starting the conclusion of the Blind Spot mystery it may be just as well for the two publicists who are bringing it to the press to follow Hobart Fenton’s example and go into a bit of explanation.

The two men who wrote the first two parts were participants, and necessarily writing almost in the present tense. While they could give an accurate and vivid account of their feelings and experiences, they could only guess at what lay in the future, at the events that would unravel it all.

But the present writers have the advantage of working, of seeing, of weighing in the retrospect. They know just where they are going.

The coming of Chick Watson brought new perspective. Hitherto we had been looking into the darkness. Whatever had been caught in the focus of the Spot had become lost to our five senses.

Yet, facts are facts. It was no mere trickery that had caught Dr. Holcomb in the beginning. One by one, men of the highest standards and character had been either victims or witness to its reality and power.

So the coming of Watson may well be set down as one of the deciding moments of history. He who had been the victim a year before was returning through the very Spot that had engulfed him. He was the herald of the great unknown, an ambassador of the infinite itself.

It will be remembered that of all the inmates of the house, Dr. Hansen was the only one who had a personal acquaintance with Watson. One year before the doctor had seen him a shadow--wasted, worn, exhausted. He had talked with him on that memorable night in the cafe. Well he remembered the incident, and the subject of that strange conversation--the secret of life that had been discovered by the missing Dr. Holcomb. And Dr. Hansen had pondered it often since.

What was the force that was pulsing through the Blind Spot? It had reached out on the earth, and had plucked up youth as well as wisdom. THIS was the first time it had ever given up that which it had taken!

It was Watson, sure enough; but it was not the man he had known one year before. Except for the basic features Hansen would not have recognized him; the shadow was gone, the pallor, the touch of death. He was hale and radiant; his skin had the pink glow of alert fitness; except for being dazed, he appeared perfectly natural. In the tense moment of his arrival the little group waited in silence. What had he to tell them?

But he did not see them at first. He groped about blindly, moving slowly and holding his hands before him. His face was calm and settled; its lines told decision. There was not a question in any mind present but that the man had come for a purpose.

Why could he not see? Perhaps the light was too dim. Some one thought to turn on the extra lights.

It brought the first word from Watson. He threw up both arms before his face; like one shutting out the lightning.

“Don’t!” he begged. “Don’t! Shut off the lights; you will blind me! Please; please! Darken the room!”

Sir Henry sprang to the switch. Instantly the place went to shadow; there was just enough light from the moon to distinguish the several forms grouped in the middle of the room. Dr. Hansen proffered a chair.

“Thank you! Ah! Dr. Hansen! You are here--I had thought--This is much better! I can see fairly well now. You came very near to blinding me permanently! You didn’t know. It’s the transition.” Then: “And yet--of course! It’s the moon! THE MOON!”

He stopped. There was a strange wistfulness in the last word. And suddenly he rose to his feet. He turned in gladness, as though to drink in the mellow flow of the radiance.

“The moon! Gentlemen--doctor--who are these people? This is the house of the Blind Spot! And it is the moon--the good old earth! And San Francisco!”

He stopped again. There was a bit of indecision and of wonder mixed with his gladness. The stillness was only broken by the scarcely audible voice of Mme. Le Fabre.

“Now we KNOW! It is proven. The sceptics have always asked why the spirits work only in the half light. We know now.”

Watson looked to Dr. Hansen. “Who is this lady? Who are these others?”

“Can you see them?”

“Perfectly. It is the lady in the corner; she thinks--”

“That you are a spirit!”

Watson laughed. “I a spirit? Try me and see!”

“Certainly,” asserted Mme. Le Fabre. “You are out of the Blind Spot. I know; it will prove everything!”

“Ah, yes; the Spot.” Watson hesitated. Again the indecision. There was something latent that he could not recall; though conscious, part of his mind was still in the apparent fog that lingers back into slumber.

“I don’t understand,” he spoke. “Who are you?”

It was Sir Henry this time. “Mr. Watson, we are a sort of committee. This is the house at 288 Chatterton Place. We are after the great secret that was discovered by Dr. Holcomb. We were summoned by Hobart Fenton.”

Consciousness is an enigma. Hitherto Watson had been almost inert; his actions and manner of speech had been mechanical. That it was the natural result of the strange force that had thrown him out, no one doubted. The mention of Hobart Fenton jerked him into the full vigour of wide-awake thinking; he straightened himself.

“Hobart! Hobart Fenton! Where is he?”

“That we do not know,” answered Sir Henry. “He was here a moment ago. It is almost too impossible for belief. Perhaps you can tell us.”

“You mean--”

“Exactly. Into the Blind Spot. One and the other; your coming was coincident with his going!”

Chick raised up. Even in that faint light they could appreciate the full vigour of his splendid form. He was even more of an athlete than in his college days, before the Blind Spot took him. And when he realised what Sir Henry had said he held up one magnificent arm, almost in the manner of benediction:

“Hobart has gone through? Thank Heaven for that!”

It was a puzzle. True, in that little group there was represented the accumulated wisdom of human effort. With the possible exception of the general, there was not a sceptic among them. They were ready to explain almost anything--but this.

In the natural weakness of futility they had come to associate the aspect of death or terror with the Blind Spot. Yet, here was Watson! Watson, alive and strong; he was the reverse of what they had subconsciously expected.

“What is this Blind Spot?” inquired Sir Henry evenly. “And what do you mean by giving thanks that Fenton has gone into it?”

“Not now. Not one word of explanation until--What time is it?” Watson broke off to demand.

They told him. He began to talk rapidly, with amazing force and decision, and in a manner whose sincerity left no chance for doubt.

“Then we have five hours! Not one second to lose. Do what I say, and answer my questions!” Then: “We must not fail; one slip, and the whole world will be engulfed--in the unknown! Turn on the lights.”

There was that in the personality and the vehemence of the man that precluded opposition. Out of the Blind Spot had come a dynamic quality, along with the man; a quickening influence that made Watson swift, sure, and positive. Somehow they knew it was a moment of Destiny.

Watson went on:

“First, did Hobart Fenton open the Spot? Or was it a period? By ‘period’ I mean, did it open by chance, as it did when it caught Harry and me? Just what did Hobart do? Tell me!”

It was a singular question. How could they answer it? However, Dr. Malloy related as much as he knew of what Hobart had done; his wires and apparatus were now merely a tangled mass of fused metals. Nothing remained intact but the blue gem and the red pebble.

“I see. And this pebble: you found it by digging in the cellar, I suppose.”

How did he know that? Dr. Hansen brought that curiously heavy little stone and laid it in Watson’s hand. The newcomer touched it with his finger, and for a brief moment he studied it. Then he looked up.

“It’s the small one,” he stated. “And you found it in the cellar. It was very fortunate; the opening of the Spot was perhaps a little more than half chance. But it was wonderfully lucky. It let me out. And with the help of God and our own courage we may open it again, long enough to rescue Hobart, Harry, and Dr. Holcomb. Then--we must break the chain--we must destroy the revelation; we must close the Spot forever!”

Small wonder that they couldn’t understand what he meant. Dr. Hansen thought to cut in with a practical question:

“My dear Chick, what’s inside the Spot? We want to know!”

But it was not Watson who answered. It was Mme. Le Fabre.

“Spirits, of course.”

Watson gave a sudden laugh. This time he answered:

“My dear lady, if you know what I know, and what Dr. Holcomb has discovered, you would ask YOURSELF a question or so. Possibly you yourself are a spirit!”

“What!” she gasped. “I--a spirit!”

“Exactly. But there is no time for questions. Afterwards--not now. Five hours, and we must--”

Someone came to the door. It was Jerome. At the sight of Watson he stopped, clutching the stub of his cigar between his teeth. His grey eyes took in the other’s form from head to shoe leather.

“Back?” he inquired. “What did you find out, Watson? They must have fed you well over yonder!”

And Jerome pointed toward the ceiling with his thumb. It wasn’t in his dour nature to give way to enthusiasm; this was merely his manner of welcome. Watson smiled.

“The eats were all right, Jerome, but not all the company. You’re just the man I want. We have little time; none to spare for talk. Are you in touch with Bertha Holcomb?”

The detective nodded.

Watson took the chair that Fenton had so strangely vacated and reached for paper and pencil. Once or twice he stopped to draw a line, but mostly he was calculating. He referred constantly to a paper he took from his pocket. When he was through he spread his palm over what he had written.