It was about eight months after Hobart had left for South America.  I remember those eight months as the longest in my life; because of Harry.  I am a girl and I like attention; all girls do.  Ordinarily he would come over every fortnight at least.  After Hobart had gone he came once only, and of course I resented the inattention.

It seemed to me that no business could be of enough importance if he really loved me.  Even his letters were few and far between.  What he wrote were slow and weary and of an undertone that I could not fathom.  I—­loved Harry.  I could not understand it.  I had a thousand fearful thoughts and jealousies; but they were feminine and in no way approximated even the beginning of the truth.  Inattention was not like Harry.  It was not until the coming of the Nervina that I was afraid.

Afraid?  I will not say that—­exactly.  It was rather a suspicion, a queer undercurrent of wonder and doubt.  The beauty of the girl, her interest in Harry and myself, her concern over this ring, put me a bit on guard.  I wondered what this ring had to do with Harry Wendel.

She did not tell me in exact words or in literal explanation; but she managed to convey all too well a lurking impression of its sinister potency.  It was something baleful, something the very essence of which would break down the life of one who wore it.  Harry had come into its possession by accident and she would save him.  She had failed through direct appeal.  Now she had come to me.  She did not say a word of the Blind Spot.

And the next day came Harry.  It was really a shock, though I had been warned by the girl.  He was not Harry at all, but another.  His eyes were dim and they had lost their lustre; when they did show light at all, it was a kind that was a bit fearful.  He was wan, worn, and shrunk to a shadow, as if he had gone through a long illness.

He said he had not been sick.  He maintained that he was quite well physically.  And on his finger was the ring of which the girl had spoken.  Its value must have been incalculable.  Wherever he moved his hand its blue flame cut a path through the darkness.  But he said nothing about it.  I waited and wondered and was afraid.  It was not until our walk under the elm trees that it was mentioned.

It was a full moon; a wonderful, mellow moon of summer.  He stopped suddenly and gazed up at the orb above us.  It seemed to me that his mind was wandering, he held me closely—­tenderly.  He was not at all like Harry.  There was a missing of self, of individuality; he spoke in abstractions.

“The maiden of the moonbeams?” he said.  “What can it mean?”

And then I asked him.  He has already told of our conversation.  It was the ring of which the Nervina had told me.  It had to do with the Blind Spot—­the great secret that had taken Dr. Holcomb.  He would not give it to me.  I worked hard, for even then I was not afraid of it.  Something told me—­I must do it to save him.  It was weird, and something I could not understand—­but I must do it for Harry.