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.

He looked at me.

"Oh, you know it, eh? No, I do not. It's all bunkum; reporters'
work and exaggeration. If you like that kind of stuff, it's weird
and interesting. But it hurts property. The man was undoubtedly
murdered. The tale hangs over the house. It's impossible to
dispose of the place."

"Then why not sell it to me?"

He dropped his pencil; he was a bit nervous.

"A fair question, Mr. Wendel--a very fair question. Well, now, why
don't I? Perhaps I shall. There's no telling. But I'd rather not.
Do you know, a year ago I would have jumped at an offer. Fact is,
I did lease it--the lease ran out yesterday--to a man named
Watson. I don't believe a thing in this nonsense; but what I have
seen during the past year has tested my nerve considerably."

"What about Watson?"

"Watson? A year ago he came to see me in regard to this Chatterton
property. Wanted to lease it. Was interested in the case of Dr.
Holcomb; asked for a year's rental and the privilege of renewal. I
don't know. I gave it to him; but when he drops in again I am