She held out her hand--the same sad little smile. On the impulse
of the moment, unmindful of place, I drew it to my lips and kissed
it. She was gone.

I returned to the table. The three men were watching me: Watson
analytically, the doctor with wonder, and Hobart with plain
disgust. Hobart spoke first.

"Nice for sister Charlotte, eh, Harry?"

I had not a word to say. In the full rush of the moment I knew
that he was right. It was all out of reason. I had no excuse
outside of sheer insanity--and dishonour. The doctor said nothing.
It was only in Watson's face that there was a bit of
understanding.

"Hobart," he said, "I have told you. It is not Harry's fault. It
is the Nervina. No man may resist her. She is beauty incarnate;
she weaves with the hearts of men, and she loves no one. It is the
ring. She, the Rhamda, the Blind Spot, and the ring. I have never
been able to unravel them. Please don't blame Harry. He went to
her even as I. She has but to beckon. But he kept the ring. I
watched them. This is but the beginning."

But Hobart muttered: "She's a beauty all right--a beauty. That's
the rub. I know Harry--I know him as a brother, and I want him so
in fact. But I'd hate to trust that woman."

Watson smiled.