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.