"
I opened the door and looked out into the dripping fog bank. What
a pair of fools we were! We both knew it, and we were both seeking
an excuse. In the next room through the curtains I could see the
weak form of Watson; he was bearing a light.
Suddenly the light went out.
I was at high tension; the mere fact of the light was nothing, but
it meant a world at that moment--a strange sound--a struggle--then
the words of Watson--Chick Watson's:
"Harry! Harry! Hobart! Harry! Come here! It's the Blind Spot!"
It was in the next room. The despair of that call is
unforgettable, like that of one suddenly falling into space. Then
the light dropped to the floor. I could see the outlines of his
figure and a weird, single string of incandescence. Hobart turned
and I leaped. It was a blur, the form of a man melting into
nothing. I sprang into the room, tearing down the curtains. Hobart
was on top of me. But we were too late. I could feel the vibrancy
of something uncanny as I rushed across the space intervening.
Through my mind darted the thrill of terror. It had come suddenly,
and in climax. It was over before it had commenced. The light had
gone out. Only by the gleam from the other room could we make out
each others' faces. The air was vibrant, magnetic. There was no
Watson. But we could hear his voice. Dim and fearful, coming down
the corridors of time.
"Hold that ring, Harry! Hold that ring!" Then the faint despair
out of the weary distance, faint, but a whole volume:
"The Blind Spot!"
It was over as quickly as that.
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