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!”