Jerome had gone. I was alone. I had dragged myself to the desk and my notes and data. It was along toward spring and in the first shadows of the early evening. I had turned on the lights. It was the first labour I had done for several days. I had a great deal of work before me. I had begun sometime before to take down my temperature. I was careful of everything now, as much as I could be under the depression. So far I had discerned nothing that could be classed as pathological. There is something subtle about the Nervina. She is much like the Rhamda. Perhaps they are the same. I hear no sound, I have no notion of a door or entrance. Watson had said of the Rhamda, “Sometimes you see him, sometimes you don't.” It is so with the Nervina. I remember only my working at the data and the sudden movement of a hand upon my desk--a girl's hand. It was bewildering. I looked up. I had not seen her since that night. It was now eight months--did I not know, I would have recorded them as years. Her expression was a bit more sad--and beautiful. The same wonderful glow of her eyes, night-black and tender; the softness that comes from passion, and love, and virtue. The same wistful droop of the perfect mouth. What a wondrous mass of hair she had! I dropped my pen. She took my hand. I could sense the thrill of contact; cool and magnetic. “Harry!” She said no more; I did not answer; I was too taken by surprise and wonder. I could feel her concern as I would a mother's. What was her interest in myself? The contact of her hand sent a strange pulse through my vitals; she was so beautiful. Could it be? Watson said he loved her. Could I blame him? “Harry,” she asked, “how long is it to continue?” So that was it. Merely an envoy to accept surrender. I was worn utterly, weary of the world, lonely. But I hadn't given up. I had strength still, and will enough to hold out to the end. Perhaps I was wrong. If I gave her the ring? what then? “I am afraid,” I answered, “that I must go on. I have given my word. It has been much harder than I expected. This jewel? What has it to do with the Blind Spot?” “It controls it.” “Does the Rhamda desire it?” “He does.” “Why doesn't he call for it personally? Why doesn't he make a clean breast of it? It would be much easier. He knows and you know that I am after Dr. Holcomb and Watson. I might even forego the secret. Would he release the doctor?” “No, Harry, he would not.” “I see. If I gave up the ring it would be merely for my personal safety. I am a coward--” “Oh,” she said, “don't say that. You must give the ring to me--not to the Rhamda. He must not control the Blind Spot.” “What is the Blind Spot? Tell me.” “Harry,” she spoke, “I cannot. It is not for you or any other mortal. It is a secret that should never have been uncovered. It might be the end. In the hands of the Rhamda it would certainly be the end of mankind.” “Who is the Rhamda? Who are you? You are too beautiful to be merely woman. Are you a spirit?”