I did not
delay. Straight to the office I went and paid for the cable.
CANNOT HOLD OUT MUCH LONGER. COME AT ONCE.--HARRY.
I was a bit ashamed. I had hoped. I had counted upon myself. I had
trusted in the full strength of my individuality. I had been
healthy--strong--full blooded. On the fullness of vitality one
would live forever. There is no tomorrow. It was not a year ago. I
was eighty. It had been so with Watson. What was this subtle thing
that ate into one's marrow? I had read of banshees, lemures and
leprechauns; they were the ghosts and the fairies of ignorance but
they were not like this. It was impersonal, hidden, inexorable. It
was mystery. And I believed that it was Nature.
I know it now. Even as I write I can sense the potency of the
force about me. Some law, some principle, some force that science
has not uncovered.
What is that law that shall bridge the chaos between the mystic
and the substantial? I am standing on the bridge; and I cannot see
it. What is the great law that was discovered by Dr. Holcomb? Who
is the Rhamda? Who is the Nervina?
Jerome has not returned. I cannot understand it. It has been a
week. I am living on brandy--not much of anything else--I am
waiting for Fenton. I have taken all my elaborations and notes and
put them together. Perhaps I--
(This is the last of the strange document left by Harry Wendel.
The following memorandum is written by Charlotte Fenton.
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