It was a sorry sight. We straightened up
the shelves and returned the books to their places.
It was getting along toward morning. Hobart sailed at nine
o'clock. We must have new clothing and some coffee; likewise we
must collect our wits. I had the ring, and had given my pledge to
Watson. I was muddled. We must get down to sane action. First of
all we must return to our rooms.
The fog had grown thicker; one could almost taste it. I couldn't
suppress a shudder. It was cold, dank, repressive. Neither of us
spoke a word on our way downtown. Hobart opened the door to our
apartment; he turned on the lights.
In a few moments we had hot, steaming cups of coffee. Still we did
not speak. Hobart sat in his chair, his elbows on the table and
his head between his hands. My thoughts ran back to that day in
college when he said "I was just thinking, Harry, if I had one
hundred thousand dollars, I would solve the Blind Spot."
That was long ago. We had neither of us thought that we would come
to the fact.
"Well," I spoke, "have you got that hundred thousand dollars? You
had an idea once."
He looked up. "I've got it yet. I am not certain. It is merely a
theory. But it's not impossible."
"Well, what is it?"
He took another drink of coffee and settled back in his chair.
"It is energy, Harry--force. Nothing but energy--and Nature."
"Then it's not occult?" I asked.
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