while--and this." He slipped an envelope into my hand. "By that
time Dr. Higgins will be with you."

"You think there is hope?" I asked.

"There's always hope," replied the doctor.

I returned to my companions. They were walking slowly. It was work
for poor Watson. He dragged on, leaning on Hobart's arm. But at
last he gave up.

"No," he said, "I can't make it. I'm too far gone. I had thought--
Oh, what a lapse it has been! I am eighty years of age; one year
ago I was a boy. If only I had some more brandy. I have some at
the house. We must make that. I must show you; there I can give
you the details."

"Hail a cab," I said. "Here's one now."

A few minutes later we were before the House of the Blind Spot. It
was a two storey drab affair, much like a thousand others, old-
fashioned, and might have been built in the early nineties. It had
been outside of the fire limits of 1906, and so had survived the
great disaster. Chatterton Place is really a short street running
lengthwise along the summit of the hill. A flight of stone steps
descended to the pavement.

Watson straightened up with an effort.

"This is the house," he spoke. "I came here a year ago. I go away