He thought quickly.  Apparently, it was Rhamda Avec who had trapped Dr. Holcomb.  Why?  What had been the man’s motive?  Watson could not say.  He only knew the ethics of the deed was shaded with the subtleness of villainy.  That behind it all was a purpose, a directing force and intelligence that was inexorable and irresistible.

One other thing he knew; the Rhamda Avec came out of the region in which he, Watson, now found himself.  Rather, he could have come from nowhere else.  And Watson could feel certain that somewhere, somehow, he would find Dr. Holcomb.

In that moment Watson determined upon his future course of action.  He decided to state nothing, intimate nothing, either by word or deed, that might in any manner incriminate or endanger the professor.  It was for him to learn everything possible and to do all he could to gain his points, without giving a particle of information in return.  He must play a lone hand and a cautious one—­until he found Dr. Holcomb.

The fact of his position didn’t appall him.  Somehow, it had just the opposite effect.  Perhaps it was because his strength had come back, and had brought with it the buoyancy that is natural to health.  He could sense the vitality that surrounded him, poised, potential, waiting only the proper attitude on his part to become an active force.  Something tremendous had happened to him, to make him feel like that.  He was ready for anything.

Five minutes passed.  Watson was alert and ready when the woman returned, together with a companion.  She smiled kindly, and announced: 

“The Rhamda Geos.”

At first Chick was startled.  There was a resemblance to Rhamda Avec that ran almost to counterpart.  The same refinement and elegance, the fleeting suggestion of youth, the evident age mingled with the same athletic ease and grace of carriage.  Only he was somewhat shorter.  The eyes were almost identical, with the peculiar quality of the iris and pupil that suggested, somehow, a culture inherited out of the centuries.  He was dressed in a black robe, such as would befit a scholar.

He smiled, and held out a hand.  Watson noted the firm clasp, and the cold thrill of magnetism.

“You wish to speak with me?”

The voice was soft and modulated, resonant, of a tone as rich as bronze.

“Yes.  Where am I—­sir?”

“You do not know?”

It seemed to Watson that there was real astonishment in the man’s eyes.  As yet it had not come to Chick that he himself might be just as much a mystery as the other.  The only question in his mind at the moment was locality.

“Is this the Blind Spot?”

“The Blind Spot!”—­with the same lack of comprehension that the woman had shown.  “I do not understand you.”

“Well, how did I get here?”

“Oh, as to that, you were found in the Temple of the Leaf.  You were lying unconscious on the floor.”