mixed in the Blind Spot. Undoubtedly he was the essential fact and
substance. Until now he had not scented tragedy. Why had Rhamda
and the woman come out together? Where was the professor?

Where indeed?

At the end of a half-hour Jerome ventured across the street. He
noted the number 288. Then he ascended the steps and clanged at
the knocker. From the sounds that came from inside, the place was
but partly furnished. Hollow steps sounded down the hallway,
shuffling, like weary bones dragging slippers. The door opened and
an old woman, very old, peered out of the crack. She coughed.
Though it was not a loud cough it seemed to the detective that it
would be her last one; there was so little of her.

"Pardon me, but is Dr. Holcomb here?"

The old lady looked up at him. The eyes were of blank
expressionless blue; she was in her dotage.

"You mean--oh, yes, I think so, the old man with the white
whiskers. He was here a few minutes ago, with that other. But he
just went out, sir, he just went out."

"No, I don't think so. There was a man went out and a woman. But
not Dr. Holcomb."

"A woman? There was no woman."

"Oh, yes, there was a woman--a very beautiful one."