In another moment Jerome and Hume were gone. And few people, that day, suspected the purport of that body of silent men who crossed over the Bay of San Francisco. They were grim, and trusted, and under secret orders. They had a mission, did they but know it, as important as any in history. But they knew only that they were to guard Jerome and the general at all hazards. One peculiarly heavy stone, “the size of a pea”! How are we ever to calculate its value?
As for the group remaining with Watson, not one of them ever dreamed that any danger might come out of the Blind Spot. Its manifestations had been local and mostly negative. No; the main incentive of their interest had been simply curiosity.
But apparently Watson was above them all. He paid no further attention to them for a while; he bent at Fenton's desk and worked swiftly. At length he thrust his papers aside.
“I want to see that cellar,” he announced. “That is, the point where you found that red pebble!”
Down in the basement, Sir Henry gave the details. When he came to mention the various liquids which Fenton had poured into the woodwork upstairs Watson examined the pool intently.
“Quite so. They would come out here—naturally.”
“Naturally!”
Sir Henry could not understand. His perplexity was reflected in the faces of Herold, the two physicians, Dr. Malloy, Miss Clarke, and Mme. Le Fabre—and Charlotte spoke for them all:
“Can't you explain, Mr. Watson? The woodwork had nothing whatever to do with the cellar. There was the floor between, just as you see it now.”
“Naturally,” Watson repeated. “It could be no other place! It was on its way to the other side, but it could go only half-way. Simply a matter of focus, you know. I beg pardon; you must hold your curiosity a little longer.”