Perhaps I was frightened. I do not know. I looked around. The sound of Watson's footsteps had died away; there was a light in the back of the building coming toward us.
“Nothing! Only—damn this place, Hobart. Don't you notice it? It's enough to eat your heart out.”
“Rather interesting,” said Hobart. It was too interesting for me. I stepped over to the shelves and looked at the titles. Sanskrit and Greek; German and French—the Vedas, Sir Oliver Lodge, Besant, Spinoza, a conglomeration of all ages and tongues; a range of metaphysics that was as wide as Babel, and about as enlightening. As Babel? Over my shoulders came the strangest sound of all, weak, piping, tremulous, fearful—“Now there are two. Now there are two.” My heart gave a fearful leap. “Soon there will be three! Soon—”
I turned suddenly about. I had a fearful thought. I looked at Hobart. A strange, insidious fear clutched at me. Was the thought intrinsic? If not, where had it come from? Three? I strained my ears to hear Watson's footsteps. He was in the back part of the building. I must have some air.
“I'm going to open the door, Hobart,” I spoke. “The front door, and look out into the street.”
“Don't blame you much. Feel a bit that way myself. About time for Dr. Higgins. Here comes Chick again. Take a look outside and see if the doc is coming.”
I opened the door and looked out into the dripping fog bank. What a pair of fools we were! We both knew it, and we were both seeking an excuse. In the next room through the curtains I could see the weak form of Watson; he was bearing a light.
Suddenly the light went out.
I was at high tension; the mere fact of the light was nothing, but it meant a world at that moment—a strange sound—a struggle—then the words of Watson—Chick Watson's:
“Harry! Harry! Hobart! Harry! Come here! It's the Blind Spot!”