It seemed to me that no business could be of enough importance if
he really loved me. Even his letters were few and far between.
What he wrote were slow and weary and of an undertone that I could
not fathom. I--loved Harry. I could not understand it. I had a
thousand fearful thoughts and jealousies; but they were feminine
and in no way approximated even the beginning of the truth.
Inattention was not like Harry. It was not until the coming of the
Nervina that I was afraid.

Afraid? I will not say that--exactly. It was rather a suspicion, a
queer undercurrent of wonder and doubt. The beauty of the girl,
her interest in Harry and myself, her concern over this ring, put
me a bit on guard. I wondered what this ring had to do with Harry
Wendel.

She did not tell me in exact words or in literal explanation; but
she managed to convey all too well a lurking impression of its
sinister potency. It was something baleful, something the very
essence of which would break down the life of one who wore it.
Harry had come into its possession by accident and she would save
him. She had failed through direct appeal. Now she had come to me.
She did not say a word of the Blind Spot.

And the next day came Harry. It was really a shock, though I had
been warned by the girl. He was not Harry at all, but another. His
eyes were dim and they had lost their lustre; when they did show
light at all, it was a kind that was a bit fearful. He was wan,
worn, and shrunk to a shadow, as if he had gone through a long
illness.