" His
eyes sparkled. "My Lord, Harry! Don't you see! Once we control it.
The Blind Spot! What is beyond? We saw Chick Watson go. Before our
eyes. Where did he go to? It beats death itself."
I started across the room, but Hobart caught me with both arms:
"No, no, no, Harry. My Lord! I don't want to lose you. No! You
foolhardly little cuss--stand back!"
He threw me violently against the wall. The impact quite took my
breath.
On the instant the old rush of temper surged up in me. From
boyhood we had these moments. Hobart settled himself and awaited
the rush that he knew was coming. In his great, calm, brute
strength there was still a greatness of love.
"Harry," he was saying, "for the love of Heaven, listen to reason!
Have we got to have a knock-down and drag-out on this of all
nights? Have I got to lick you again? Do you want to roll into the
Blind Spot?"
Why did God curse me with such a temper? On such moments as this I
could feel something within me snapping. It was fury and unreason.
How I loved him! And yet we had fought a thousand times over just
such provocation. Over his shoulders I could see the still open
door that led into the street. A heavy form was looming through
the opening; out of the corner of my eye I caught the lines of the
form stepping out of the shadows--it crossed the room and stood
beside Hobart Fenton. It was Rhamda Avec!
I leaped.
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