“Harry,” he went on, “I am asking.  Somebody has got to wear this ring.  He must be a man.  He must be fearless; he must taunt the devil.  It is hard work, I assure you.  I cannot last much longer.  You loved the old doctor.  If we get at this law we have done more for mankind than either of us may do with his profession.  We must save the old professor.  He is living and he is waiting.  There are perils and forces that we do not know of.  The doctor went at it alone and fearless; he succumbed to his own wisdom.  I have followed after, and I have been crushed down—­perhaps by my ignorance.  I am not afraid.  But I don’t want my work to die.  Somebody has got to take it on and you are the man.”

They were all of them looking at me.  I studied the wonderful blue and its light.  The image of the great professor had dimmed almost completely.  It was a sudden task and a great one.  Here was a law; one of the great secrets of Cosmos.  What was it?  Somehow the lure caught into my vitals.  I couldn’t picture myself ever coming to the extremity of my companion.  Besides, it was a duty.  I owed it to the old doctor.  It seemed somehow that he was speaking.  Though Watson did the talking I could feel him calling.  Would I be afraid?  Besides, there was the jewel.  It was calling; already I could feel it burning into my spirit.  I looked up.

“Do you take it, Harry?”

I nodded.

“I do.  God knows I am worthless enough.  I’ll take it up.  It may give me a chance to engage with this famous Rhamda.”

“Be careful of Rhamda, Harry.  And above all don’t let him have the ring.”

“Why?”

“Because.  Now listen.  I’m not laying this absolutely, understand. 
Nevertheless the facts all point in one direction.  Hold the ring. 
Somewhere in that lustre lies a great secret; it controls the
Blind Spot.  The Rhamda himself may not take it off your finger. 
You are immune from violence.  Only the ring itself may kill you.”

He coughed.

“God knows,” he spoke, “it has killed me.”

It was rather ominous.  The mere fact of that cough and his weakness was enough.  One would come to this.  He had warned me, and he had besought me with the same voice as the warning.

“But what is the Blind Spot?”

“Then you take the ring?  What is the time?  Twelve.  Gentlemen—­”

Now here comes in one of the strange parts of my story—­one that I cannot account for.  Over the shoulder of Dr. Hansen I could watch the door.  Whether it was the ring or not I do not know.  At the time I did not reason.  I acted upon impulse.  It was an act beyond good breeding.  I had never done such a thing before.  I had never even seen the woman.

The woman?  Why do I say it?  She was never a woman—­she was a girl—­ far, far transcendent.  It was the first time I had ever seen her—­ standing there before the door.  I had never beheld such beauty, such profile, poise—­the witching, laughing, night-black of her eyes; the perfectly bridged nose and the red, red lips that smiled, it seemed to me, in sadness.  She hesitated, and as if puzzled, lifted a jewelled hand to her raven mass of hair.  To this minute I cannot account for my action, unless, perchance, it was the ring.  Perhaps it was.  Anyway I had risen.