“Miss Mills, this is Mr. Wendel.  He is the owner of the gem.  Would you take it in your hand?  And please tell Mr. Wendel how it feels—­”

She laughed; she was a bit perplexed.

“I don’t understand”—­she turned to me—­“we had the same dispute yesterday.  See, Mr. White says that it’s cold; but it is not.  It is warm; almost burning.  All the other girls think just as I do.”

“And all the men as I do,” averred the chemist, “even Mr. Wendel.”

“Is it cold to you?” she asked.  “Really—­”

It was a turn I hadn’t looked for.  It was akin to life—­this relation to sex.  Could it account for the strange isolation and the weariness?  I was a witness to its potency.  Watson!  I could feel myself dragging under.  I had just one question: 

“Tell me, Miss Mills.  Can you sense anything else; I mean beyond its temperature?”

She smiled a bit.  “I don’t know what you mean exactly.  It is a beautiful stone.  I would like to have it.”

“You think its possession would make you happy?”

Her eyes sparkled.

“Oh,” she exclaimed.  “I know it would!  I can feel it!”

It was so.  Whatever there was in the bit of sapphirine blue, it had life.  What was it?  It had relation to sex.  In the strict line of fact it was impossible.

When we were alone again I turned to the chemist.

“Is there anything more you uncovered?  Did you see anything in the stone?”

He frowned.  “No.  Nothing else.  This magnetism is the only thing. 
Is there anything more?”

Now I hadn’t said anything about its one great quality.  He hadn’t stumbled across the image of the two men.  I couldn’t understand it.  I didn’t tell him.  Perhaps I was wrong.  Down inside me I sensed a subtle reason for secrecy.  It is hard to explain.  It was not perverseness; it was a finer distinction; perhaps it was the influence of the gem.  I took it back to the jeweller again and had it reset.

XV

AGAIN THE NERVINA

It was at this point that I began taking notes.  There is something psychological to the Blind Spot, weird and touching on the spirit.  I know not what it is; but I can feel it.  It impinges on to life.  I can sense the ecstasy of horror.  I am not afraid.  Whatever it is that is dragging me down, it is not evil.  My sensations are not normal.

For the benefit of my successor, if there is to be one, I have made an elaborate detail of notes and comments.  After all, the whole thing, when brought down to the end, must fall to the function of science.  When Hobart arrives, whatever my fate, he will find a complete and comprehensive record of my sensations.  I shall keep it up to the end.  Such notes being dry and sometimes confusing I have purposely omitted them from this narrative.  But there are some things that must be given to the world.  I shall pick out the salient parts and give them chronologically.