Chapter VIII: The Nervina

For a moment we were silent. The jewel reposed upon the table. What was the secret of its phenomena? I could think of nothing in science that would explain it. How had Watson come into its possession? What was the tale he had to tell? The lean, long finger that clutched for brandy! What force was this that had driven him to such a verge? He was resigned; though he was defiant he had already conceded his surrender. Dr. Hansen spoke.

“Watson,” he asked, “what do you know about the Blind Spot?”

“Nothing.”

We all turned to Chick. Hobart ordered more brandy. The doctor’s eyes went to slits. I could not but wonder.

“Chick,” I asked, “who is Rhamda Avec?”

Watson turned.

“You saw him a few minutes ago? You saw him with me? Let me ask you.”

“Yes,” I answered, “I saw him. Most people did. Is he invisible? Is he really the phantom they say?”

Somehow the mention of the name made him nervous; he looked cautiously about the room.

“That I don’t know, Harry. It--If I can only get my wits together. Is he a phantom? Yes, I think so. I can’t understand him. At least, he has the powers we attribute to an apparition. He is strange and unaccountable. Sometimes you see him, sometimes you don’t. The first known of him was on the day Professor Holcomb was to deliver his lecture on the Blind Spot. He was tracked, you know, to the very act. Then came in the Nervina.”

“And who is the Nervina?”

Watson looked at me blankly.

“The Nervina?” he asked, “The Nervina--what do you know about the Nervina?”

“Nothing. You mentioned her just now.”

His mind seemed to ramble. He looked about the room rather fearfully. Perhaps he was afraid.

“Did I mention her? I don’t know, Harry, my wits are muddled. The Nervina? She is a goddess. Never was and never will be woman. She loves; she never hates, and still again she does not love. She is beautiful; too beautiful for man. I’ve quit trying.”

“Is she Rhamda’s wife?”

His eyes lit fire.

“No!”

“Do you love her?”

He went blank again; but at last he spoke slowly.

“No, I don’t love her. What’s the use? She’s not for me. I did; but I learned better. I was after the professor--and the Blind Spot. She--”

Again that look of haunted pursuit. He glanced about the room. Whatever had been his experience, it was plain that he had not given up. He held something and he held it still. What was it?

“You say you didn’t find the Blind Spot?”

“No, I did not find it.”

“Have you any idea?”

“My dear Harry,” he answered, “I am full of ideas. That’s the trouble. I am near it. It’s the cause of my present condition. I don’t know just what it is nor where. A condition, or a combination of phenomena. You remember the lecture that was never delivered? Had the doctor spoken that morning the world would have had a great fact. He had made a great discovery. It is a terrible thing.” He turned the ring so we could all see it--beyond all doubt it was the doctor. “There he is--the professor. If he could only speak. The secret of the ages. Just think what it means. Where is he? I have taken that jewel to the greatest lapidaries and they have one and all been startled. Then they all come to the same conclusion--trickery--Chinese or Hindu work, they say; most of them want to cut.”

“Have you taken it to the police?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I would simply be laughed at.”

“Have you ever reported this Rhamda?”

“A score of times. They have come and sought; but every time he has gone out--like a shadow. It’s got to be an old story now. If you call them up and tell them they laugh.”

“How do you account for it?”

“I don’t. I--I--I’m just dying.”

“And not one member of the force--surely?”

“Oh, yes. There’s one. You have heard of Jerome. Jerome followed the professor and the Rhamda to the house of the Blind Spot, as he calls it. He’s not a man to fool. He had eyes and he saw it. He will not leave it till he’s dead.”

“But he did not see the Blind Spot, did he? How about trickery? Did it ever occur to you that the professor might have been murdered?”

“Take a look at that, Harry. Does that look like murder? When you see the man living?”

Watson reached over and turned up the jewel.

Here Hobart came in.

“Just a minute, Chick. My wise friend here is an attorney. He’s always the first into everything, especially conversation. It’s been my job pulling Harry out of trouble. Just one question.”

“All right.”

“Didn’t you--er--keep company, as they say, with Bertha Holcomb while at college?”

A kind look came into the man’s eyes; he nodded; his whole face was soft and saddened.

“I see. That naturally brought you to the Blind Spot. You are after her father. Am I correct?”

“Exactly.”

“All right. Perhaps Bertha has taken you into some of her father’s secrets. He undoubtedly had data on this Blind Spot. Have you ever been able to locate it?”

“No!”

“I see. This Rhamda? Has he ever sought that data?”

“Many, many times.”

“Does he know you haven’t got it?”

“No.”

“So. I understand. You hold the whip hand through your ignorance. Rhamda is your villain--and perhaps this Nervina? Who is she?”

“A goddess.”

Hobart smiled.

“Oh, yes!” He laughed. “A goddess. Naturally! They all are. There are about forty in this room at the present moment, my dear fellow. Watch them dance!”

Now I had picked up the ring. It just fitted the natural finger. I tried it on and looked into the jewel. The professor was growing dimmer. The marvellous blue was returning, a hue of fascination; not the hot flash of the diamond, but the frozen light of the iceberg. It was frigid, cold, terrible, blue, alluring. To me at the moment it seemed alive and pulselike. I could not account for it. I felt the lust for possession. Perhaps there was something in my face. Watson leaned over and touched me on the arm.

“Harry,” he asked, “do you think you can stand up under the burden? Will you take my place?”

I looked into his eyes; in their black depths was almost entreaty. How haunting they were, and beseeching.

“Will you take my place?” he begged. “Are you willing to give up all that God gives to the fortunate? Will you give up your practice? Will you hold out to the end? Never surrender? Will--”

“You mean will I take this ring?”

He nodded.

“Exactly. But you must know beforehand. It would be murder to give it to you without the warning. Either your death or that of Dr. Holcomb. It is not a simple jewel. It defies description. It takes a man to wear it. It is subtle and of destruction; it eats like a canker; it destroys the body; it frightens the soul--”

“An ominous piece of finery,” I spoke. “Wherein--”

But Watson interrupted. There was appeal in his eyes.

“Harry,” he went on, “I am asking. Somebody has got to wear this ring. He must be a man. He must be fearless; he must taunt the devil. It is hard work, I assure you. I cannot last much longer. You loved the old doctor. If we get at this law we have done more for mankind than either of us may do with his profession. We must save the old professor. He is living and he is waiting. There are perils and forces that we do not know of. The doctor went at it alone and fearless; he succumbed to his own wisdom. I have followed after, and I have been crushed down--perhaps by my ignorance. I am not afraid. But I don’t want my work to die. Somebody has got to take it on and you are the man.”

They were all of them looking at me. I studied the wonderful blue and its light. The image of the great professor had dimmed almost completely. It was a sudden task and a great one. Here was a law; one of the great secrets of Cosmos. What was it? Somehow the lure caught into my vitals. I couldn’t picture myself ever coming to the extremity of my companion. Besides, it was a duty. I owed it to the old doctor. It seemed somehow that he was speaking. Though Watson did the talking I could feel him calling. Would I be afraid? Besides, there was the jewel. It was calling; already I could feel it burning into my spirit. I looked up.