It was in the next room. The despair of that call is
unforgettable, like that of one suddenly falling into space. Then
the light dropped to the floor. I could see the outlines of his
figure and a weird, single string of incandescence. Hobart turned
and I leaped. It was a blur, the form of a man melting into
nothing. I sprang into the room, tearing down the curtains. Hobart
was on top of me. But we were too late. I could feel the vibrancy
of something uncanny as I rushed across the space intervening.
Through my mind darted the thrill of terror. It had come suddenly,
and in climax. It was over before it had commenced. The light had
gone out. Only by the gleam from the other room could we make out
each others' faces. The air was vibrant, magnetic. There was no
Watson. But we could hear his voice. Dim and fearful, coming down
the corridors of time.

"Hold that ring, Harry! Hold that ring!" Then the faint despair
out of the weary distance, faint, but a whole volume:

"The Blind Spot!"

It was over as quickly as that. The whole thing climaxed into an
instant. It is difficult to describe. One cannot always analyse
sensations. Mine, I am afraid, were muddled. A thousand insistent
thoughts clashed through my brain. Horror, wonder, doubt! I have
only one persistent and predominating recollection. The old lady!
I could almost feel her coming out of the shadows. There was
sadness and pity; out of the stillness and the corners. What had
been the dirge of her sorrow?