“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.
“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.”