“He!  The bell saved you?  He would dare to throw you into the Blind Spot!”

I lay back.  I was terribly weak and uncertain.  This beautiful woman!  What was her interest in myself?

“Harry,” she spoke, “let me ask you.  I am your friend.  If you only knew!  I would save you.  It must not be.  Will you give me the ring?  If I could only tell you!  You must not have it.  It is death—­yes, worse than death.  No man may wear it.”

So that was it.  Again and so soon I was to be tempted.  Was her concern feigned or real?  Why did she call me Harry?  Why did I not resent it?  She was wonderful; she was beautiful; she was pure.  Was it merely a subtle act for the Rhamda?  I could still hear Watson’s voice ringing out of the Blind Spot; “Hold the ring!  Hold the ring!” I could not be false to my friend.

“Tell me first,” I asked.  “Who is this Rhamda?  What is he?  Is he a man?”

“No.”

Not a man!  I remembered Watson’s words:  “A phantom!” How could it be?  At least I would find out what I could.

“Then tell me, what is he?”

“She smiled faintly; again the elusive tenderness lingered about her lips, the wistful droop at the corners.

“That I may not tell you, Harry.  You couldn’t understand.  If only I could.”

Certainly I couldn’t understand her evasion.  I studied and watched her—­her wondrous hair, the perfection of her throat, the curve of her bosom.

“Then he is supernatural.”

“No, not that, Harry.  That would explain everything.  One cannot go above Nature.  He is living just as you are.”

I studied a moment.

“Are you a woman?” I asked suddenly.

Perhaps I should not have asked it; she was so sad and beautiful, somehow I could not doubt her sincerity.  There was a burden at the back of her sadness, some great yearning unsatisfied, unattainable.  She dropped her head.  The hand upon my arm quivered and clutched spasmodically; I caught the least sound of a sob.  When I looked up her eyes were wet and sparkling.

“Oh,” she said.  “Harry, why do you ask it?  A woman!  Harry, a woman!  To live and love and to be loved.  What must it be?  There is so much of life that is sweet and pure.  I love it—­I love it!  I can have everything but the most exalted thing of all.  I can live, see, enjoy, think, but I cannot have love.  You knew it from the first.  How did you know it?  You said—­Ah, it is true!  I am out of the moonbeams.”  She controlled herself suddenly.  “Excuse me,” she said simply.  “But you can never understand.  May I have the ring?”

It was like a dream—­her beauty, her voice, everything.  But I could still hear Watson.  I was to be tempted, cajoled, flattered.  What was this story out of the moonbeams?  Certainly she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.  Why had I asked such a question?

“I shall keep the ring,” I answered.

She sighed.  A strange weakness came over me; I was drowsy; I lapsed again into unconsciousness; just as I was fading away I heard her speaking:  “I am so sorry!”