“He dared; he dared; he dared!” she was saying. “As if there were not two! He shall pay for this! Am I to be a plaything? You poor boy!” Then I remembered. I looked up. It was the Nervina. She was stooping over with my head against her. How beautiful her eyes were! In their depths was a pathos and a tenderness that was past a woman's, the same slight droop at the corners of the mouth, and the wistfulness; her features were relaxed like a mother's--a wondrous sweetness and pity. “Harry,” she asked, “where is Watson? Did he go?” I nodded. “Into the Blind Spot?” “Yes. What is the Blind Spot?” She ignored the question. “I am sorry” she answered. “So sorry. I would have saved him. And the Rhamda; was he here, too?” I nodded. Her eyes flashed wickedly. “And--and you--tell me, did you fight with the Rhamda? You--” “It was Watson,” I interrupted. “This Rhamda is behind it all. He is the villain. He can fight like a tiger; whoever he is he can fight.” She frowned slightly; she shook her head. “You young men,” she said. “You young men! You are all alike! Why must it be? I am so sorry. And you fought with the Rhamda? You could not overcome him, of course. But tell me, how could you resist him? What did you do?” What did she mean? I had felt his flesh and muscle. He was a man. Why could he not be conquered--not be resisted? “I don't understand,” I answered. “He is a man. I fought him. He was here. Let him account for Watson. We fought alone at first, until he tried to throw me into this Thing. Then Hobart stepped in. Once I thought we had him, but he was too slippery. He came near putting us both in. I don't know. Something happened--a bell.” Her hand was on my arm, she clutched it tightly, she swallowed hard; in her eyes flashed the fire that I had noticed once before, the softness died out, and their glint was almost terrible. “He! The bell saved you? He would dare to throw you into the Blind Spot!” I lay back. I was terribly weak and uncertain. This beautiful woman! What was her interest in myself? “Harry,” she spoke, “let me ask you. I am your friend. If you only knew! I would save you. It must not be. Will you give me the ring? If I could only tell you! You must not have it. It is death--yes, worse than death. No man may wear it.” So that was it. Again and so soon I was to be tempted. Was her concern feigned or real? Why did she call me Harry? Why did I not resent it? She was wonderful; she was beautiful; she was pure. Was it merely a subtle act for the Rhamda? I could still hear Watson's voice ringing out of the Blind Spot; “Hold the ring! Hold the ring!” I could not be false to my friend. “Tell me first,” I asked. “Who is this Rhamda? What is he? Is he a man?” “No.” Not a man! I remembered Watson's words: “A phantom!” How could it be? At least I would find out what I could. “Then tell me, what is he?” “She smiled faintly; again the elusive tenderness lingered about her lips, the wistful droop at the corners.