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. They were ready to explain almost anything—but this.
In the natural weakness of futility they had come to associate the aspect of death or terror with the Blind Spot. Yet, here was Watson! Watson, alive and strong; he was the reverse of what they had subconsciously expected.
“What is this Blind Spot?” inquired Sir Henry evenly. “And what do you mean by giving thanks that Fenton has gone into it?”
“Not now. Not one word of explanation until—What time is it?” Watson broke off to demand.
They told him. He began to talk rapidly, with amazing force and decision, and in a manner whose sincerity left no chance for doubt.
“Then we have five hours! Not one second to lose. Do what I say, and answer my questions!” Then: “We must not fail; one slip, and the whole world will be engulfed—in the unknown! Turn on the lights.”
There was that in the personality and the vehemence of the man that precluded opposition. Out of the Blind Spot had come a dynamic quality, along with the man; a quickening influence that made Watson swift, sure, and positive. Somehow they knew it was a moment of Destiny.
Watson went on: