It was a long room, pear-shaped, and fitted up like the most elaborate sort of laboratory. And at the far end, seated in the midst of a strange array of crystals, retorts and unfamiliar apparatus, was a man whom the two instantly recognised. It was the missing professor, looking just as they remembered him from the days when they sat in his class in Berkeley. There was the same trim figure, the same healthy cheeks, pleasant eyes and close-cropped white beard. Always there had been something imperturbable about the doctor--he had that poise and equanimity which is ever the balance of sound judgment. Neither Chick nor Harry expected any rush of emotion, and they were not disappointed. Holcomb rose to his feet, revealing on the table before him a queer, dancing light which he had been studying. He touched something; the light vanished, and simultaneously there came an unnameable change in the appearance of certain of those puzzling crystals. The doctor stepped forward, hand extended, smiling; surely he did not look or act like a prisoner. “Well, well,” spoke he; “at last! Chick Watson and Harry Wendel! You're very welcome. Was it a long journey?” His eyes twinkled in the old way. He didn't wait for their replies. He went on: “Have we solved the Blind Spot? It seems that my pupils never desert me. Let me ask: have you solved the Blind Spot?” “We've solved nothing, professor. What we have come for is, first, yourself; and second, for the secrets you have found. It is for us to ask--what is the Blind Spot?” The professor shook his head. “You were always a poor guesser, Mr. Wendel. Perhaps Chick, now--” “Put me down as unprepared,” answered Chick. “I'm like Harry--I want to know!” “Perhaps there are a lot of us in the same fix,” laughed Holcomb. “We, who know more than any men who ever lived, want to know still more! It may be, after all, that we know very little; even though we have solved the problem.” His eyes twinkled again, aggravatingly. “Tell us, then!” from Harry, on impulse as always. “What is the Blind Spot?” But Holcomb shook his head. “Not just now, Harry; we have company.” The Geos and the Jan had entered. “Besides, I am not quite ready. There remain several tangles to be unravelled.” As he shook hands with the Geos, he spoke in the Thomahlian tongue. “You are more than welcome.” The Rhamda bent low in reverence and awe. His voice was hushed. He spoke: “Art thou the Jarados, my lord?” “Aye,” stated the doctor. “I am he; I am the Jarados!” It was a stagger for both young men. Neither could reconcile the great professor of his schooldays with this strange, philosophic prophet of the occult Thomahlians. What was the connection? What was the fate that was leading, urging, compelling it all? “Professor, you will pardon our eagerness. Both Harry and I have had adventures, without understanding what it was all about. Can't you explain? Where are we? And--why?” And then: