Works of Homer Eon Flint. Homer Eon Flint

it seemed alive and pulselike. I could not account for it. I felt the lust for possession. Perhaps there was something in my face. Watson leaned over and touched me on the arm.

      "Harry," he asked, "do you think you can stand up under the burden? Will you take my place?"

      I looked into his eyes; in their black depths was almost entreaty. How haunting they were, and beseeching.

      "Will you take my place?" he begged. "Are you willing to give up all that God gives to the fortunate? Will you give up your practice? Will you hold out to the end? Never surrender? Will--"

      "You mean will I take this ring?"

      He nodded.

      "Exactly. But you must know beforehand. It would be murder to give it to you without the warning. Either your death or that of Dr. Holcomb. It is not a simple jewel. It defies description. It takes a man to wear it. It is subtle and of destruction; it eats like a canker; it destroys the body; it frightens the soul--"

      "An ominous piece of finery," I spoke. "Wherein--"

      But Watson interrupted. There was appeal in his eyes.

      "Harry," he went on, "I am asking. Somebody has got to wear this ring. He must be a man. He must be fearless; he must taunt the devil. It is hard work, I assure you. I cannot last much longer. You loved the old doctor. If we get at this law we have done more for mankind than either of us may do with his profession. We must save the old professor. He is living and he is waiting. There are perils and forces that we do not know of. The doctor went at it alone and fearless; he succumbed to his own wisdom. I have followed after, and I have been crushed down--perhaps by my ignorance. I am not afraid. But I don't want my work to die. Somebody has got to take it on and you are the man."

      They were all of them looking at me. I studied the wonderful blue and its light. The image of the great professor had dimmed almost completely. It was a sudden task and a great one. Here was a law; one of the great secrets of Cosmos. What was it? Somehow the lure caught into my vitals. I couldn't picture myself ever coming to the extremity of my companion. Besides, it was a duty. I owed it to the old doctor. It seemed somehow that he was speaking. Though Watson did the talking I could feel him calling. Would I be afraid? Besides, there was the jewel. It was calling; already I could feel it burning into my spirit. I looked up.

      "Do you take it, Harry?"

      I nodded.

      "I do. God knows I am worthless enough. I'll take it up. It may give me a chance to engage with this famous Rhamda."

      "Be careful of Rhamda, Harry. And above all don't let him have the ring."

      "Why?"

      "Because. Now listen. I'm not laying this absolutely, understand. Nevertheless the facts all point in one direction. Hold the ring. Somewhere in that lustre lies a great secret; it controls the Blind Spot. The Rhamda himself may not take it off your finger. You are immune from violence. Only the ring itself may kill you."

      He coughed.

      "God knows," he spoke, "it has killed me."

      It was rather ominous. The mere fact of that cough and his weakness was enough. One would come to this. He had warned me, and he had besought me with the same voice as the warning.

      "But what is the Blind Spot?"

      "Then you take the ring? What is the time? Twelve. Gentlemen--"

      Now here comes in one of the strange parts of my story--one that I cannot account for. Over the shoulder of Dr. Hansen I could watch the door. Whether it was the ring or not I do not know. At the time I did not reason. I acted upon impulse. It was an act beyond good breeding. I had never done such a thing before. I had never even seen the woman.

      The woman? Why do I say it? She was never a woman--she was a girl-- far, far transcendent. It was the first time I had ever seen her-- standing there before the door. I had never beheld such beauty, such profile, poise--the witching, laughing, night-black of her eyes; the perfectly bridged nose and the red, red lips that smiled, it seemed to me, in sadness. She hesitated, and as if puzzled, lifted a jewelled hand to her raven mass of hair. To this minute I cannot account for my action, unless, perchance, it was the ring. Perhaps it was. Anyway I had risen.

      How well do I remember.

      It seemed to me that I had known her a long, long time. There was something about her that was not seduction; but far, far above it. Somewhere I had seen her, had known her. She was looking and she was waiting for me. There was something about her that was super feminine. I thought it then, and I say it now.

      Just then her glance came my way. She smiled, and nodded; there was a note of sadness in her voice.

      "Harry Wendel!"

      There is no accounting for my action, nor my wonder; she knew me. Then it was true! I was not mistaken! Somewhere I had seen her. I felt a vague and dim rush of dreamy recollections. Ah, that was the answer! She was a girl of dreams and phantoms. Even then I knew it; she was not a woman; not as we conceive her; she was some materialisation out of Heaven. Why do I talk so? Ah! this strange beauty that is woman! From the very first she held me in the thrall that has no explanation.

      "Do we dance?" she asked simply.

      The next moment I had her in my arms and we were out among the dancers. That my actions were queer and entirely out of reason never occurred to me. There was a call about her beautiful body and in her eyes that I could not answer. There was a fact between us, some strange bond that was beyond even passion. I danced, and in an extreme emotion of happiness. A girl out of the dreams and the ether--a sprig of life woven out of the moonbeams!

      "Do you know me?" she asked as we danced.

      "Yes," I answered, "and no. I have seen you; but I do not remember; you come from the sunshine."

      She laughed prettily.

      "Do you always talk like this?"

      "You are out of my dreams," I answered: "it is sufficient. But who are you?"

      She held back her pretty head and looked at me; her lips drooped slightly at the corners, a sad smile, and tender, in the soft wonderful depths of her eyes--a pity.

      "Harry," she asked, "are you going to wear this ring?"

      So that was it. The ring and the maiden. What was the bond? There was weirdness in its colour, almost cabalistic--a call out of the occult. The strange beauty of the girl, her remarkable presence, and her concern. Whoever and whatever she was her anxiety was not personal. In some way she was woven up with this ring and poor Watson.

      "I think I shall," I answered.

      Again the strange querulous pity and hesitation; her eyes grew darker, almost pleading.

      "You won't give it to me?"

      How near I came to doing it I shall not tell. It would be hard to say it. I knew vaguely that she was playing; that I was the plaything. It is hard for a man to think of himself as being toyed with. She was certain; she was confident of my weakness. It was resentment, perhaps, and pride of self that gave the answer.

      "I think I shall keep it."

      "Do you know the danger, Harry? It is death to wear it. A thousand perils--"

      "Then I shall keep it. I like peril. You wish for the ring. If I keep it I may have you. This is the first time I have danced with the girl out of the moonbeams."

      Her eyes snapped, and she stopped dancing. I don't think my words displeased her. She was still a woman.

      "Is this final? You're a fine young man, Mr. Wendel. I know you. I stepped in to save you. You are playing with something stranger than