“Harry!”

She said no more; I did not answer; I was too taken by surprise and wonder.  I could feel her concern as I would a mother’s.  What was her interest in myself?  The contact of her hand sent a strange pulse through my vitals; she was so beautiful.  Could it be?  Watson said he loved her.  Could I blame him?

“Harry,” she asked, “how long is it to continue?”

So that was it.  Merely an envoy to accept surrender.  I was worn utterly, weary of the world, lonely.  But I hadn’t given up.  I had strength still, and will enough to hold out to the end.  Perhaps I was wrong.  If I gave her the ring? what then?

“I am afraid,” I answered, “that I must go on.  I have given my word.  It has been much harder than I expected.  This jewel?  What has it to do with the Blind Spot?”

“It controls it.”

“Does the Rhamda desire it?”

“He does.”

“Why doesn’t he call for it personally?  Why doesn’t he make a clean breast of it?  It would be much easier.  He knows and you know that I am after Dr. Holcomb and Watson.  I might even forego the secret.  Would he release the doctor?”

“No, Harry, he would not.”

“I see.  If I gave up the ring it would be merely for my personal safety.  I am a coward—­”

“Oh,” she said, “don’t say that.  You must give the ring to me—­not to the Rhamda.  He must not control the Blind Spot.”

“What is the Blind Spot?  Tell me.”

“Harry,” she spoke, “I cannot.  It is not for you or any other mortal.  It is a secret that should never have been uncovered.  It might be the end.  In the hands of the Rhamda it would certainly be the end of mankind.”

“Who is the Rhamda?  Who are you?  You are too beautiful to be merely woman.  Are you a spirit?”

She pressed my hand ever so slightly.  “Do I feel like a spirit?  I am material as much as you are.  We live, see—­everything.”

“But you are not of this world?”

Her eyes grew sadder; a soft longing.

“Not exactly, Harry, not exactly.  It is a long story and a very strange one.  I may not tell you.  It is for your own good.  I am your friend”—­her eyes were moist—­“I—­don’t you see?  Oh, I would save you!”

I did not doubt it.  Somehow she was like a girl of dreams, pure as an angel; her wistfulness only deepened her beauty.  It came like a shock at the moment.  I could love this woman.  She was—­what was I thinking?  My guilty mind ran back to Charlotte.  I had loved her since boyhood.  I would be a coward—­then a wild fear.  Perhaps of jealousy.

“The Rhamda?  Is he your husband?  You are the same—­”

“Oh,” she answered, “why do you say it?” Her eyes snapped and she grew rigid.  “The Rhamda!  My husband!  If you only knew.  I hate him!  We are enemies.  It was he who opened the Blind Spot.  I am here because he is evil.  To watch him.  I love your world, I love it all.  I would save it.  I love—­”