Works of Homer Eon Flint. Homer Eon Flint

to business.

      "The house at No. 288 Chatterton Place?"

      I noticed that he was startled; there was a bit of wonder in his look--a quizzical alertness. He motioned me to a chair and closed the door.

      "Sit down, Mr. Wendel; sit down. H-m! The house at No. 288 Chatterton Place? Did I hear you right?"

      Again I noted the wonder; his manner was cautious and curious. I nodded.

      "Want to buy it or just lease it? Pardon me, but you are sort of a friend. I would not like to lose your friendship for the sake of a mere sale. What is your--"

      "Just for a residence," I insisted. "A place to live in."

      "I see. Know anything about this place?"

      "Do you?"

      He fumbled with some papers. For an agent he did not strike me as being very solicitous for a commission.

      "Well," he said, "in a way, yes. A whole lot more than I'd like to. It all depends. One gets much from hearsay. What I know is mostly rumour." He began marking with a pencil. "Of course I don't believe it. Nevertheless I would hardly recommend it to a friend as a residence."

      "And these rumours?"

      He looked up; for a moment he studied; then:

      "Ever hear of the Blind Spot? Perhaps you remember Dr. Holcomb--in 1905, before the 'quake. It was a murder. The papers were full of it at the time; since then it has been occasionally featured in the supplements. I do not believe in the story; but I can trust to facts. The last seen of Dr. Holcomb was in this house. It is called the Blind Spot."

      "Then you believe in the story?" I asked.

      He looked at me.

      "Oh, you know it, eh? No, I do not. It's all bunkum; reporters' work and exaggeration. If you like that kind of stuff, it's weird and interesting. But it hurts property. The man was undoubtedly murdered. The tale hangs over the house. It's impossible to dispose of the place."

      "Then why not sell it to me?"

      He dropped his pencil; he was a bit nervous.

      "A fair question, Mr. Wendel--a very fair question. Well, now, why don't I? Perhaps I shall. There's no telling. But I'd rather not. Do you know, a year ago I would have jumped at an offer. Fact is, I did lease it--the lease ran out yesterday--to a man named Watson. I don't believe a thing in this nonsense; but what I have seen during the past year has tested my nerve considerably."

      "What about Watson?"

      "Watson? A year ago he came to see me in regard to this Chatterton property. Wanted to lease it. Was interested in the case of Dr. Holcomb; asked for a year's rental and the privilege of renewal. I don't know. I gave it to him; but when he drops in again I am going to fight almighty hard against letting him hold it longer."

      "Why?"

      "Why? Why, because I don't believe in murder. A year ago he came to me the healthiest and happiest man I ever saw; today he is a shadow. I watched that boy go down. Understand, I don't believe a damn word I'm saying; but I have seen it. It's that cursed house. I say no, when I reason; but it keeps on my nerves; it's on my conscience. It is insidious. Every month when he came here I could see disintegration. It's pitiful to see a young man stripped of life like that; forlorn, hopeless, gone. He has never told me what it is; but I have wondered. A battle; some conflict with--there I go again. It's on my nerves, I tell you, on my nerves. If this keeps up I'll burn it."

      It was a bit foreboding. Already I could feel the tugging at my heart that had done for Watson. This man had watched my friend slipping into the shadow; I had come to take his place.

      "Watson has gone," I said simply; "and that's why I am here."

      He straightened up.

      "You know him then. He was not--"

      "He went last night; he has left the country. He was in very poor health. That's why I am here. I know very well the cloud that hangs over the property; it is my sole reason for purchasing."

      "You don't believe in this nonsense?"

      I smiled. Certainly the man was perverse in his agnosticism; he was stubborn in disbelief. It was on his nerves; on his conscience; he was afraid.

      "I believe nothing," I answered; "neither do I disbelieve. I know all the story that has been told or written. I am a friend of Watson. You need not scruple in making me out a bill of sale. It's my own funeral. I abide by the consequences."

      He gave a sigh of relief. After all, he was human. He had honour; but it was after the brand of Pontius Pilate. He wished nothing on his conscience.

      Armed with the keys and the legal title, I took possession. In the daylight it was much as it had been the night before. Once across its threshold, one was in dank and furtive suppression; the air was heavy; a mould of age had streaked the walls and gloomed the shadows. I put up all the curtains to let in the rush of sunlight, likewise I opened the windows. If there is anything to beat down sin, it is the open measure of broad daylight.

      The house was well situated; from the front windows one could look down the street and out at the blue bay beyond the city. The fog had lifted and the sun was shining upon the water. I could make out the ferryboats, the islands, and the long piers that lead to Oakland, and still farther beyond the hills of Berkeley. It was a long time since those days in college. Under the shadow of those hills I had first met the old doctor. I was only a boy then.

      I turned into the building. Even the sound of my footsteps was foreign; the whole place was pregnant with stillness and shadow; life was gone out. It was fearful; I felt the terror clutching upon me, a grimness that may not be spoken; there was something breaking within me. I had pledged myself for a year. Frankly I was afraid.

      But I had given my word. I returned to my apartments and began that very day the closing down of my practice. In a fortnight I had completed everything and had moved my things to the room of Chick Watson.

      XIII

      ALBERT JEROME

      Just as soon as possible I hurried over to Berkeley. I went straight to the bungalow on Dwight Way; I inquired for Miss Holcomb. She was a woman now in her late twenties, decidedly pretty, a blonde, and of intelligent bearing.

      Coming on such an errand, I was at a loss just how to approach her. I noted the little lines about the corners of her eyes, the sad droop of her pretty mouth. Plainly she was worried. As I was removing my hat she caught sight of the ring upon my finger.

      "Oh," she said; "then you come from Mr. Watson. How is Chick?"

      "Mr. Watson"--I did not like lying, but I could not but feel for her; she had already lost her father--"Mr. Watson has gone on a trip up-country--with Jerome. He was not feeling well. He has left this ring with me. I have come for a bit of information."

      She bit her lips; her mouth quivered.

      "Couldn't you get this from Mr. Watson? He knows about the stone. Didn't he tell you? How did it come into your possession? What has happened?"

      Her voice was querulous and suspicious. I had endeavoured to deceive her for her own sake; she had suffered enough already. I could not but wince at the pain in her eyes. She stood up.

      "Please, Mr. Wendel; don't be clumsy. Don't regard me as a mere baby. Tell me what has happened to Chick. Please--"

      She stopped in a flow of emotion. Tears came to her eyes; but she held control. She sat down.

      "Tell me all, Mr. Wendel. It is what I expected." She blinked to hold back her tears. "It is my fault. You wouldn't have the ring had nothing happened. Tell me.