The Senestro managed to reach the doorway.  MacPherson cursed.

“Come on!” he yelled to Watson.  “Well git him alive!” Watson remembered little of that rush.  There stood the great Bar at the doorway, surrounded by his dying and panic-stricken men.  The cloak given Chick by the Geos impeded his progress; with a quick movement he threw it off and ran unprotected alongside the Irishman.  The Blue guards saw them coming; they levelled their weapons.  But before they could discharge them they met the same fate as had the Reds.  A tremor in the air, and they were gone, leaving only a pink pool on the ground.

Senestro alone remained untouched.  He was about to open the white door; for a second he posed, defiant and handsome.  Then the great Bar ducked swiftly and almost with the same motion dodged into the building.  Chick and Pat were right after him.

Inside was darkness.  Chick ran head on against the side wall; turning, he bumped into another.  The sudden transition from brilliance to blackness was overwhelming.  He stopped and felt about carefully—­momentarily blind.  What if the Senestro found him now?

He called MacPherson’s name.  There was no reply.  He tried to feel his way along, finding the wall irregular, jagged, sharp cornered.  But the way must lead somewhere.  He reached a turn in the passage; it was still too dark for him to see anything.  He proceeded more cautiously, wondering at those craggy walls.  And then—­

Chick slapped his hands to his eyes.  It was as if he had been shot into the core of the sun—­the obsidian darkness flashed into light—­a light beyond all enduring.  Chick staggered, and cried in pain.  And yet, reason told him just what it was, just what had happened.  It was the carbon; he was in the heart of the diamond; the Senestro had led him on and on, and then—­had flashed some intense light upon the vast jewel.  Watson knew the terrible helplessness of the blind.  His end had come!

And so it seemed.  Next instant someone came up to him—­someone he could hear if he could not see.  It was the Senestro.

“Hail, Sir Phantom!  Pardon my abrupt manner of welcome.  I suppose you have come for the Jarados?” And he laughed, a laugh full of mockery and triumph.  “Perhaps you think I intend to kill you?”

Watson said no word.  He had been outwitted.  He awaited the end.  But the Senestro saw fit to say, with an irony that told how sure he was: 

“However, I am opposed to killing in cold blood.  Open your eyes, Sir Phantom!  I will give you time—­a fair chance.  What do you say—­shall we match weapon against weapon?”

Watson slowly opened his eyes.  The blinding light had dimmed to a soft glow.  They were in a sort of gallery whose length was uncertain; between him and the outlet, about ten feet away, stood the confident, ever-smiling Bar.

“You or I,” said he, jauntily.  “Are you ready to try it?  I have given you a fair chance!”