Tell me about Watson."
He sat down; during my recital he spoke not a word. He consumed
one cigar after another; when I stopped for a moment he merely
nodded his head and waited until I continued. He was sturdy and
frank, of an iron way and vast common sense. I liked him. When I
had finished he remained silent; his grief was of a solid kind! he
had liked poor Watson.
"I see," he said. "It is as I thought. He told you more than he
ever told me."
"He never told you?"
"Not much. He was a strange lad--about the loneliest one I've ever
seen. There was something about him from the very first that was
not natural; I couldn't make him out. You say it is the ring. He
always wore it. I laid it to this Rhamda. He was always meeting
him. I could never understand it. Try as I would, I could not get
a trace of the phantom."
"The phantom?"
"Most assuredly. Would you call him human?" His grey eyes were
flecked with light. "Come now, Mr. Wendel, would you?"
"Well," I answered, "I don't know. Not after what I have seen. But
for all that, I have proof of his sinews. I am inclined to blend
the two. There is a law somewhere, a very natural one. The Blind
Spot is undoubtedly a combination of phenomena; it has a control.
We do not know what it is, or where it leads to; neither do we
know the motive of the Rhamda. Who is he? If we knew that, we
would know everything.
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