I smiled. “Perhaps we are thinking the same thing. Is this it? The Blind Spot is a secret that man may not attain to. It is unknowable and akin to death. The Rhamda knows it. He couldn't head off the professor. He simply employed Dr. Holcomb's wisdom to trap him; now that he has him secure, he intends to hold him. It is for our own good.” “Exactly. Yet--” “Yet?” “He was very anxious to put you and Fenton into this very Spot.” “That is so. But may it not be that we, too, knew a bit too much?” He couldn't answer that. Nevertheless, we were both of us convinced concerning the Rhamda. It was merely a digression of thought, a conjecture. He might be good; but we were both positive of his villainy. It was his motive, of course, that weighed up his character; could we find that, we would uncover everything. XIV A NEW ELEMENT Budge Kennedy was not so easily found. There were many Kennedys. About two-thirds of Ireland had apparently migrated to San Francisco under that name and had lodged in the directory. We went through the lists on both sides of the bay, but found nothing; the old directories had mostly been destroyed by fire or had been thrown away as worthless; but at last we unearthed one. In it we found the name of Budge Kennedy. He had two sons--Patrick and Henry. One of these, Henry, we ran down in the Mission. He was a great, red-headed, broad-shouldered Irishman. He was just eating supper when we called; there were splotches of white plaster on his trousers. I came right to the point: “Do you know anything about this?” I held out the ring. He took it in his fingers; his eyes popped. “What, that! Well, I guess I do! Where'd you get it?” He called out to the kitchen: “Say, Mollie, come here. Here's the old man's jool!” He looked at me a bit fearfully. “You aren't wearing it?” “Why not?” I asked. “Why? Well, I don't know exactly. I wouldn't wear it for a million dollars. It ain't a jool; it's a piece of the divil. The old man gave it to Dr. Holcomb--or sold it, I don't know which. He carried it in his pocket once, and he came near dying.” “Unlucky?” I asked. “No, it ain't unlucky; it just rips your heart out. It would make you hate your grandmother. Lonesome! Lonesome! I've often heard the old man talking.” “He sold it to Dr. Holcomb? Do you know why?” “Well, yes. 'Twas that the old doc had some scientific work. Dad told him about his jool. One day he took it over to Berkeley. It was some kind of thing that the professor just wanted. He kept it. Dad made him promise not to wear it.” “I see. Did your father ever tell you where he got it?”