VI. — CHICK WATSON
Now to go back.
In due time we were both of us graduated from college. I went into the law and Hobart into engineering. We were both successful. There was not a thing to foreshadow that either of us was to be jerked from his profession. There was no adventure, but lots of work and reward in proportion.
Perhaps I was a bit more fortunate. I was in love and Hobart was still a confirmed bachelor. It was a subject over which he was never done joking. It was not my fault. I was innocent. If the blame ran anywhere it would have to be placed upon that baby sister of his.
It happened as it happened since God first made the maiden. One autumn Hobart and I started off for college. We left Charlotte at the gate a girl of fifteen years and ten times as many angles. I pulled one of her pigtails, kissed her, and told her I wanted her to get pretty. When we came home next summer I went over to pull the other pigtail. I did not pull it. I was met by the fairest young woman I had ever looked on. And I could not kiss her. Seriously, was I to blame?
Now to the incident.
It was a night in September. Hobart had completed his affairs and had booked passage to South America. He was to sail next morning. We had dinner that day with his family, and then came up to San Francisco for a last and farewell bachelor night. We could take in the opera together, have supper at our favourite cafe, and then turn in. It was a long hark back to our childhood; but for all that we were still boys together.
I remember that night. It was our favourite opera—“Faust.” It was the one piece that we could agree on. Looking back since, I have wondered at the coincidence. The old myth of age to youth and the subcurrent of sin with its stalking, laughing, subtle Mephistopheles. It is strange that we should have gone to this one opera on this one evening. I recall our coming out of the theatre; our minds thrilling to the music and the subtle weirdness of the theme.
A fog had fallen—one of those thick, heavy, grey mists that sometimes come upon us in September. Into its sombre depths the crowd disappeared like shadows. The lights upon the streets blurred yellow. At the cold sheer contact we hesitated upon the pavement.
I had on a light overcoat. Hobart, bound for the tropics, had no such protection. It was cold and miserable, a chill wind stirring from the north was unusually cutting. Hobart raised his collar and dug his hands into his pockets.
“Brr,” he muttered; “brr, some coffee or some wine. Something.”
The sidewalks were wet and slippery, the mists settling under the lights had the effect of drizzle. I touched Hobart's arm and we started across the street.
“Brr is right,” I answered, “and some wine. Notice the shadows, like ghosts.”
We were half across the street before he answered; then he stopped.
“Ghosts! Did you say ghosts, Harry?” I noted a strange inflection in his voice. He stood still and peered into the fog bank. His stop was sudden and suggestive. Just then a passing taxicab almost caught us and we were compelled to dodge quickly. Hobart ducked out of the way and I side-stepped in another direction. We came up on the sidewalk. Again he peered into the shadow.
“Confound that cab,” he was saying, “now we have gone and missed him.”
He took off his hat and then put it back on his head. His favourite trick when bewildered. I looked up and down the street.
“Didn't you see him? Harry! Didn't you see him? It was Rhamda Avec!”
I had seen no one; that is to notice; I did not know the Rhamda. Neither did he.
“The Rhamda? You don't know him.”
Hobart was puzzled.
“No,” he said; “I do not; but it was he, just as sure as I am a fat man.”
I whistled. I recalled the tale that was now a legend. The man had an affinity for the fog mist. To come out of “Faust” and to run into the Rhamda! What was the connection? For a moment we both stood still and waited.
“I wonder—” said Hobart. “I was just thinking about that fellow tonight. Strange! Well, let's get something hot—some coffee.”
But it had given us something for discussion. Certainly it was unusual. During the past few days I had been thinking of Dr. Holcomb; and for the last few hours the tale had clung with reiterating persistence. Perhaps it was the weirdness and the tremulous intoxication of the music. I was one of the vast majority who disbelieved it. Was it possible that it was, after all, other than the film of fancy? There are times when we are receptive; at that moment I could have believed it.
We entered the cafe and chose a table slightly to the rear. It was a contrast to the cold outside; the lights so bright, the glasses clinking, laughter and music. A few young people were dancing. I sat down; in a moment the lightness and jollity had stirred my blood. Hobart took a chair opposite. The place was full of beauty. In the back of my mind blurred the image of Rhamda. I had never seen him; but I had read the description. I wondered absently at the persistence.
I have said that I do not believe in fate. I repeat it. Man should control his own destiny. A great man does. Perhaps that is it. I am not great. Certainly it was circumstance.
In the back part of the room at one of the tables was a young man sitting alone. Something caught my attention. Perhaps it was his listlessness or the dreamy unconcern with which he watched the dancers; or it may have been the utter forlornness of his expression. I noted his unusual pallor and his cast of dissipation, also the continual working of his long, lean fingers. There are certain set fixtures in the night life of any city. But this was not one. He was not an habitue. There was a certain greatness to his loneliness and his isolation. I wondered.
Just then he looked up. By a mere coincidence our eyes met. He smiled, a weak smile and a forlorn one, and it seemed to me rather pitiful. Then as suddenly his glance wandered to the door behind me. Perhaps there was something in my expression that caught Hobart's attention. He turned about.
“Say, Harry, who is that fellow? I know that face, I'm certain.”
“Come to think I have seen him myself. I wonder—”
The young man looked up again. The same weary smile. He nodded. And again he glanced over my shoulder toward the door. His face suddenly hardened.
“He knows us at any rate,” I ventured.
Now Hobart was sitting with his face toward the entrance. He could see anyone coming or going. Following the young man's glance he looked over my shoulder. He suddenly reached over and took me by the forearm.
“Don't look round,” he warned; “take it easy. As I said—on my honour as a fat man.”
The very words foretold. I could not but risk a glance. Across the room a man was coming down the aisle—a tall man, dark, and of a very decided manner. I had read his description many times; I had seen his likeness drawn by certain sketch artists of the city. They did not do him justice. He had a wonderful way and presence—you might say, magnetism. I noticed the furtive wondering glances that were cast, especially by the women. He was a handsome man beyond denying, about the handsomest I had ever seen. The same elusiveness.
At first I would have sworn him to be near sixty; the next minute I was just as certain of his youth. There was something about him that could not be put to paper, be it strength, force or vitality; he was subtle. His step was prim and distinctive, light as shadow, in one hand he carried the red case that was so often mentioned. I breathed an exclamation.
Hobart nodded.
“Am I a fat man? The famous Rhamda! What say! Ah, ha! He has business with our wan friend yonder. See!”
And it was so. He took a chair opposite the wan one. The young man straightened. His face was even more familiar, but I could not place him. His lips were set; in their grim line—determination; whatever his exhaustion there was still a will. Somehow one had a respect for this weak one; he was not a mere weakling. Yet I was not so sure that he was not afraid of the Rhamda. He spoke to the waiter. The Rhamda began talking. I noted the poise in his manner; it was not evil, rather was it calm—and calculating. He made an indication. The young man drew back. He smiled; it was feeble and weary, but for all of that disdainful. Though one had a pity for his forlornness, there was still an admiration. The waiter brought glasses.
The young man swallowed his drink at a gulp, the other picked his up and sipped it. Again he made the indication. The youth dropped his hand upon the table, a pale blue light followed the movement of his fingers. The older man pointed. So that was their contention? A jewel? After all our phantom was material enough to desire possession; his solicitude was calmness, but for all that aggression. I could sense a battle, but the young man turned the jewel to the palm side of his fingers; he shook his head.
The Rhamda drew up. For a moment he waited. Was it for surrender? Once he started to speak, but was cut short by the other. For all of his weakness there was spirit to the young man. He even laughed. The Rhamda drew out a watch. He held up two fingers. I heard Hobart mumble.
“Two minutes. Well, I'm betting on the young one. Too much soul. He's not dead; just weary.”
He was right. At exactly one hundred and twenty seconds the Rhamda closed his watch. He spoke something. Again the young man laughed. He lit a cigarette; from the flicker and jerk of the flame he was trembling. But he was still emphatic. The other rose from the table, walked down the aisle and out of the building. The youth spread out both arms and dropped his head upon the table.
It was a little drama enacted almost in silence. Hobart and I exchanged glances. The mere glimpse of the Rhamda had brought us both back to the Blind Spot. Was there any connection? Who was the young man with the life sapped out? I had a recollection of a face strangely familiar. Hobart interrupted my thoughts.
“I'd give just about one leg for the gist of that conversation. That was the Rhamda; but who is the other ghost?”
“Do you think it has to do with the Blind Spot?”
“I don't think,” averred Hobart. “I know. Wonder what's the time.” He glanced at his watch. “Eleven thirty.”
Just here the young man at the table raised up his head. The cigarette was still between his fingers; he puffed lamely for a minute, taking a dull note of his surroundings. In the well of gaiety and laughter coming from all parts of the room his actions were out of place. He seemed dazed; unable to pull himself together. Suddenly he looked at us. He started.
“He certainly knows us,” I said. “I wonder—by George, he's coming over.”
Even his step was feeble. There was exertion about every move of his body, the wanness and effort of vanished vitality; he balanced himself carefully. Slowly, slowly, line by line his features became familiar, the underlines of another, the ghost of one departed. At first I could not place him. He held himself up for breath. Who was he? Then it suddenly came to me—back to the old days at college—an athlete, one of the best of fellows, one of the sturdiest of men! He had come to this!
Hobart was before me.
“By all the things that are holy!” he exclaimed. “Chick Watson! Here, have a seat. In the name of Heavens, Chick! What on earth—”
The other dropped feebly into the chair. The body that had once been so powerful was a skeleton. His coat was a disguise of padding.
“Hello, Hobart; hello, Harry,” he spoke in a whisper. “Not much like the old Chick, am I? First thing, I'll take some brandy.”
It was almost tragic. I glanced at Hobart and nodded to the waiter. Could it be Chick Watson? I had seen him a year before, hale, healthy, prosperous. And here he was—a wreck!
“No,” he muttered, “I'm not sick—not sick. Lord, boys, it's good to meet you. I just thought I would come out for this one last night, hear some music, see a pretty face, perhaps meet a friend. But I am afraid—” He dropped off like one suddenly drifting into slumber.
“Hustle that waiter,” I said to Hobart. “Hurry that brandy.”
The stimulant seemed to revive him. He lifted up suddenly. There was fear in his eyes; then on seeing himself among friends—relief. He turned to me.
“Think I'm sick, don't you?” he asked.
“You certainly are,” I answered.
“Well, I'm not.”
For a moment silence. I glanced at Hobart. Hobart nodded.
“You're just about in line for a doctor, Chick, old boy,” I said. “I'm going to see that you have one. Bed for you, and the care of mother—”
He started; he seemed to jerk himself together.
“That's it, Harry; that's what I wanted. It's so hard for me to think. Mother, mother! That's why I came downtown. I wanted a friend. I have something for you to give to mother.”
“Rats,” I said. “I'll take you to her. What are you talking about?”
But he shook his head.
“I wish that you were telling the truth, Harry. But it's no use—not after tonight. All the doctors in the world could not save me. I'm not sick, boys, far from it.”
Hobart spoke up.
“What is it, Chick? I have a suspicion. Am I right?”
Chick looked up; he closed his eyes.
“All right, Hobart, what's your suspicion?”
Fenton leaned over. It seemed to me that he was peering into the other's soul. He touched his forearm.
“Chick, old boy, I think I know. But tell me. Am I right? It's the Blind Spot.”
At the words Watson opened his eyes; they were full of hope and wonder, for a moment, and then, as suddenly of a great despair. His body went to a heap. His voice was feeble.
“Yes,” he answered, “I am dying—of the Blind Spot”
VII. — THE RING
It was a terrible thing; death stalking out of the Blind Spot. We had almost forgotten. It had been a story hitherto—a wonderful one to be sure, and one to arouse conjecture. I had never thought that we were to be brought to its shivering contact. It was out of the occult; it had been so pronounced by the professor; a great secret of life holding out a guerdon of death to its votaries. Witness Chick Watson, the type of healthy, fighting manhood—come to this. He opened his eyes feebly; one could see the light; the old spirit was there—fighting for life. What was this struggle of soul and flesh? Why had the soul hung on? He made another effort.
“More drink,” he asked; “more drink. Anything to hold me together. I must tell you. You must take my place and—and—fight the Blind Spot! Promise that—”
“Order the drinks,” I told Hobart. “I see Dr. Hansen over there. Even if we cannot save him we must hold him until we get his story.”
I went and fetched Hansen over.
“A strange case,” he murmured. “Pulse normal; not a trace of fever. Not sick, you say—” Hobart pointed to his head. “Ah, I see! I would suggest home and a bed.”
Just here Watson opened his eyes again. They rested first upon the doctor, then upon myself, and finally upon the brandy. He took it up and drank it with eagerness. It was his third one; it gave him a bit more life.
“Didn't I tell you, boys, that there is not a doctor on earth that can save me? Excuse me, doc. I am not sick. I told them. I am far past physic; I have gone beyond medicine. All I ask is stimulant and life enough to tell my story.”
“My boy,” asked the doctor kindly, “what ails you?”
Watson smiled. He touched himself on the forehead.
“Up here, doc. There are things in the world with which we may not tamper. I tried it. Somebody had to do it and somebody has to do it yet. You remember Dr. Holcomb; he was a great man; he was after the secret of life. He began it.”
Dr. Hansen started.
“Lord!” he exclaimed, looking at us all; “you don't mean this man is mixed up in the Blind Spot?”
We nodded. Watson smiled; again he dropped back into inertia; the speech he had made was his longest yet; the brandy was coming into effect.
“Give him brandy,” the doctor said; “it's as good as anything. It will hold him together and give him life for a while. Here.” He reached into his pocket and flicked something into the glass. “That will help him. Gentlemen, do you know what it means? I had always thought! I knew Dr. Holcomb! Crossing over the border! It may not be done! The secret of life is impossible. Yet—”
Watson opened his eyes again; his spirit seemed suddenly to flicker into defiance.
“Who said it was impossible? Who said it? Gentlemen, it IS possible. Dr. Holcomb—pardon me. I do not wish to appear a sot; but this brandy is about the only thing to hold me together. I have only a few hours left.”
He took the glass, and at one gulp downed the contents. I do not know what the doctor had dropped into it. Chick revived suddenly, and a strange light blazed up in his eyes, like life rekindled.
“Ah, now I am better. So?”
He turned to us all; then to the doctor.
“So you say the secret of life is impossible?”
“I—”
Chick smiled wanly. “May I ask you: what it is that has just flared up within me? I am weak, anaemic, fallen to pieces; my muscles have lost the power to function, my blood runs cold, I have been more than two feet over the border. And yet—a few drinks of brandy, of stimulants, and you have drawn me back, my heart beats strongly, for an hour. By means of drugs you have infused a new life—which of course is the old—and driven the material components of my body into correlation. You are successful for a time; so long as nature is with you; but all the while you are held aghast by the knowledge that the least flaw, the least disarrangement, and you are beaten.
“It is your business to hold this life or what you may. When it has gone your structures, your anatomy, your wonderful human machine is worthless. Where has it come from? Where has it gone? I have drunk four glasses of brandy; I have a lease of four short hours. Ordinarily it would bring reaction; it is poison, to be sure; but it is driving back my spirit, giving me life and strength enough to tell my story—in the morning I shall be no more. By sequence I am a dead man already. Four glasses of brandy; they are speaking. Whence comes this affinity of substance and of shadow?”
We all of us listened, the doctor most of all. “Go on,” he said.
“Can't you see?” repeated Watson. “There is affinity between substance and shadow; and therefore your spirit or shadow or what you will is concrete, is in itself a substance. It is material just as much as you are. Because you do not see it is no proof that it is not substance. That pot palm yonder does not see you; it is not blessed with eyes.”
The doctor looked at Watson; he spoke gently.
“This is very old stuff, my boy, out of your abstract philosophy. No man knows the secret of life. Not even yourself.”
The light in Watson's eyes grew brighter, he straightened; he began slipping the ring from his finger.
“No,” he answered. “I don't. I have tried and it was like playing with lightning. I sought for life and it is giving me death. But there is one man living who has found it.”
“And this man?”
“Is Dr. Holcomb!”
We all of us started. We had every one given the doctor up as dead. The very presence of Watson was tragedy. We did not doubt that he had been through some terrible experience. There are things in the world that may not be unriddled. Some power, some sinister thing was reaching for his vitality. What did he know about the professor? Dr. Holcomb had been a long time dead.
“Gentlemen. You must hear my story; I haven't long to tell it. However, before I start here is a proof for a beginning.”
He tossed the ring upon the table.
It was Hobart who picked it up. A beautiful stone, like a sapphire; blue but uncut and of a strange pellucid transparency—a jewel undoubtedly; but of a kind we have never seen. We all of us examined it, and were all, I am afraid, a bit disappointed. It was a stone and nothing else.
Watson watched us. The waiter had brought more brandy, and Watson was sipping it, not because he liked it, he said, but just to keep himself at the proper lift.
“You don't understand it, eh? You see nothing? Hobart, have you a match? There, that's it; now give me the ring. See—” He struck the match and held the flame against the jewel. “Gentlemen, there is no need for me to speak. The stone will give you a volume. It's not trickery, I assure you, but fact. There, now, perfect. Doctor, you are the sceptic. Take a look at the stone.”
The doctor picked it up casually and held it up before his eyes. At first he frowned; then came a look of incredulity; his chin dropped and he rose in his chair.
“My God,” he exclaimed, “the man's living! It—he—”
But Hobart and I had crowded over. The doctor held the ring so we could see it. Inside the stone was Dr. Holcomb!
It was a strenuous moment, and the most incredible. We all of us knew the doctor. It was not a photograph, nor a likeness; but the man himself. It was beyond all reason that he could be in the jewel; indeed there was only the head visible; one could catch the expression of life, the movements of the eyelids. Yet how could it be? What was it? It was Hobart who spoke first.
“Chick,” he asked, “what's the meaning? Were it not for my own eyes I would call it impossible. It's absurd on the face. The doctor! Yet I can see him—living. Where is he?”
Chick nodded.
“That's the whole question. Where is he? I know and yet I know nothing. You are now looking into the Blind Spot. The doctor sought the secret of life—and found it. He was trapped by his own wisdom!”
VIII. — THE NERVINA
For a moment we were silent. The jewel reposed upon the table. What was the secret of its phenomena? I could think of nothing in science that would explain it. How had Watson come into its possession? What was the tale he had to tell? The lean, long finger that clutched for brandy! What force was this that had driven him to such a verge? He was resigned; though he was defiant he had already conceded his surrender. Dr. Hansen spoke.
“Watson,” he asked, “what do you know about the Blind Spot?”
“Nothing.”
We all turned to Chick. Hobart ordered more brandy. The doctor's eyes went to slits. I could not but wonder.
“Chick,” I asked, “who is Rhamda Avec?”
Watson turned.
“You saw him a few minutes ago? You saw him with me? Let me ask you.”
“Yes,” I answered, “I saw him. Most people did. Is he invisible? Is he really the phantom they say?”
Somehow the mention of the name made him nervous; he looked cautiously about the room.
“That I don't know, Harry. It—If I can only get my wits together. Is he a phantom? Yes, I think so. I can't understand him. At least, he has the powers we attribute to an apparition. He is strange and unaccountable. Sometimes you see him, sometimes you don't. The first known of him was on the day Professor Holcomb was to deliver his lecture on the Blind Spot. He was tracked, you know, to the very act. Then came in the Nervina.”
“And who is the Nervina?”
Watson looked at me blankly.
“The Nervina?” he asked, “The Nervina—what do you know about the Nervina?”
“Nothing. You mentioned her just now.”
His mind seemed to ramble. He looked about the room rather fearfully. Perhaps he was afraid.
“Did I mention her? I don't know, Harry, my wits are muddled. The Nervina? She is a goddess. Never was and never will be woman. She loves; she never hates, and still again she does not love. She is beautiful; too beautiful for man. I've quit trying.”
“Is she Rhamda's wife?”
His eyes lit fire.
“No!”
“Do you love her?”
He went blank again; but at last he spoke slowly.
“No, I don't love her. What's the use? She's not for me. I did; but I learned better. I was after the professor—and the Blind Spot. She—”
Again that look of haunted pursuit. He glanced about the room. Whatever had been his experience, it was plain that he had not given up. He held something and he held it still. What was it?
“You say you didn't find the Blind Spot?”
“No, I did not find it.”
“Have you any idea?”
“My dear Harry,” he answered, “I am full of ideas. That's the trouble. I am near it. It's the cause of my present condition. I don't know just what it is nor where. A condition, or a combination of phenomena. You remember the lecture that was never delivered? Had the doctor spoken that morning the world would have had a great fact. He had made a great discovery. It is a terrible thing.” He turned the ring so we could all see it—beyond all doubt it was the doctor. “There he is—the professor. If he could only speak. The secret of the ages. Just think what it means. Where is he? I have taken that jewel to the greatest lapidaries and they have one and all been startled. Then they all come to the same conclusion—trickery—Chinese or Hindu work, they say; most of them want to cut.”
“Have you taken it to the police?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I would simply be laughed at.”
“Have you ever reported this Rhamda?”
“A score of times. They have come and sought; but every time he has gone out—like a shadow. It's got to be an old story now. If you call them up and tell them they laugh.”
“How do you account for it?”
“I don't. I—I—I'm just dying.”
“And not one member of the force—surely?”
“Oh, yes. There's one. You have heard of Jerome. Jerome followed the professor and the Rhamda to the house of the Blind Spot, as he calls it. He's not a man to fool. He had eyes and he saw it. He will not leave it till he's dead.”
“But he did not see the Blind Spot, did he? How about trickery? Did it ever occur to you that the professor might have been murdered?”
“Take a look at that, Harry. Does that look like murder? When you see the man living?”
Watson reached over and turned up the jewel.
Here Hobart came in.
“Just a minute, Chick. My wise friend here is an attorney. He's always the first into everything, especially conversation. It's been my job pulling Harry out of trouble. Just one question.”
“All right.”
“Didn't you—er—keep company, as they say, with Bertha Holcomb while at college?”
A kind look came into the man's eyes; he nodded; his whole face was soft and saddened.
“I see. That naturally brought you to the Blind Spot. You are after her father. Am I correct?”
“Exactly.”
“All right. Perhaps Bertha has taken you into some of her father's secrets. He undoubtedly had data on this Blind Spot. Have you ever been able to locate it?”
“No!”
“I see. This Rhamda? Has he ever sought that data?”
“Many, many times.”
“Does he know you haven't got it?”
“No.”
“So. I understand. You hold the whip hand through your ignorance. Rhamda is your villain—and perhaps this Nervina? Who is she?”
“A goddess.”
Hobart smiled.
“Oh, yes!” He laughed. “A goddess. Naturally! They all are. There are about forty in this room at the present moment, my dear fellow. Watch them dance!”
Now I had picked up the ring. It just fitted the natural finger. I tried it on and looked into the jewel. The professor was growing dimmer. The marvellous blue was returning, a hue of fascination; not the hot flash of the diamond, but the frozen light of the iceberg. It was frigid, cold, terrible, blue, alluring. To me at the moment it seemed alive and pulselike. I could not account for it. I felt the lust for possession. Perhaps there was something in my face. Watson leaned over and touched me on the arm.
“Harry,” he asked, “do you think you can stand up under the burden? Will you take my place?”
I looked into his eyes; in their black depths was almost entreaty. How haunting they were, and beseeching.
“Will you take my place?” he begged. “Are you willing to give up all that God gives to the fortunate? Will you give up your practice? Will you hold out to the end? Never surrender? Will—”
“You mean will I take this ring?”
He nodded.
“Exactly. But you must know beforehand. It would be murder to give it to you without the warning. Either your death or that of Dr. Holcomb. It is not a simple jewel. It defies description. It takes a man to wear it. It is subtle and of destruction; it eats like a canker; it destroys the body; it frightens the soul—”
“An ominous piece of finery,” I spoke. “Wherein—”
But Watson interrupted. There was appeal in his eyes.
“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.
How well do I remember.
It seemed to me that I had known her a long, long time. There was something about her that was not seduction; but far, far above it. Somewhere I had seen her, had known her. She was looking and she was waiting for me. There was something about her that was super feminine. I thought it then, and I say it now.
Just then her glance came my way. She smiled, and nodded; there was a note of sadness in her voice.
“Harry Wendel!”
There is no accounting for my action, nor my wonder; she knew me. Then it was true! I was not mistaken! Somewhere I had seen her. I felt a vague and dim rush of dreamy recollections. Ah, that was the answer! She was a girl of dreams and phantoms. Even then I knew it; she was not a woman; not as we conceive her; she was some materialisation out of Heaven. Why do I talk so? Ah! this strange beauty that is woman! From the very first she held me in the thrall that has no explanation.
“Do we dance?” she asked simply.
The next moment I had her in my arms and we were out among the dancers. That my actions were queer and entirely out of reason never occurred to me. There was a call about her beautiful body and in her eyes that I could not answer. There was a fact between us, some strange bond that was beyond even passion. I danced, and in an extreme emotion of happiness. A girl out of the dreams and the ether—a sprig of life woven out of the moonbeams!
“Do you know me?” she asked as we danced.
“Yes,” I answered, “and no. I have seen you; but I do not remember; you come from the sunshine.”
She laughed prettily.
“Do you always talk like this?”
“You are out of my dreams,” I answered: “it is sufficient. But who are you?”
She held back her pretty head and looked at me; her lips drooped slightly at the corners, a sad smile, and tender, in the soft wonderful depths of her eyes—a pity.
“Harry,” she asked, “are you going to wear this ring?”
So that was it. The ring and the maiden. What was the bond? There was weirdness in its colour, almost cabalistic—a call out of the occult. The strange beauty of the girl, her remarkable presence, and her concern. Whoever and whatever she was her anxiety was not personal. In some way she was woven up with this ring and poor Watson.
“I think I shall,” I answered.
Again the strange querulous pity and hesitation; her eyes grew darker, almost pleading.
“You won't give it to me?”
How near I came to doing it I shall not tell. It would be hard to say it. I knew vaguely that she was playing; that I was the plaything. It is hard for a man to think of himself as being toyed with. She was certain; she was confident of my weakness. It was resentment, perhaps, and pride of self that gave the answer.
“I think I shall keep it.”
“Do you know the danger, Harry? It is death to wear it. A thousand perils—”
“Then I shall keep it. I like peril. You wish for the ring. If I keep it I may have you. This is the first time I have danced with the girl out of the moonbeams.”
Her eyes snapped, and she stopped dancing. I don't think my words displeased her. She was still a woman.
“Is this final? You're a fine young man, Mr. Wendel. I know you. I stepped in to save you. You are playing with something stranger than the moonbeams. No man may wear that ring and hold to life. Again, Harry, I ask you; for your own sake.”
At this moment we passed Watson. He was watching; as our eyes glanced he shook his head. Who was this girl? She was as beautiful as sin and as tender as a virgin. What interest had she in myself?
“That's just the reason,” I laughed. “You are too interested. You are too beautiful to wear it. I am a man; I revel in trouble; you are a girl. It would not be honourable to allow you to take it. I shall keep it.”
She had overreached herself, and she knew it. She bit her lip. But she took it gracefully; so much so, in fact, that I thought she meant it.
“I'm sorry,” she answered slowly. “I had hopes. It is terrible to look at Watson and then to think of you. It is, really”—a faint tremor ran through her body; her hand trembled—“it is terrible. You young men are so unafraid. It's too bad.”
Just then the door was opened; outside I could see the bank of fog; someone passed. She turned a bit pale.
“Excuse me. I must be going. Don't you see I'm sorry—”
She held out her hand—the same sad little smile. On the impulse of the moment, unmindful of place, I drew it to my lips and kissed it. She was gone.
I returned to the table. The three men were watching me: Watson analytically, the doctor with wonder, and Hobart with plain disgust. Hobart spoke first.
“Nice for sister Charlotte, eh, Harry?”
I had not a word to say. In the full rush of the moment I knew that he was right. It was all out of reason. I had no excuse outside of sheer insanity—and dishonour. The doctor said nothing. It was only in Watson's face that there was a bit of understanding.
“Hobart,” he said, “I have told you. It is not Harry's fault. It is the Nervina. No man may resist her. She is beauty incarnate; she weaves with the hearts of men, and she loves no one. It is the ring. She, the Rhamda, the Blind Spot, and the ring. I have never been able to unravel them. Please don't blame Harry. He went to her even as I. She has but to beckon. But he kept the ring. I watched them. This is but the beginning.”
But Hobart muttered: “She's a beauty all right—a beauty. That's the rub. I know Harry—I know him as a brother, and I want him so in fact. But I'd hate to trust that woman.”
Watson smiled.
“Never fear, Hobart, your sister is safe enough. The Nervina is not a woman. She is not of the flesh.”
“Brr,” said the doctor, “you give me the creeps.”
Watson reached for the brandy; he nodded to the doctor.
“Just a bit more of that stuff if you please. Whatever it is, on the last night one has no fear of habit. There—Now, gentlemen, if you will come with me, I shall take you to the house of the Blind Spot.”
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