The Blind Spot, Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall [books to read for 13 year olds txt] 📗

cover of darkness, surrounded by black velvet, crystal spheres and incense; demanding the aid of a clairvoyant or other “medium,” I should never have gone near it. But as soon as the mystery began to manifest itself in terms that I could understand, appreciate and measure, then I took interest.

That is why old Professor Holcomb appealed to me; he had proposed that we prove the occult by physical means. “Reduce it to the scope of our five senses,” he had said, in effect. From that moment on I was his disciple.

I have told of hearing that sharp, welcoming bark, emitted either from the gem or from the air surrounding it. This event took place on the front porch of the house at 288 Chatterton Place, as Charlotte and I sat there talking it over. We had taken a suite at the hotel, but had come to the house of the Blind Spot in order to decide upon a course of action. And, in a way, that mysterious barking decided it for us.

We returned to the hotel, and gave notice that we would leave the next day. Next, we began to make preparations for moving into the Chatterton Place dwelling.

That afternoon, while in the midst of giving orders for furnishings and the like, there at the hotel, I was called to the telephone. It was from a point outside the building.

“Mr. Fenton?”—in a man's voice. And when I had assured him; “You have no 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 the man's tones! “Will you kindly call her to the telephone?”

I saw no objection. However, when Charlotte came to my side I whispered for her to keep the man waiting while I darted out into the corridor and slipped downstairs, where the girl at the switchboard put an instrument into 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 anything should happen to you and your brother while at Chatterton Place, it will be through no fault of mine.

“At the same time I can positively assure you that, if you stay away from there, no harm will come to either of you; absolutely none! I can guarantee that. Don't ask me why; but, if you value your safety, stay where you are, or go elsewhere, anywhere other than to the house in Chatterton Place.”

“I can hardly agree with you, Mr. Avec.” Plainly Charlotte was deeply impressed with the man's sincerity and earnestness. “My brother's judgment is so much better than mine, that I—” and she paused regretfully.

“I only wish,” with his remarkable gracefulness, “that your intuition were as strong as your loyalty to your brother. If it were, you would know that I speak the truth when I say that I have only your welfare at heart.”

“I—I am sorry, Mr. Avec.”

“Fortunately, there is one alternative,” even more agreeable than before. “If you prefer not to take my advice, but cling to your brother's decision, you can still avoid the consequences of his determination to live in that house. As I say, I cannot prevent harm from befalling you, under present conditions; but these conditions can be completely altered if you will make a single concession, Miss Fenton.”

“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 very tender associations. And I would never ask such a concession did I not know, were your beloved here at this moment, he would endorse every word that I say, and—”

“Harry!” cried Charlotte, her voice shaking. “He would tell me to give it to you?”

“I am sure of it! It is as though he, through me, were urging you to do this!”

For some moments there was silence. Charlotte must have been tremendously impressed. It certainly was amazing the degree of confidence that Avec's voice induced. I wouldn't have been greatly surprised 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 the ring, and I feel—oh, I'm sure that my brother would never agree to it!”

“I understand.” Somehow the fellow managed to conceal any disappointment he may have felt. He contrived to show only a deep sympathy for Charlotte as he finished: “If I find it possible to protect you, I shall, Miss Fenton.”

After it was all over, and I returned to the rooms, Charlotte and I concluded that it might have been better had we made some sort of compromise. If we had made a partial concession, he might have told us something of the mystery. We ought to have bargained. We decided that if he made any attempt to carry out what I felt sure were merely a thinly veiled threat to punish us for keeping the gem, we must not only be ready 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 was altogether 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 quick thorough job of both floors. The basement we left untouched. And the next day we put a force of painters and decorators to work; whereby hangs the tale.

“Mr. Fenton,” called the head painter, as he varnished the “trim” in the parlour, “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 of finish which spanned the doorway leading into the dining-room. And he indicated a spot almost in the exact middle, a spot covering a space about five inches broad and as high as the width of the wood. In outline it was roughly octagonal.

“I've been trying my best,” stated Johnson, “to varnish that spot for the 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 glistened with freshly applied varnish; but the octagonal region remained dull, as though no liquid had ever touched it. Johnson dipped his brush into the can, and applied a liberal smear of the fluid to the place. Instantly the stuff disappeared.

“Blamed porous piece of wood,” eyeing me queerly. “Or—do you think it's merely porous, Mr. Fenton?”

For answer I took a brush and repeatedly daubed the place. It was like dropping ink on a blotter. The wood sucked up the varnish as a desert might suck up water.