Watson laughed. “I a spirit? Try me and see!”
“Certainly,” asserted Mme. Le Fabre. “You are out of the Blind Spot. I know; it will prove everything!”
“Ah, yes; the Spot.” Watson hesitated. Again the indecision. There was something latent that he could not recall; though conscious, part of his mind was still in the apparent fog that lingers back into slumber.
“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!”