Watson's story was now completed. During the entire recital his auditors had spoken scarcely a word. It had been marvellous—almost a revelation. With the possible exception of Sir Henry Hodges, not one had expected that it would measure up to this. For the whole thing backed up Holcomb's original proposition:

“The Occult is concrete.”

Certainly, if what Watson had told them was true, then Infinity had been squared by itself. Not only was there an infinity that we might look up to through the stars, but there was another just as great, co-existent, here upon the earth. The occult became not only possible, but unlimited.

The next few minutes would prove whether or not he had told the truth.

It was now close to midnight.

Jerome and General Hume had returned from Berkeley. Their quest had been successful; Watson now had the missing green stone. A number of soldiers were stationed about the house. Watson noted these men when he had finished his account, and said:

“Good. We may need them, although I hope not. Fortunately the Spot is small, and a few of us can hold it against a good many. What we must do is to extricate our friends and close it. Afterward we may have time for more leisurely investigation. But we must remember, above all things, that black case of Professor Holcomb's! It holds the secrets.

“Now I must ask you all to step out of this room. This library, you know, is the Blind Spot.”

He directed them to take positions along the balustrade of the stairway, out in the hall—through the wide archway, where they could have a clear view, yet be safe.

It was a curious test. With nothing but his mathematics and his drawing to go by, Watson was about to set the three stones in their invisible sockets. He spread the map out carefully, likewise his calculations; they gave him, on this floor, the precise positions that he charted on the earth of the cellar. A glance toward the front of the house—north—then a little measuring, three chalk-marks on the carpet, and he was ready for the final move.

He took the fateful ring and with a penknife pried up the prongs that held the stone. As it popped out he caught it with one hand. Then he looked at the row of wondering faces along the stair.

“I think it will work,” he said. “But, remember—don't come near! I shall get out as best I can myself; don't try to save me.”

With that he held the jewel on the first of the three chalk-marks on the circumference of the great circle. He held it tight against the carpet and then let go. Up it flashed about one foot—and disappeared.

There was no sound. Next Watson took the red stone. With it, the process was inverted. Instead of holding it to the floor he raised it as high as he could reach, directly above the second mark. Then he let it drop.

It did not reach the floor. It fell a little more than halfway, and vanished.

The third stone, the green one, was still remaining. Watson took it to the third and final mark on the circle, taking care to keep outside the circumference that marked the Spot. This mark was directly in front of the archway. He turned to them.

“Watch carefully,” he spoke. “I do not know what has transpired in the temple during the past few hours. Be ready for ANYTHING. All of you!”

He dropped the stone.

With the same motion he dodged out into the hall.

Though there was no sound there was something that every one felt—a sibilant undertone and cold vibration—a tense flash of magnetism. Then the dot of blue—a string of incandescence; just as had been spoken.

The Blind Spot was opening.

Watson silently warned the others to remain where they were and himself crowded back against the stair. And as he did so, someone came noiselessly down the steps from the floor above, passed unnoticed behind the watchers and thence across into the hall.

It was a slender, frail figure in white—the Aradna, walking like one in the grip of a higher will. Before they could make a move she had stepped into the Blind Spot, under the dot of blue, and into a string of light. And then—she was gone.

It was as swift as a guess. It was inexorable and unseen; and being unseen, close akin to terror. The group watched and waited, scarcely breathing. What would happen next?

There came a sudden, jarring click—like the tapping of iron. And next instant—

The Spot opened to human sight.

The library at 288 Chatterton Place was gone. Instead, the people on the stairs were gazing down from the Spot of Life, straight into the colossal Temple of the Jarados.

It was as Chick had described it—immense—beyond conception. Through the great doors and out into the plaza beyond was gathered all Thomahlia, reverent, like those waiting for the crack of doom.

Above the horde, high on the opposite wall, stood out the monster Clover Leaf of the Jarados; three-coloured—blazing like liquid fire; it was ominous with real life.

At that moment the whole concourse rippled with commotion. Arms were uplifted; one and all pointed towards the dais. They, too were looking through the Spot. Then the multitude began to move.

It heaved and surged and rolled toward the centre. The guards were pressed in upon the Bars, the Bars upon the Rhamda-lined stair. There was no resisting that flood of humanity. On and up it came, sweeping everything before it.

Directly in the foreground lay the snow-stone. On its centre stood the dog Queen, crouching, waiting, bristling. By her side Harry Wendel crouched on one knee, as if awaiting the signal. Behind him, the Nervina, supporting the awakening Aradna. And in front of all, the powerful bulk of Hobart Fenton, standing squarely at the head of the stair, ready to grapple the first to reach the landing.

But most important of all, there stood the doctor himself. He was at the Nervina's side; in his hand, the case of priceless data. He was gazing through the Spot and making a signal of some kind to Watson, whereupon the latter leaped to the edge of the unseen circle.

Something had gone wrong. The Spot was not fully open. Nothing but sight could get through.

Yet there was no time for anything. Up the stairs came the Bars, leading and being pressed forward by the horde. At their head dashed the Bar Senestro, handsome as Alexander. Hobart stepped forward to meet him, but the doctor stopped him with a word.

Only a few seconds elapsed between death and salvation. Again Dr. Holcomb signed to Watson; not a sound came through. Watson hesitated.

The dog Queen shot to her feet. Then the Senestro, out-distancing all the rest and dodging Hobart, had leaped upon the dais.

Upon the wall across the temple the great Leaf of the Jarados stood out like sinister fire. It pulsed and vibrated—alive. The top petal—the blue one—suddenly broke into a seething wave of flame.

Still Watson held back. He could not understand what Holcomb meant.

Queen waited only until the Senestro set foot on the dais. She crouched, then leaped.

It was done.

With a lightning shift of his nimble feet, the high-tempered Bar kicked the shepherd in the side. Caught at full leap, she was knocked completely over and fell upon the snow-stone.

It was the Sacrilege!

Even the Bars beyond the Senestro stopped in horror. The Four-Footed One—sacred to the Jarados—it was she who had been touched! Had the Senestro undone all on the Spot of Judgment, What would be the end?

Fenton acted. He caught the Senestro before he could get his balance and with a mighty heave hurled him over the side of the stair. A second, and it was over.

Another second was the last. For the great Leaf of the Jarados had opened.

The green and red stood still; but out of the blue came a dazzling light, a powerful beam; so brilliant, it seemed solid. It shot across the whole sweep of the temple and touched the Prophecy. Over the golden scrolls it traced its marvellous colour, until it came to the lines:

For a moment the strange light stood still, so that the checked millions might read. Then it turned upon the dais.

There it spread, and hovered over the group, until it seemed to work them together—the Nervina to Harry, the Aradna to Hobart. Not one of them knew what it was; they obeyed by impulse—it was their destiny; the Chosen, and the queens.

The light stopped at the foot of Dr. Holcomb. Then the strangest thing happened.

Out of the light—or rather, from where it bathed the snowstone—came a man; a man much like Holcomb, bearded and short and kindly.

He was the real Jarados!

Unhesitatingly the professor stepped up beside him. Then followed Hobart and the Aradna, Harry and the Nervina, and lastly, from the crowd of Bars, MacPherson. The whole concourse in the temple stopped in awe and terror.

Only for a second. Then the Jarados and all at his side—were gone.

And upon the snow-stone there stood a sword of living flame.

It stood there for just a breath, exactly where the group had been.

And it was gone.

That was all.

No; not quite all. For when the Blind Spot closed that night at 288 Chatterton Place, there came once more the deep, solemn peal of the Bell of the Jarados.