How beautiful her eyes
were! In their depths was a pathos and a tenderness that was past
a woman's, the same slight droop at the corners of the mouth, and
the wistfulness; her features were relaxed like a mother's--a
wondrous sweetness and pity.
"Harry," she asked, "where is Watson? Did he go?"
I nodded.
"Into the Blind Spot?"
"Yes. What is the Blind Spot?"
She ignored the question.
"I am sorry" she answered. "So sorry. I would have saved him. And
the Rhamda; was he here, too?"
I nodded. Her eyes flashed wickedly.
"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.
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