“It's no use, Harry--no use. We might have known better. It can't be done. Yet you say you saw a string of incandescence.” “A single string; the form of Watson; a blur--then nothing,” I answered. He thought. He quoted the professor: “'Out of the occult I shall bring you the proof and the substance. It will be concrete--within the reach of your senses.' Isn't that what the doctor said?” “Then you believe Professor Holcomb?” “Why not? Didn't we see it? I know a deal of material science; but nothing like this. I always had faith in Dr. Holcomb. After all, it's not impossible. First we must go over the house thoroughly.” We did. Most of all, we were interested in that bell. We did not think, either of us, that so much noise could come out of nothing. It was too material. The other we could credit to the occult; but not the sound. It had drowned our consciousness; perhaps it had saved us from the Rhamda. But we found nothing. We went over the house systematically. It was much as it had been previously described, only now a bit more furnished. The same dank, musty smell and the same suggestive silence. We returned to the lower floor and the library. It was a sorry sight. We straightened up the shelves and returned the books to their places. It was getting along toward morning. Hobart sailed at nine o'clock. We must have new clothing and some coffee; likewise we must collect our wits. I had the ring, and had given my pledge to Watson. I was muddled. We must get down to sane action. First of all we must return to our rooms. The fog had grown thicker; one could almost taste it. I couldn't suppress a shudder. It was cold, dank, repressive. Neither of us spoke a word on our way downtown. Hobart opened the door to our apartment; he turned on the lights. In a few moments we had hot, steaming cups of coffee. Still we did not speak. Hobart sat in his chair, his elbows on the table and his head between his hands. My thoughts ran back to that day in college when he said “I was just thinking, Harry, if I had one hundred thousand dollars, I would solve the Blind Spot.” That was long ago. We had neither of us thought that we would come to the fact. “Well,” I spoke, “have you got that hundred thousand dollars? You had an idea once.” He looked up. “I've got it yet. I am not certain. It is merely a theory. But it's not impossible.” “Well, what is it?” He took another drink of coffee and settled back in his chair. “It is energy, Harry--force. Nothing but energy--and Nature.” “Then it's not occult?” I asked. “Certainly it is. I didn't say that. It is what the professor promised. Something concrete for our senses. If the occult is, it can certainly be proven. The professor was right. It is energy, force, vibration. It has a law. The old doctor was caught somehow. We must watch our step and see that we aren't swallowed up also. Perhaps we shall go the way of Watson.” I shuddered. “I hope not. But explain. You speak in volumes. Come back to earth.”