“That's just it, Harry! The man! If he were a man I could have handled him in short order. That's what I thought at first. Don't make any mistake. Don't try violence. That's the whole crux of the difficulty. If he were only a man! Unfortunately, he is not.” “Not a man!” I exclaimed. “What do you mean? Then, what is he?” “He is a phantom.” I glanced at Hobart and caught his eye. Hobart believed him! The poor pallid face of Watson, the athlete; there was nothing left to him but his soul! I shall not forget Watson as he sat there, his lean, long fingers grasping the brandy glass, his eyes burning and his life holding back from the pit through sheer will and courage. Would I come to this? Would I have the strength to measure up to his standard? Hobart broke the tension. “Chick's right. There is something in it, Harry. Not all the secrets of the universe have been unlocked by any means. Now, Chick, about details. Have you any data--any notes?” Watson rose. I could see he was grateful. “You believe me, don't you, Hobart? It is good. I had hoped to find someone, and I found you two. Harry, remember what I have told you. Hold the ring. You take my place. Whatever happens, stick out to the end. You have Hobart here to help you. Now just a minute. The library is here; you can look over my books. I shall return in a moment.” He stepped out into the hall; we could hear his weary feet dragging down the hallway--a hollow sound and a bit uncanny. Somehow my mind rambled back to that account I had read in the newspaper--Jerome's story--“Like weary bones dragging slippers.” And the old lady. Who was she? Why was everyone in this house pulled down to exhaustion--the words of the old lady, I could almost hear them; the dank air murmuring their recollection. “Now there are two. Now there are two!” “What's the matter, Harry?” Perhaps I was frightened. I do not know. I looked around. The sound of Watson's footsteps had died away; there was a light in the back of the building coming toward us. “Nothing! Only--damn this place, Hobart. Don't you notice it? It's enough to eat your heart out.” “Rather interesting,” said Hobart. It was too interesting for me. I stepped over to the shelves and looked at the titles. Sanskrit and Greek; German and French--the Vedas, Sir Oliver Lodge, Besant, Spinoza, a conglomeration of all ages and tongues; a range of metaphysics that was as wide as Babel, and about as enlightening. As Babel? Over my shoulders came the strangest sound of all, weak, piping, tremulous, fearful--“Now there are two. Now there are two.” My heart gave a fearful leap. “Soon there will be three! Soon--” I turned suddenly about. I had a fearful thought. I looked at Hobart. A strange, insidious fear clutched at me. Was the thought intrinsic? If not, where had it come from? Three? I strained my ears to hear Watson's footsteps. He was in the back part of the building. I must have some air.