It was Hobart who came to first. His voice was good to hear. It was natural; it was sweet and human, but it was pregnant with disappointment: “We are fools, Harry; we are fools!”

But I could only stare. I remember saying: “The Blind Spot?”

“Yes,” returned Hobart, “the Blind Spot. But what is it? We saw him go. Did you see it?”

“It gets me,” I answered. “He just vanished into space. It—” Frankly I was afraid.

“It tallies well with the reports. The old lady and Jerome. Remember?”

“And the bell?” I looked about the room.

“Exactly. Phenomena! Watson was right. I just wonder—but the bell? Remember the doctor? 'The greatest day since Columbus.' No, don't cross the room, Harry, I'm a bit leery: A great discovery! I should say it was. How do you account for it?”

“Supernatural.”

Fenton shook his head.

“By no means! It's the gateway to the universe—into Cosmos.” 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. The fury of a thousand conflicts—and the exultation. For the glory of such moments it is well worth dying. One minute flying through the air—the old catapult tackle—and the next a crashing of bone and sinew. We rolled over, head on, and across the floor. Curses and execrations; the deep bass voice of Hobart:

“Hold him, Harry! Hold him! That's the way! Hold him! Hold him!”

We went crashing about the room. He was the slipperiest thing I had ever laid hold of. But he was bone—bone and sinew; he was a man! I remember the wild thrill of exultation at the discovery. It was battle! And death! The table went over, we went spinning against the wall, a crash of falling bookcases, books and broken glass, a scurry and a flying heap of legs and arms. He was wonderfully strong and active, like a panther. Each time I held him he would twist out like a cat, straighten, and throw me out of hold. I clung on, fighting, striving for a grip, working for the throat. He was a man—a man! I remembered that he must never get away. He must account for Watson.

In the first rush I was a madman. The mere force of my onslaught had borne him down. But in a moment he had recovered and was fighting systematically. As much as he could he kept over on one side of me, always forcing me toward the inner room where Watson had disappeared. In spite of my fury he eluded every effort that I made for a vital part. We rolled, fought, struck and struggled.

I could hear Hobart's bass thundering: “Over! Over! Under! Look out! Now you've got him! Harry! Harry! Look out! Hold him, for the love of Heaven I see his trick. That's his trick. The Blind Spot!”

We were rolled clear over, picked, heaved, shoved against the front wall. There were three! The great heaving bulk of Fenton; the fighting tiger between us; and myself! Surely such strength was not human; we could not pin him; his quickness was uncanny; he would uncoil, twist himself and throw us loose. Gradually he worked us away from the front wall and into the centre of the room.

Could any mere man fight so? Hobart was as good as a ton; I was as much for action. Slowly, slowly in spite of our efforts, he was working us towards the Blind Spot. Confident of success, he was over, around, and in and under. In a spin of a second he went into the attack. He fairly bore us off our feet. We were on the last inch of our line; the stake was—

What was it? We all went down. A great volume of sound! We were inside a bell! My whole head buzzed to music and a roar; the whir of a thousand vibrations; the inside of sound. I fell face downwards; the room went black.

What was it? How long I lay there I don't know. A dim light was burning. I was in a room. The ceiling overhead was worked in a grotesque pattern; I could not make it out. My clothes were in tatters and my hand was covered with blood. Something warm was trickling down my face. What was it? The air was still and sodden. Who was this man beside me? And what was this smell of roses?

I lay still for a minute, thinking. Ah, yes! It came back. Watson—Chick Watson! The Blind Spot! The Rhamda and the bell!

Surely it was a dream. How could all this be in one short night? It was like a nightmare and impossible. I raised up on my elbow and looked at the form beside me. It was Hobart Fenton. He was unconscious.

For a moment my mind was whirring; I was too weak and unsteady. I dropped back and wondered absently at the roses. Roses meant perfume, and perfume meant a woman. What could—something touched my face—something soft; it plucked tenderly at my tangled hair and drew it away from my forehead. It was the hand of a woman!

“You poor, foolish boy! You foolish boy!”

Somewhere I had heard that voice; it held a touch of sadness; it was familiar; it was soft and silken like music that might have been woven out of the moonbeams. Who was it that always made me think of moonbeams? I lay still, thinking.

“He dared; he dared; he dared!” she was saying. “As if there were not two! He shall pay for this! Am I to be a plaything? You poor boy!”

Then I remembered. I looked up. It was the Nervina. She was stooping over with my head against her. 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. 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.

“That I may not tell you, Harry. You couldn't understand. If only I could.”

Certainly I couldn't understand her evasion. I studied and watched her—her wondrous hair, the perfection of her throat, the curve of her bosom.

“Then he is supernatural.”

“No, not that, Harry. That would explain everything. One cannot go above Nature. He is living just as you are.”

I studied a moment.

“Are you a woman?” I asked suddenly.

Perhaps I should not have asked it; she was so sad and beautiful, somehow I could not doubt her sincerity. There was a burden at the back of her sadness, some great yearning unsatisfied, unattainable. She dropped her head. The hand upon my arm quivered and clutched spasmodically; I caught the least sound of a sob. When I looked up her eyes were wet and sparkling.

“Oh,” she said. “Harry, why do you ask it? A woman! Harry, a woman! To live and love and to be loved. What must it be? There is so much of life that is sweet and pure. I love it—I love it! I can have everything but the most exalted thing of all. I can live, see, enjoy, think, but I cannot have love. You knew it from the first. How did you know it? You said—Ah, it is true! I am out of the moonbeams.” She controlled herself suddenly. “Excuse me,” she said simply. “But you can never understand. May I have the ring?”

It was like a dream—her beauty, her voice, everything. But I could still hear Watson. I was to be tempted, cajoled, flattered. What was this story out of the moonbeams? Certainly she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Why had I asked such a question?

“I shall keep the ring,” I answered.

She sighed. A strange weakness came over me; I was drowsy; I lapsed again into unconsciousness; just as I was fading away I heard her speaking: “I am so sorry!”