He held the glass up to my lips. He was speaking.
"Don't worry. Don't worry. I know now. I think I know. I was just
in time to see them go. I heard the bell. Harry is safe. It is the
Nervina. I shall get Harry. We'll solve the Blind Spot."
XIX
HOBART FENTON TAKES UP THE TALE
Right here at the outset, I had better make a clean breast of
something which the reader will very soon suspect, anyhow: I am a
plain, unpoetic, blunt-speaking man, trained as a civil engineer,
and in most respects totally dissimilar from the man who wrote the
first account of the Blind Spot.
Harry had already touched upon this. He came of an artistic
family. I think he must have taken up law in the hope that the old
saying would prove true: "The only certain thing about law is its
uncertainty." For he dearly loved the mysterious, the unknowable;
he liked uncertainty for its excitement: and it is a mighty good
thing that he was honest, for he would have made a highly
dangerous crook.
Observe that I use the past tense in referring to my old friend. I
do this in the interests of strict, scientific accuracy, to
satisfy those who would contend that, having utterly vanished from
sight and sound of man, Harry Wendel is no more.
But in my own heart is the firm conviction that he is still very
much alive.
Within an hour of his astounding disappearance, my sister,
Charlotte, and I made our way to an hotel; and despite the
terrible nature of what had happened, we managed to get a few
hours rest.
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