Hobart spoke up.
“What is it, Chick? I have a suspicion. Am I right?”
Chick looked up; he closed his eyes.
“All right, Hobart, what's your suspicion?”
Fenton leaned over. It seemed to me that he was peering into the other's soul. He touched his forearm.
“Chick, old boy, I think I know. But tell me. Am I right? It's the Blind Spot.”
At the words Watson opened his eyes; they were full of hope and wonder, for a moment, and then, as suddenly of a great despair. His body went to a heap. His voice was feeble.
“Yes,” he answered, “I am dying—of the Blind Spot”