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!"