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