"I don't understand," he spoke. "Who are you?"
It was Sir Henry this time. "Mr. Watson, we are a sort of
committee. This is the house at 288 Chatterton Place. We are after
the great secret that was discovered by Dr. Holcomb. We were
summoned by Hobart Fenton."
Consciousness is an enigma. Hitherto Watson had been almost inert;
his actions and manner of speech had been mechanical. That it was
the natural result of the strange force that had thrown him out,
no one doubted. The mention of Hobart Fenton jerked him into the
full vigour of wide-awake thinking; he straightened himself.
"Hobart! Hobart Fenton! Where is he?"
"That we do not know," answered Sir Henry. "He was here a moment
ago. It is almost too impossible for belief. Perhaps you can tell
us."
"You mean--"
"Exactly. Into the Blind Spot. One and the other; your coming was
coincident with his going!"
Chick raised up. Even in that faint light they could appreciate
the full vigour of his splendid form. He was even more of an
athlete than in his college days, before the Blind Spot took him.
And when he realised what Sir Henry had said he held up one
magnificent arm, almost in the manner of benediction:
"Hobart has gone through? Thank Heaven for that!"
It was a puzzle. True, in that little group there was represented
the accumulated wisdom of human effort. With the possible
exception of the general, there was not a sceptic among them.
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