The Blind Spot by Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall (black female authors txt) 📗

As soon as the fresh air had revived us somewhat, we first of all examined Ariadne. She still lay unconscious, very pale, and alarmingly limp. I picked her up and carried her into the next room, where there was a sofa, while Jerome went for water and Charlotte brought smelling-salts.

Neither of these had any effect. Ariadne seemed to be scarcely breathing; her heart beat only faintly, and there was no response to such other methods as friction, slapping, or pinching of fingernails.

“We had better call a doctor,” decided Charlotte promptly, and went to the phone.

I picked up the card which the Rhamda had left. It contained simply his name, together with one other word—the name of a morning newspaper. Evidently he meant for us to insert an advertisement as soon as we were ready to capitulate.

“Not yet!” the three of us decided, after talking it over. And we waited as patiently as we could during the fifteen minutes that elapsed before the telephoning got results.

It brought Dr. Hansen, who, it may be remembered, was closely identified with the Chick Watson disappearance. He made a rapid but very careful examination.

“It has all the appearance of a mild electric shock. What caused it, Fenton?”

I told him. His eyes narrowed when I mentioned Avec, then widened in astonishment and incredulity as I related the man's inexplicable effect upon the girl, and his strange immunity to the poison gas. But the doctor asked nothing further about our situation, proceeding at once to apply several restoratives. All were without result. As a final resort, he even rigged up an electrical connection, making use of some coils which I had upstairs, and endeavoured to arouse the girl in that fashion. Still without result.

“Good Lord, Hansen!” I finally burst out, when he stood back, apparently baffled. “She's simply GOT to be revived! We can't allow her to succumb to that scoundrel's power, whatever it is!”

“Why not a blood transfusion?” I asked eagerly, as an idea came to me. “I'm in perfect condition. What about it? Go to it, doc!”

He slowly shook his head. And beyond a single searching glance into my eyes, wherein he must have read something more than I had said, he regretfully replied:

“This is a case for a specialist, Fenton. Everything considered, I should say that she is suffering from a purely mental condition; but whether it had a physical or a psychic origin, I can't say.”

In short, he did not feel safe about going ahead with any really heroic measures until a brain specialist was called in.

I had a good deal of confidence in Hansen. And what he said sounded reasonable. So we agreed to his calling in a Dr. Higgins—the same man, in fact, who was too late in reaching the house to save Chick on that memorable night a year before.

His examination was swift and convincingly competent. He went over the same ground that Hansen had covered, took the blood pressure and other instrumental data, and asked us several questions regarding Ariadne's mentality as we knew it. Scarcely stopping to think it over, Higgins decided:

“The young woman is suffering from a temporary dissociation of brain centres. Her cerebrum does not co-act with her cerebellum. In other words, her conscious mind, for lack of means to express itself, is for the time being dormant as in sleep.

“But it is not like ordinary sleep. Such is induced by fatigue of the nerve channels. This young woman's condition is produced by shock; and since there was no physical violence, we must conclude that the shock was psychic.

“In that case, the condition will last until one of two things occurs; either she must be similarly shocked back into sensibility—and I can't see how this can happen, Fenton, unless you can secure the co-operation of the man to whom you attribute the matter—or she must lie that way indefinitely.”

“Indefinitely!” I exclaimed, sensing something ominous. “You mean—”

“That there is no known method of reviving a patient in such a condition. It might be called psychic catalepsy. To speak plainly, Fenton, unless this man revives her, she will remain unconscious until her death.”

I shuddered. What horrible thing had come into our lives to afflict us with so dreadful a prospect?

“Is—is there no hope, Dr. Higgins?”

“Very little”—gently but decisively. “All I can assure you is that she will not die immediately. From the general state of her health, she will live at least seventy-two hours. After that—you must be prepared for the worst at any moment.”

I turned away quickly, so that he could not see my face. What an awful situation! Unless we could somehow lay hands on the Rhamda—

I hunted up Jerome. I said:

“Jerry, the thing is plainly up to you and me. Higgins gives us three days. Day after tomorrow morning, if we haven't got results by that time, we've got to give in and put that ad in the paper. But I don't mean to give in, Jerry! Not until I've exhausted every other possibility!”

“What're you going to do?” he asked thoughtfully.

“Work on that ring. I was a fool not to get busy sooner. As for the rest, that's up to you! You've got to get yourself on the Rhamda's trail as soon as you can, and camp there! The first chance you get, ransack his room and belongings, and bring me every bit of data you find. Between him and the ring, the truth ought to come out.”

“All right. But don't forget that—” pointing to the unexplained spot on the wood of the doorway. “You've got a mighty important clue there, waiting for you to analyse it.”

And he went and got his hat, and left the house. His final remark was that we wouldn't see him back until he had something to report about our man.

Five o'clock the next morning found my sister and me out of our beds and desperately busy. She spent a good deal of time, of course in caring for Ariadne. The poor girl showed no improvement at all; and we got scant encouragement from the fact that she looked no worse.

Not a sound escaped her lips; her eyes remained closed; she gave no sign of life,