“That I may not tell you, Harry. You couldn't understand. If only I could.” Certainly I couldn't understand her evasion. I studied and watched her--her wondrous hair, the perfection of her throat, the curve of her bosom. “Then he is supernatural.” “No, not that, Harry. That would explain everything. One cannot go above Nature. He is living just as you are.” I studied a moment. “Are you a woman?” I asked suddenly. Perhaps I should not have asked it; she was so sad and beautiful, somehow I could not doubt her sincerity. There was a burden at the back of her sadness, some great yearning unsatisfied, unattainable. She dropped her head. The hand upon my arm quivered and clutched spasmodically; I caught the least sound of a sob. When I looked up her eyes were wet and sparkling. “Oh,” she said. “Harry, why do you ask it? A woman! Harry, a woman! To live and love and to be loved. What must it be? There is so much of life that is sweet and pure. I love it--I love it! I can have everything but the most exalted thing of all. I can live, see, enjoy, think, but I cannot have love. You knew it from the first. How did you know it? You said--Ah, it is true! I am out of the moonbeams.” She controlled herself suddenly. “Excuse me,” she said simply. “But you can never understand. May I have the ring?” It was like a dream--her beauty, her voice, everything. But I could still hear Watson. I was to be tempted, cajoled, flattered. What was this story out of the moonbeams? Certainly she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Why had I asked such a question? “I shall keep the ring,” I answered. She sighed. A strange weakness came over me; I was drowsy; I lapsed again into unconsciousness; just as I was fading away I heard her speaking: “I am so sorry!” XI BAFFLED Was it a dream? The next I knew somebody was dousing water down my neck. It was Hobart Fenton. “Lord,” he was saying, “I thought you were never coming to. What hit us? You are pretty well cut up. That was some fight. This Rhamda, who is he? Can you figure him out? Did you hear that bell? What was it?” I sat up. “Where is the Nervina?” I asked. “The who?” He was bewildered. “Oh, down at the cafe, I suppose. Thought you had forgotten her. Wasn't her mate enough? It might be healthy to forget his Nervina.” He was a fine sight; his clothes were in ribbons; his plump figure was breaking out at the seams. He regarded me critically. “What d'you think of the Blind Spot?” he asked. “Who is the Rhamda? He put us out pretty easily.” “But the girl?” I interrupted. “The girl? Confound it, the girl?” It was sometime before I could make him understand; even then he refused to believe me. “It was all a dream,” he said; “all a dream.” But I was certain. Fenton began prodding about the room. I do not believe any apartment was ever so thoroughly ransacked. We even tore up the carpet. When we were through he sat in the midst of the debris and wiped his forehead.