A sombre two-storey house; a light burning in one of the windows, a dim light, almost subdued and uncanny.  I had never seen anything so lonely as that light; it was grey, uncertain, scarcely a flicker.  Perhaps it was my nerves.  I had scarcely strength to climb the steps.  Hobart grasped the knob and thrust open the door; I can never forget it.

It is hard to write.  The whole thing!  The room; the walls lined with books; the dim, pale light, the faded green carpet, and the man.  Pale, worn, almost a shadow of his former self.  Was it Harry Wendel?  He had aged forty years.  He was stooped, withered, exhausted.  A bottle of brandy on the desk before him.  In his weak, thin hand an empty wineglass.  The gem upon his finger glowed with a flame that was almost wicked; it was blue, burning, giving out sparkles of light—­like a colour out of hell.  The path of its light was unholy—­it was too much alive.

We both sprang forward.  Hobart seized him by the shoulders.

“Harry, old boy; Harry!  Don’t you know us?  It’s Hobart and Charlotte.”

It was terrible.  He didn’t seem to know.  He looked right at us.  But he spoke in abstractions.

“Two,” he said.  And he listened.  “Two!  Don’t you hear it?” He caught Hobart by the arm.  “Now, listen.  Two!  No, it’s three.  Did I say three?  Can’t you hear?  It’s the old lady.  She speaks out of the shadows.  There!  There!  Now, listen.  She has been counting to me.  Always she says three!  Soon it will be four.”

What did he mean?  What was it about?  Who was the old lady?  I looked round.  I saw no one.  Hobart stooped over.  Harry began slowly to recognise us.  It was as if his mind had wandered and was coming back from a far place.  He spoke slowly; his words were incoherent and rambling.

“Hobart,” he said; “you know her.  She is the maiden out of the moonbeams.  The Rhamda, he is our enemy.  Hobart, Charlotte.  I know so much.  I cannot tell you.  You are two hours late.  It’s a strange thing.  I have found it and I think I know.  It came suddenly.  The discovery of the great professor.  Why didn’t you come two hours earlier?  We might have conquered.”

He dropped his head upon his arms; then as suddenly he looked up.  He drew the ring from his finger.

“Give it to Charlotte,” he said.  “It won’t hurt her.  Don’t touch it yourself.  Had I only known.  Watson didn’t know—­”

He straightened; he was tense, rigid, listening.

“Do you hear anything?  Listen!  Can you hear?  It’s the old lady.  There—­”

But there was not a sound; only the rumble of the streets, the ticking of the clock, and our heart-beats.  Again he went through the counting.

“Hobart!”

“Yes, Harry.”

“And Charlotte!  The ring—­ah, yet it was there, Keep it.  Give it to no one.  Two hours ago we might have conquered.  But I had to keep the ring.  It was too much, too powerful; a man may not wear it.  Charlotte”—­he took my hand and ran the ring upon my finger.  “Poor Charlotte.  Here is the ring.  The most wonderful—­”