I had been warned by Watson. But I had not guessed. At the moment I sensed it. It was the beginning. Out of my heart I could feel it--solitude. In the great and populous city I was to be alone, in all its teeming life I was to be a stranger. It has been almost a year--a year! It has been a lifetime. A breaking down of life! I have waited and fought and sought to conquer. One cannot fight against shadow. It is merciless and inexorable. There are secrets that may be locked forever. It was my duty, my pledge to Watson, what I owed to the professor. I have hung on grimly; what the end will be I do not know. I have cabled for Fenton. XII A DEAL IN PROPERTY But to return. There was work that I should do--much work if I was going after the solution. In the first place, there was the house. I turned my back to the waterfront and entered the city. The streets were packed, the commerce of man jostled and threaded along the highways; there was life and action, hope, ambition. It was what I had loved so well. Yet now it was different. I realised it vaguely, and wondered. This feeling of aloofness? It was intrinsic, coming from within, like the withering of one's marrow. I laughed at my foreboding; it was not natural; I tried to shake myself together. I had no difficulty with the records. In less than an hour I traced out the owners, “an estate,” and had located the agent. It just so happened that he was a man with whom I had some acquaintance. We were not long in coming 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.