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.
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