The Blind Spot | Page 9

minutes. Perhaps if we hurry we can get back in time."
The doctor glanced at his watch. "Twenty minutes for the train, twenty minutes for the
boat, ten minutes; that's an hour, two hours. These details? Have you any idea how long,
Rhamda?"
"Perhaps not more than fifteen minutes."

"We have still two hours. Fifteen minutes; perhaps a little bit late. Tell you what. I shall
go with you. You can get on the boat."
We have said that the detective had intuition. He had it still. Yet he had no rational reason
for suspecting either the professor or his strange companion. Furthermore he had never
heard of the Blind Spot in any way whatsoever; nor did he know a single thing of
philosophy or anything else in Holcomb's teaching. He knew the doctor as a man of
eminent standing and respectability. It was hardly natural that he should suspect anything
sinister to grow out of this meeting of two refined scholars. He attached no great
importance to the trend of their conversation. It was strange, to be sure; but he felt, no
doubt, that living in their own world they had a way and a language of their own. He was
no scholar.
Still, he could think. The man Rhamda had made an assertion that he could not quite
uncover. It puzzled him. Something told him that for the safety of his old friend it might
be well for him to shadow the strange pair to the city.
When the next train pulled out for the pier the two scholars were seated in the forward
part of the car. In the last seat was a man deeply immersed in a morning paper.
It is rather unfortunate. In the natural delicacy of the situation Jerome could not crowd
too closely. He had no certainty of trouble; no proof whatever; he was known to the
professor. The best he could do was to keep aloof and follow their movements. At the
ferry building they hailed a taxi and started up Market Street. Jerome watched them. In
another moment he had another driver and was winding behind in their wheel tracks. The
cab made straight for Chatterton Place. In front of a substantial two-story house it drew
up. The two men alighted. Jerome's taxi passed them.
They were then at the head of the steps; a woman of slender beauty with a wonderful
loose fold of black hair was talking. It seemed to the detective that her voice was fearful,
of a pregnant warning, that she was protesting. Nevertheless, the old men entered and the
door slammed behind them. Jerome slipped from the taxi and spoke a few words to the
driver. A moment later the two men were holding the house under surveillance.
They did not have long to wait. The man called Rhamda had asked for fifteen minutes. At
the stroke of the second the front door re-opened. Someone was laughing; a melodious
enchanting laugh and feminine. A woman was speaking. And then there were two forms
in the doorway. A man and a woman. The man was Rhamda Avec, tall, immaculate,
black clad and distinguished. The woman, Jerome was not certain that she was the same
who opened the door or not; she was even more beautiful. She was laughing. Like her
companion she was clad in black, a beautiful shimmering material which sparkled in the
sun like the rarest silk. The man glanced carelessly up and down the street for a moment.
Then he assisted the lady down the steps and into the taxi. The door slammed; and before
the detective could gather his scattered wits they were lost in the city.
Jerome was expecting the professor. Naturally when the door opened he looked for the
old gentleman and his companion. It was the doctor he was watching, not the other.

Though he had no rational reason for expecting trouble he had still his hunch and his
intuition. The man and woman aroused suspicion; and likewise upset his calculation. He
could not follow them and stay with the professor. It was a moment for quick decision.
He wondered. Where was Dr. Holcomb? This was the day he was to deliver his lecture on
the Blind Spot. He had read the announcement in the paper on the way back, together
with certain comments by the editor. In the lecture itself there was mystery. This strange
one, Rhamda, was mixed in the Blind Spot. Undoubtedly he was the essential fact and
substance. Until now he had not scented tragedy. Why had Rhamda and the woman come
out together? Where was the professor?
Where indeed?
At the end of a half-hour Jerome ventured across the street. He noted the number 288.
Then he ascended the steps and clanged at the knocker. From the