There was not even the dog. Queen had gone! In a vain rush of grief I began calling and whistling. It was an overwhelming moment. The poor, brave shepherd. She had seen it and rushed into its face.
It was the last night I was to have Jerome. We sat up until daylight. For the thousandth time we went over the house in detail, but there was nothing. Only the ring. At the suggestion of the detective I touched the match to the sapphire. It was the same. The colour diminishing, and the translucent corridors deepening into the distance; then the blur and the coming of shadows—the men, Watson and the professor—and my dog.
Of the men, only the heads showed; but the dog was full figure; she was sitting, apparently on a pedestal, her tongue was lolling out of her mouth and her face of that gentle intelligence which only the Australian shepherd is heir to. That is all—no more—nothing. If we had hoped to discover anything through her medium we were disappointed. Instead of clearing up, the whole thing had grown deeper.
I have said that it was the last night I was to have Jerome. I didn't know it then. Jerome went out early in the morning. I went to bed. I was not afraid in the daylight. I was certain now that the danger was localised. As long as I kept out of that apartment I had nothing to fear. Nevertheless, the thing was magnetic. A subtle weirdness pervaded the building. I did not sleep soundly. I was lonely; the isolation was crowding on me. In the afternoon I stepped out on the streets.
I have spoken of my experience with the conductor. On this day I had the certainty of my isolation; it was startling. In the face of what I was and what I had seen it was almost terrifying. It was the first time I thought of sending for Hobart. I had thought I could hold out. The complete suddenness of the thing set me to thinking. I thought of Watson. It was the last phase, the feebleness, the wanness, the inertia! He had been a far stronger man than I in the beginning.
I must cable Fenton. While I had still an ego in the presence of men, I must reach out for help. It was a strange thing and inexplicable. I was not invisible. Don't think that. I simply did not individualise. Men didn't notice me—till I spoke. As if I was imperceptibly losing the essence of self. I still had some hold on the world. While it remained I must get word to Hobart. 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?