Jerome has not returned. I cannot understand it. It has been a week. I am living on brandy--not much of anything else--I am waiting for Fenton. I have taken all my elaborations and notes and put them together. Perhaps I-- (This is the last of the strange document left by Harry Wendel. The following memorandum is written by Charlotte Fenton.) XVIII CHARLOTTE'S STORY I do not know. It is hard to write after what has happened. Hobart says that it is why I am to write it. It is to be a plain narrative. Besides, he is very busy and cannot do it himself. There must be some record. I shall do my best and hold out of my writing as much as I can of my emotion. I shall start with the Nervina. It was the first I knew; the first warning. Looking back I cannot but wonder. No person I think who has ever seen the Nervina can do much else; she is so beautiful! Beautiful? Why do I say it? I should be jealous and I should hate her. Yet I do not. Why is it? It was about eight months after Hobart had left for South America. I remember those eight months as the longest in my life; because of Harry. I am a girl and I like attention; all girls do. Ordinarily he would come over every fortnight at least. After Hobart had gone he came once only, and of course I resented the inattention. It seemed to me that no business could be of enough importance if he really loved me. Even his letters were few and far between. What he wrote were slow and weary and of an undertone that I could not fathom. I--loved Harry. I could not understand it. I had a thousand fearful thoughts and jealousies; but they were feminine and in no way approximated even the beginning of the truth. Inattention was not like Harry. It was not until the coming of the Nervina that I was afraid. Afraid? I will not say that--exactly. It was rather a suspicion, a queer undercurrent of wonder and doubt. The beauty of the girl, her interest in Harry and myself, her concern over this ring, put me a bit on guard. I wondered what this ring had to do with Harry Wendel. She did not tell me in exact words or in literal explanation; but she managed to convey all too well a lurking impression of its sinister potency. It was something baleful, something the very essence of which would break down the life of one who wore it. Harry had come into its possession by accident and she would save him. She had failed through direct appeal. Now she had come to me. She did not say a word of the Blind Spot. And the next day came Harry. It was really a shock, though I had been warned by the girl. He was not Harry at all, but another. His eyes were dim and they had lost their lustre; when they did show light at all, it was a kind that was a bit fearful. He was wan, worn, and shrunk to a shadow, as if he had gone through a long illness.