Works of Homer Eon Flint. Homer Eon Flint

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.

      "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 above Nature. He is living just as you are."

      I studied a moment.

      "Are you a woman?" I asked suddenly.

      Perhaps I should not have asked it; she was so sad and beautiful, somehow I could not doubt her sincerity. There was a burden at the back of her sadness, some great yearning unsatisfied, unattainable. She dropped her head. The hand upon my arm quivered and clutched spasmodically; I caught the least sound of a sob. When I looked up her eyes were wet and sparkling.

      "Oh," she said. "Harry, why do you ask it? A woman! Harry, a woman! To live and love and to be loved. What must it be? There is so much of life that is sweet and pure. I love it--I love it! I can have everything but the most exalted thing of all. I can live, see, enjoy, think, but I cannot have love. You knew it from the first. How did you know it? You said--Ah, it is true! I am out of the moonbeams." She controlled herself suddenly. "Excuse me," she said simply. "But you can never understand. May I have the ring?"

      It was like a dream--her beauty, her voice, everything. But I could still hear Watson. I was to be tempted, cajoled, flattered. What was this story out of the moonbeams? Certainly she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Why had I asked such a question?

      "I shall keep the ring," I answered.

      She sighed. A strange weakness came over me; I was drowsy; I lapsed again into unconsciousness; just as I was fading away I heard her speaking: "I am so sorry!"

      XI

      BAFFLED

      Was it a dream? The next I knew somebody was dousing water down my neck. It was Hobart Fenton. "Lord," he was saying, "I thought you were never coming to. What hit us? You are pretty well cut up. That was some fight. This Rhamda, who is he? Can you figure him out? Did you hear that bell? What was it?"

      I sat up. "Where is the Nervina?" I asked. "The who?" He was bewildered. "Oh, down at the cafe, I suppose. Thought you had forgotten her. Wasn't her mate enough? It might be healthy to forget his Nervina."

      He was a fine sight; his clothes were in ribbons; his plump figure was breaking out at the seams. He regarded me critically.

      "What d'you think of the Blind Spot?" he asked. "Who is the Rhamda? He put us out pretty easily."

      "But the girl?" I interrupted. "The girl? Confound it, the girl?"

      It was sometime before I could make him understand; even then he refused to believe me.

      "It was all a dream," he said; "all a dream."

      But I was certain.

      Fenton began prodding about the room. I do not believe any apartment was ever so thoroughly ransacked. We even tore up the carpet. When we were through he sat in the midst of the debris and wiped his forehead.

      "It's no use, Harry--no use. We might have known better. It can't be done. Yet you say you saw a string of incandescence."

      "A single string; the form of Watson; a blur--then nothing," I answered.

      He thought. He quoted the professor:

      "'Out of the occult I shall bring you the proof and the substance. It will be concrete--within the reach of your senses.' Isn't that what the doctor said?"

      "Then you believe Professor Holcomb?"

      "Why not? Didn't we see it? I know a deal of material science; but nothing like this. I always had faith in Dr. Holcomb. After all, it's not impossible. First we must go over the house thoroughly."

      We did. Most of all, we were interested in that bell. We did not think, either of us, that so much noise could come out of nothing. It was too material. The other we could credit to the occult; but not the sound. It had drowned our consciousness; perhaps it had saved us from the Rhamda. But we found nothing. We went over the house systematically. It was much as it had been previously described, only now a bit more furnished. The same dank, musty smell and the same suggestive silence. We returned to the lower floor and the library. It was a sorry sight. We straightened up the shelves and returned the books to their places.

      It was getting along toward morning. Hobart sailed at nine o'clock. We must have new clothing and some coffee; likewise we must collect our wits. I had the ring, and had given my pledge to Watson. I was muddled. We must get down to sane action. First of all we must return to our rooms.

      The fog had grown thicker; one could almost taste it. I couldn't suppress a shudder. It was cold, dank, repressive. Neither of us spoke a word on our way downtown. Hobart opened the door to our apartment; he turned on the lights.

      In a few moments we had hot, steaming cups of coffee. Still we did not speak. Hobart sat in his chair, his elbows on the table and his head between his hands. My thoughts ran back to that day in college when he said "I was just thinking, Harry, if I had one hundred thousand dollars, I would solve the Blind Spot."

      That was long ago. We had neither of us thought that we would come to the fact.

      "Well," I spoke, "have you got that hundred thousand dollars? You had an idea once."

      He looked up. "I've got it yet. I am not certain. It is merely a theory. But it's not impossible."

      "Well, what is it?"

      He took another drink of coffee and settled back in his chair.

      "It is energy, Harry--force. Nothing but energy--and Nature."

      "Then it's not occult?" I asked.

      "Certainly it is. I didn't say that. It is what the professor promised. Something concrete for our senses. If the occult is, it can certainly be proven. The professor was right. It is energy, force, vibration. It has a law. The old doctor was caught somehow. We must watch our step and see that we aren't swallowed up also. Perhaps we shall go the way of Watson."

      I shuddered.

      "I hope not. But explain. You speak in volumes. Come back to earth."

      "That's easy, Harry. I can give you my theory in a few short words. You've studied physiology, haven't you? Well, that's where you can get your proof--or rather let me say my theory. What is the Blind Spot?"

      "In optics?"

      "We'll forgo