XX
THE HOUSE OF MIRACLES
Looking back over what has just been written, I am sensible of aprofound gratitude. I am grateful, both because I have been given theprivilege of relating these events, and because I shall not have toleave this wilderness of facts for someone else to explain.
Really, if I did not know that I shall have the pleasure of piecingtogether these phenomena and of setting my finger upon the comparativelysimple explanation; if I had to go away and leave this accountunfinished, a mere collection of curiosity-provoking mysteries, I shouldnot speak at all. I should leave the whole affair for another to finish,as it ought to be finished.
All of which, it will soon appear, I am setting forth largely in orderto brace and strengthen myself against what I must now relate.
Before resuming, however, I should mention one detail which Harry wastoo modest to mention. He was--or is--unusually good-looking. I don'tmean to claim that he possessed any Greek-god beauty; such wouldn't gibewith a height of five foot seven. No; his good looks were due to thesimple outward expression, through his features, of a certain nobleinward quality which would have made the homeliest face attractive.Selfishness will spoil the handsomest features; unselfishness willglorify.
Moreover, simply because he had given his word to Chick Watson that hewould wear the ring, Harry took upon himself the most dangerous taskthat any man could assume, and he had lost. But had he known in advanceexactly what was going to happen to him, he would have stuck to hisword, anyhow. And since there was a sporting risk attached to it, sincethe thing was not perfectly sure to end tragically, he probably enjoyedthe greater part of his experience.
But I'm not like that. Frankly, I'm an opportunist; essentially, apractical sort of fellow. I have a great admiration for idealists, buta much greater admiration for results. For instance, I have seldom givenmy word, even though the matter is unimportant; for I will cheerfullybreak my word if, later on, it should develop that the keeping of myword would do more harm than good.
I realise perfectly well that it is dangerous ground to tread upon; yetI must refer the reader to what I have accomplished in this world, asproof that my philosophy is not as bad as it looks.
I beg nobody's pardon for talking about myself so much at the outset.This account will be utterly incomprehensible if I am not understood. Mymethod of solving the Blind Spot mystery is, when analysed, merely theexpression of my personality. My sole idea has been to get RESULTS.
As Harry has put it, a proposition must be reduced to concrete formbefore I will have anything to do with it. If the Blind Spot had beena totally occult affair, demanding that the investigation be conductedunder cover of darkness, surrounded by black velvet, crystal spheres andincense; demanding the aid of a clairvoyant or other "medium," I shouldnever have gone near it. But as soon as the mystery began to manifestitself in terms that I could understand, appreciate and measure, then Itook interest.
That is why old Professor Holcomb appealed to me; he had proposed thatwe prove the occult by physical means. "Reduce it to the scope of ourfive senses," he had said, in effect. From that moment on I was hisdisciple.
I have told of hearing that sharp, welcoming bark, emitted either fromthe gem or from the air surrounding it. This event took place on thefront porch of the house at 288 Chatterton Place, as Charlotte and I satthere talking it over. We had taken a suite at the hotel, but had cometo the house of the Blind Spot in order to decide upon a course ofaction. And, in a way, that mysterious barking decided it for us.
We returned to the hotel, and gave notice that we would leave the nextday. Next, we began to make preparations for moving into the ChattertonPlace dwelling.
That afternoon, while in the midst of giving orders for furnishings andthe like, there at the hotel, I was called to the telephone. It was froma point outside the building.
"Mr. Fenton?"--in a man's voice. And when I had assured him; "You haveno reason to recognise my voice. I am--Rhamda Avec."
"The Rhamda! What do you want?"
"To speak with your sister, Mr. Fenton." Odd how very agreeable theman's tones! "Will you kindly call her to the telephone?"
I saw no objection. However, when Charlotte came to my side I whisperedfor her to keep the man waiting while I darted out into the corridor andslipped downstairs, where the girl at the switchboard put an instrumentinto the circuit for me. Money talks. However--
"My dear child," the voice of Avec was saying, "you do me an injustice.I have nothing but your welfare at heart. I assure you that if anythingshould happen to you and your brother while at Chatterton Place, it willbe through no fault of mine.
"At the same time I can positively assure you that, if you stay awayfrom there, no harm will come to either of you; absolutely none! I canguarantee that. Don't ask me why; but, if you value your safety, staywhere you are, or go elsewhere, anywhere other than to the house inChatterton Place."
"I can hardly agree with you, Mr. Avec." Plainly Charlotte was deeplyimpressed with the man's sincerity and earnestness. "My brother'sjudgment is so much better than mine, that I--" and she pausedregretfully.
"I only wish," with his remarkable gracefulness, "that your intuitionwere as strong as your loyalty to your brother. If it were, you wouldknow that I speak the truth when I say that I have only your welfare atheart."
"I--I am sorry, Mr. Avec."
"Fortunately, there is one alternative," even more agreeable thanbefore. "If you prefer not to take my advice, but cling to yourbrother's decision, you can still avoid the consequences of hisdetermination to live in that house. As I say, I cannot prevent harmfrom befalling you, under present conditions; but these conditionscan be completely altered if you will make a single concession, MissFenton."
"What is it?" eagerly.
"That you give me the ring!"
He paused for a very tense second. I wished I could see his peculiar,young-old face--the face with the inscrutable eyes; the face that urged,rather than inspired, both curiosity and confidence.
Then he added:
"I know why you wear it; I realise that the trinket carries some verytender associations. And I would never ask such a concession did I notknow, were your beloved here at this moment, he would endorse every wordthat I say, and--"
"Harry!" cried Charlotte, her voice shaking. "He would tell me to giveit to you?"
"I am sure of it! It is as though he, through me, were urging you to dothis!"
For some moments there was silence. Charlotte must have beentremendously impressed. It certainly was amazing the degree ofconfidence that Avec's voice induced. I wouldn't have been greatlysurprised had my sister--
"Mr. Avec," came Charlotte's voice, hesitatingly, almost sorrowfully."I--I would like to believe you; but--but Harry himself gave me thering, and I feel--oh, I'm sure that my brother would never agree to it!"
"I understand." Somehow the fellow managed to conceal any disappointmenthe may have felt. He contrived to show only a deep sympathy forCharlotte as he finished: "If I find it possible to protect you, Ishall, Miss Fenton."
After it was all over, and I returned to the rooms, Charlotte andI concluded that it might have been better had we made some sort ofcompromise. If we had made a partial concession, he might have told ussomething of the mystery. We ought to have bargained. We decided that ifhe made any attempt to carry out what I felt sure were merely a thinlyveiled threat to punish us for keeping the gem, we must not only beready for whatever he might do, but try to trap and keep him as well.
That same day found us back at Chatterton Place. Inside, there wasaltogether too much evidence that the place had been bachelors'quarters.
The first step was to clean up. We hired lots of help, and made a quickthorough job of both floors. The basement we left untouched. And thenext day we put a force of painters and decorators to work; wherebyhangs the tale.
"Mr. Fenton," called the head painter, as he varnished the "trim" in theparlour, "I wish you'd come and see what to make of this."
I stepped into the front room. He was pointing to the long piece offinish which spanned the doorway leading into the dining-room. And heindicated a spot almost in the exact middle, a spot covering a spaceabout five inches broad and as high as the width of the wood. In outlineit was roughly octagonal.
"I've been trying my best," stated Johnson, "to varnish that spot forthe past five minutes. But I'll be darned if I can do it!"
And he showed what he meant. Every other part of the door glistenedwith freshly applied varnish; but the octagonal region remained dull, asthough no liquid had ever touched it. Johnson dipped his brush into thecan, and applied a liberal smear of the fluid to the place. Instantlythe stuff disappeared.
"Blamed porous piece of wood," eyeing me queerly. "Or--do you think it'smerely porous, Mr. Fenton?"
For answer I took a brush and repeatedly daubed the place. It was likedropping ink on a blotter. The wood sucked up the varnish as a desertmight suck up water.
"There's about a quart of varnish in the wood already," observedJohnson, as I stared and pondered. "Suppose we take it down and weighit?"
Inside of a minute we had that piece of trim down from its place. First,I carefully examined the timber framework behind, expecting to seetraces of the varnish where, presumably, it had seeped through. Therewas no sign. Then I inspected the reverse side of the finish, justbehind the peculiar spot. I thought I might see a region of wide openpores in the grain of the pine. But the back looked exactly the same asthe front, with no difference in the grain at any place.
Placing the finish right side up, I proceeded to daub the spot somemore. There was no change in the results. At last I took the can, andwithout stopping, poured a quart and a half of the fluid into thatparadoxical little area.
"Well I'll be darned!"--very loudly from Johnson. But when I looked up Isaw his face was white, and his lips shaking.
His nerves were all a-jangle. To give his mind a rest, I sent him for ahatchet. When he came back his face had regained its colour. I directedhim to hold the pine upright, while I, with a single stroke, sank thetool into the end of the wood.
It split part way. A jerk, and the wood fell in two halves.
"Well?" from Johnson, blankly.
"Perfectly normal wood, apparently." I had to admit that it wasimpossible to distinguish the material which constituted the peculiarspot from that which surrounded it.
I sent Johnson after more varnish. Also, I secured several other fluids,including water, milk, ink, and machine oil. And when the painterreturned we proceeded with a very thorough test indeed.
Presently it became clear that we were dealing with a phenomenon of theBlind Spot. All told, we poured about nine pints of liquid into an areaof about twenty square inches; all on the outer surface, for thesplit side would absorb nothing. And to all appearances we might havecontinued to pour indefinitely.
Ten minutes later I went down into the basement to dispose of somerubbish. (Charlotte didn't know of this defection in our housekeeping.)It was bright sunlight outside. Thanks to the basement windows, I neededno artificial luminant. And when my gaze rested upon the ground directlyunder the parlour, I saw something there that I most certainly had nevernoticed before.
The fact is, the basement at 288 Chatterton Place never did possessanything worthy of special notice. Except for the partition whichHarry Wendel and Jerome, the detective, were the first in years topenetrate--except for that secret doorway, there was nothing down thereto attract attention. To be sure, there was a quantity of up-turnedearth, the result of Jerome's vigorous efforts to see whether or notthere was any connection between the Blind Spot phenomena which he hadwitnessed and the cellar. He had secured nothing but an appetite for allhis digging.
However, it was still too dark for me to identify what I saw at once. Istood for a few moments, accustoming my eyes to the light. Except thatthe thing gleamed oddly like a piece of glass, and that it possesseda nearly circular outline about two feet across, I couldn't tell muchabout it.
Then I stooped and examined it closely. At once I became conscious of asmell which, somehow, I had hitherto not noticed. Small wonder; itwas as indescribable a smell as one could imagine. It seemed to be acombination of several that are not generally combined.
Next instant it flashed upon me that the predominating odour was afamiliar one. I had been smelling it, in fact, all the morning.
But this did not prevent me from feeling very queer, indeed, as Irealised what lay before me. A curious chill passed around my shoulders,and I scarcely breathed.
At my feet lay a pool, composed of all the various liquids that had beenpoured, upstairs, into that baffling spot in the wood.