To Watson it was all a blur. He was too weak and too broken to remember distinctly. He was conscious only of an uproar, of a torrent of multitudinous sound. And then—the deep, enveloping tone of a bell.

Some time, somewhere, Chick had heard that bell before. In his present condition his memory refused to serve him. He was covered with blood; he tried to rise, to crawl to this snarling animal that was throttling the Senestro. But something seemed to snap within him, and all went black.

When he opened his eyes again all had changed. He was lying on a couch with a number of people about. It was a minute before he recognized the Jan Lucar, then the Geos, and lastly the nurse whom he had first seen when he awoke in the Blind Spot. Evidently he was in the hands of his friends, although there was a new one, a red-headed man, clad in the blue uniform of a high Bar.

He sat up. The nurse held a goblet of the green liquid to his lips. The Bar in blue turned.

“Aye,” he said. “Give him some of the liquor; it will do him good. It will put the old energy back in his bones.”

The voice rang oddly familiar in Watson's ears. The words were Thomahlian; not until Chick had drained his glass did he comprehend their significance.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The Bar with the red hair grinned.

“Whist, me lad,” using Chick's own tongue. “Get rid of these Thomahlians. 'Tis a square game we're playin', but we're takin' no chances. Get 'em out of the way so we kin talk.”

Watson turned to the others. He made the request in his adopted tongue. They bowed, reverently, and withdrew.

“Who are you?” Chick asked again.

“Oi'm Pat MacPherson.”

“How did you get here?”

The other sat on the edge of the bed. “Faith, how kin Oi tell ye? 'Twas a drink, sor; a new kind av a high-ball, th' trickery av a friend an' th' ould Witch av Endor put togither.”

Obviously Watson did not understand. The stranger continued: “Faith, sor, an' no more do Oi. There's no one as does, 'cept th' ould doc hisself.”

“The old doc! You mean Dr. Holcomb?”

Watson sat up in his bed. “Where is he?”

“In a safe place, me lad. Dinna fear for th' doctor. 'Twas him as saved ye—him an' your humble sarvant, Pat MacPherson, bedad.”

“He—and you—saved me?”

“Aye—there on th' Spot of Life. A bit of a thrick as th' ould doc dug oot o' his wisdom. Sure, she dinna work jist loike he said it, but 'twas a plenty t' oopset th' pretty Senestro!”

Watson asked, “What became of the Senestro?”

“Sure, they pulled him oot. Th' wee doggie jist aboot had him done for. Bedad, she's a good pup!”

“What kind of a dog?”

“A foine wan, sor, wit a bit stub av a tail. An' she's that intelligent, she kin jist about talk Frinch. Th' Thomahlians all called her th' Four-footed, an' if they kape on, they'll jist aboot make her th' Pope.”

Watson was still thick headed. “I don't understand!”

“Nor I laddie. But th' ould doc does. He's got a foine head for figgers; and' he's that scientific, he kin make iron oot o' rainbows.”

“Iron out of—what?”

“Rainbows, sor. Faith, 'tis meself thot's seen it. And he's been watchin' over ye ever since ye came. 'Twas hisself, lad, that put it into your head t' call him th' Jarados.”

“You don't mean to say that the professor put those impulses into my head!”

“Aye, laddie; you said it. He kin build up a man's thoughts just like you or me kin pile oop lumber. 'Tis that deep he is wit' th' calculations!”

Watson tried to think. There was just one superlative question now. He put it.

“I dinna know if he's th' Jarados,” was the reply. “But if so be not, then he's his twin brother, sure enough.”

“Is he a prisoner?”

“I wouldna say that, though there's them as think so. But if it be anybody as is holdin' him, 'tis the Senestro an' his gang o' guards.”

Watson looked at the other's uniform, at the purple shako on his head, the jewelled weapon at his side, and the Jaradic leaf on his shoulder—insignia of a Bar of the highest rank.

“How does it come that you're a Bar, and a high one at that?”

The other grinned again. He took off his shako and ran his hand through his mop of red hair.

“'Tis aither th' luck of th' Irish, me lad, or of th' Scotch. Oi don't ken which—Oi'm haff each—but mostly 'tis th' virtoo av me bonny red hair.”

“Why?”

“Because, leastways, in th' Thomahlia, there's always a dhrop av royalty in th' red-headed. Me bonnie top-knot has made me a fortune. Ye see, 'tis th' mark av th' royal Bars themselves; no ithers have it.”

Watson said: “If you have come from Dr. Holcomb, then you must have a message from him to me.”

“Ye've said it; you an' me, an' a few Rhamdas, an' mebbe th' wee queen is goin' t' take a flight in th' June Bug. We're goin' afther th' ould doc; an' ye kin bet there'll be as pretty a scrap as ever ye looked on. An' afther thot's all over, we're goin' t' take anither kind of a flight—into good old Frisco.”

Chick instantly asked Pat if he knew where San Francisco might be.

“Faith, 'tis only th' ould doc knows, laddie. But when we git there, 'tis Pat MacPherson that's a goin' for Toddy Maloney.”

“I don't know that name.”

“Bedad, I do. Him it was thot give me th' dhrink.”

“What drink?”

Th' dhrink thot done it. Twas a new kind av cocktail. Ye see, I'd jist got back from Melbourne, an' I was takin' in th' lights that noight, aisy like, whin I come t' Toddy's place. I orders a dhrink av whuskey.

“'Whist, Pat,' says he, 'ye don't want whuskey; 'twill make ye dhrunk. Why don't ye take somethin' green, like th' Irish?'

“'Green,” says I. ''Tis a foine colour. I dinna fear anything thot comes fra' a bottle. Pass'er oot!'

“An' thot he did. 'Twas 'creme de menthay' on th' bottle. 'An',' says he, ''Twon't make ye dhrunk.' But he was a liar, beggin' yer pardin.

“For by an' by Oi see his head a growin' larger an' larger, until Oi couldn't see annything but a few loights on th' cailing, an' a few people on th' edges, loike. An' afther thot Oi wint oot, an' walked till Oi come to a hill. An' there was a moon, an' a ould hoose standin' still, which th' moon was not. So Oi stood still to watch it, but bein' tired an' weary an' not havin' got rid o' me sea-legs, Oi sat me doon on th' steps av th' hoose for a bit av a rest, an' t' watch th' moon, thinkin' mebbe she'd stand still by an' by.

“Well, sor, Oi hadn't been there more'n three 'r four minits, whin th' door opened, an' oot steps a little ould lady, aboot th' littlest an' ouldest Oi iver see in 'Frisco.

“'Good avenin', Mother Machree,' says Oi, touchin' me hat.

“'Mother Machree!' says she, an' gives me a sharp look. Also she sniffs. 'Ye poor man,' says she. 'Ye'll catch yer death o' cold, out here. Ye better coom in an' lie on me sofy.'

“Now, sor, how was Oi to ken, bein' a sailor an' ingorant? She was only a ould lady, an' withered. How was Oi to ken thot she was th' ould Witch o' Endor?”

Watson's memory was at work on what he knew of the house at Chatterton Place, especially regarding its occupants at the beginning of the Blind Spot mystery. The Bar's old remark caught his attention.

“The Witch of Endor?”

“Aye; thot she were. Whin Oi woke up, there was nary a hoose at all, nor th' ould lady, nor Toddy Maloney's, nor 'Frisco. 'Twas a strange place I was, sor; a church loike St. Peter's, only bigger, th' same bein' harrd to belaive. An' th' columns looked loike waterspoots, an' th' sky above was full av clouds, the same bein' jest aboot ready to break into hell an' tempest. But ye've been there yerself, sor.

“Well, here was a man beside me, dressed in a kilt. An' he spakes a strange language, although Oi could undershtand; and' he says, says he:

“'My lord,' was what he says.

“'My lord!' says Oi. 'Oi dinna ken what ye mane at all, at all.'

“'Are ye not a Bar?' says he.

“'Thot Oi am not!' says Oi, spakin' good English, so's to be sure he'd understand. 'Oi'm Pat MacPherson.'

“But he couldn' ken. Thin we left th' temple an' wint out into the street. An' a great crowd of people came aroun' an' began shoutin'. By an' by we wint into anither buildin'.

“'For why sh'd iverybody look at me whin we crossed th' street jest noo?' I asked.

“'Tis y'r clothes,' says he.

“Now, Oi don't enjoy pooblicity, sor; wherefore th' wily Scotch in me told me what to do, an' th' Irish part of me did it. I stood him on his head, an' took his clothes off an' put them on meself. An' then no one noticed me. Thot is, until Oi took me hat off.”

“You mean, that shako?”

“Yis; th' blaemd heavy thing—'tis made o' blue feathers. Well, whin it got so hot it made me scalp sweat, Oi took it off; an' then they called me—'My lord' an' 'your worship,' jest loike Oi were a king.

“'Pray God,' says Oi, 'that me head dinna get bald.'

“Well, sor, Oi had a toime that was fit for th' Irish. Oi did iverything 'cept git drunk; there was nothin' to git drunk with. But afther a while I ran across anither, wit' jest as red hair as I had. He was a foine man, av coorse, an' all surrounded by blue guards. He took me into a room himself an' begin askin' questions.

“An' I lied, sor. Av coorse, 'twas lucky thot Oi had me Scotch larnin' an' caution to guide me; but whin Oi spoke, Oi wisely let th' Irishman do all th' talkin'. An' th' great Bar liked me.

“'Verily,' says he, most solemnly, 'thou art of th' royal Bars!' An' he made me a high officer, he did.”

“Was he the Bar Senestro?” asked Watson.

“Nay; 'twas a far better man—Senestro's brother, that died not long after. When Oi saw th' Senestro, Oi had sinse enough to kape me mouth shut. An' now Oi'm a high Bar—next to th' Senestro hisself! What's more, sor, there's no one alive kens th' truth but yerself an' th' ould doctor.”

It was a queer story, but in the light of all that had gone before, wonderfully convincing. Watson began to see light breaking through the darkness. “Now there are two,” the old lady at 288 Chatterton Place had said to Jerome, when the detective came looking for the vanished professor. Had she referred to Holcomb and MacPherson? Two had gone through the Blind Spot, and two had come out—the Rhamda Avec and the Nervina. “Now there are two,” she had said.

“Tell me a little more about Holcomb, Pat!”

“'Tis a short story. Oi can't tell ye much, owin' to orders from the old gent hisself. He came shortly after th' death of the first Bar, Senestro's brother. Seems there was some rumpus aboot th' old Rhamda Avec, which same Oi always kept away from—him as was goin' to prove th' spirits! Annyhow, we was guardin' th' temple awaitin' th' spook as was promised. An' thot's how we got th' ould doc.

“But th' Rhamdas niver saw him. Th' Senestro double-crossed 'em, an' slipped th' doctor oop to th' Palace av Light.”

“The Palace of—what?”

“The Palace av light, sor. Tis th' home av th' Jarados. 'twas held always holy by th' Thomahlians; no man dared go within miles av it; since the Jarados was here, t'ousands of years ago, no one at all has been inside av it.

“But the Senestro knew that th' doctor was th' real Jarados, at least he t'ought so; an' he wasna afraid o' him. He's na coward, th' Senestro. He put th' doctor in th' Jarados' home! Only th' Prophecy worries him at all.”

At last Watson was touching firm ground. Things were beginning to link up—the Senestro, the professor, the Prophecy of the Jarados.

“Well, sor, we Bars have kept th' ould doctor prisoner there iver since he come, wit' none save me to give him a wee bit word av comfort. But it dinna hurt th' old gent. Whin he finds all them balls an' rainbows an' eddicated secrets, he forgets iverything else; he's contint wit 'his discovery. 'Tis th' wise head th' doctor has; an' Oi make no doobt he's th' real Jarados.”

The red-haired man went on to say that the professor knew of Chick's coming from the beginning. He immediately called in MacPherson and gave him some orders, or rather directions, which the Irishman could not understand. He knew only that he was to go to the Temple of the Leaf and there touch certain objects in a certain way; also, he was to arrange to get near Chick, and give him a word of cheer.

“But it dinna work as he said it, sor; he had expected to catch th' Senestro. Instead, 'twas th' dog got th' Bar. A foine pup, sor; she saved yer loife.”

“Where's the dog now?”

“She's on th' Spot av Life, sor. She willna leave it. Tis a strange thing to see how she clings to it. Th' Rhamdas only come near enough to feed her.”

Thus Chick learned that, as soon as he got well, he and MacPherson were to seek the doctor, and help him to get away with the secrets he had found, the truths behind the mystery of the Spot.

“An' 'tis a glorious fight there'll be, lad. Th' Senestro's a game wan; he'll not give up, an' he'll not let go th' doctor till he has to.”

This was not unwelcome news to Chick. A battle was to his liking. It reminded him of the automatic pistol which he still had in his pocket—the gun he had not thought to use in his desperate struggle with the Bar Senestro.

“Pat,” said he, with a sudden inspriation, “when you came through, did you have a firearm?”

MacPherson reached into his pocket and silently produced a thirty-two calibre pistol, of another make than Chick's but using the same ammunition. From another pocket he drew out a package carefully bound with thread. He unrolled the contents. It was an old clay pipe!

“Oi came through,” he stated plaintively, “wit' two guns; an' nary a bit av powder for ayther!”

Chick smiled. He searched his own pockets. First he handed over his extra magazine full of cartridges, and then a full package of smoking tobacco.

“Wirra, wirra!” shouted MacPherson. “Faith, an' there's powder for both!” His hands shook as he hurried to cram the old pipe full of tobacco. The cartridges could wait. He struck a light and gave a deep sigh of content as he began to puff.