I had not seen her since that night. It was now eight months--did
I not know, I would have recorded them as years. Her expression
was a bit more sad--and beautiful. The same wonderful glow of her
eyes, night-black and tender; the softness that comes from
passion, and love, and virtue. The same wistful droop of the
perfect mouth. What a wondrous mass of hair she had! I dropped my
pen. She took my hand. I could sense the thrill of contact; cool
and magnetic.
"Harry!"
She said no more; I did not answer; I was too taken by surprise
and wonder. I could feel her concern as I would a mother's. What
was her interest in myself? The contact of her hand sent a strange
pulse through my vitals; she was so beautiful. Could it be? Watson
said he loved her. Could I blame him?
"Harry," she asked, "how long is it to continue?"
So that was it. Merely an envoy to accept surrender. I was worn
utterly, weary of the world, lonely. But I hadn't given up. I had
strength still, and will enough to hold out to the end. Perhaps I
was wrong. If I gave her the ring? what then?
"I am afraid," I answered, "that I must go on. I have given my
word. It has been much harder than I expected. This jewel? What
has it to do with the Blind Spot?"
"It controls it."
"Does the Rhamda desire it?"
"He does."
"Why doesn't he call for it personally? Why doesn't he make a
clean breast of it? It would be much easier.
Pages:
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140