She dropped her head.  Whatever she was, she was not above sobbing.

I touched her hair; it was of the softest texture I have ever seen; the lustre was like all the beauty of night woven into silk.  She loved, loved; I could love—­I was on the point of surrender.

“Tell me,” I asked, “just one thing more.  If I gave you this ring would you save the doctor and Chick Watson?”

She raised her head; her eyes glistened; but she did not answer.

“Would you?”

She shook her head.  “I cannot,” she answered.  “That cannot be.  I can only save you for—­for—­Charlotte.”

Was it vanity in myself?  I don’t know.  It seemed to me that it was hard for her to say it.  Frankly, I loved her.  I knew it.  I loved Charlotte.  I loved them both.  But I held to my purpose.

“Are the professor and Watson living?”

“They are.”

“Are they conscious?”

She nodded.  “Harry,” she said, “I can tell you that.  They are living and conscious.  You have seen them.  They have only one enemy—­the Rhamda.  But they must never come out of the Blind Spot.  I am their friend and yours.”

A sudden courage came upon me.  I remembered my word to Watson.  I had loved the old professor.  I would save them.  If necessary I would follow to the end.  Either myself or Fenton.  One of us would solve it!

“I shall keep the ring,” I said.  “I shall avenge them.  Somehow, somewhere, I feel that I shall do it.  Even if I must follow—­”

She straightened at that.  Her eyes were frightened.

“Oh,” she said, “why do you say it?  It must not be!  You would perish!  You shall not do it!  I must save you.  You must not go alone.  Three—­it may not be.  If you go, I go with you.  Perhaps—­ oh, Harry!”

She dropped her head again; her body shook with her sobbing; plainly she was a girl.  No real man is ever himself in the presence of a woman’s tears.  I was again on the point of surrender.  Suddenly she looked up.

“Harry,” she spoke sadly, “I have just one thing to ask.  You must see Charlotte.  You must forget me; we can never—­you love Charlotte.  I have seen her; she’s a beautiful girl.  You haven’t written.  She is worried.  Remember what you mean to her happiness.  Will you go?”

That I could promise.

“Yes, I shall see Charlotte.”

She rose from her chair.  I held her hand.  Again, as in the restaurant, I lifted it to my lips.  She flushed and drew it away.  She bit her lip.  Her beauty was a kind I could not understand.

“You must see Charlotte,” she said, “and you must do as she says.”

With that she was gone.  There was a car waiting; the last I saw was its winking tail-light dimming into the darkness.

XVI

CHARLOTTE

Left alone, I began thinking of Charlotte.  I loved her; of that I was certain.  I could not compare her with the Nervina.  She was like myself, human.  I had known her since boyhood.  The other was out of the ether; my love for her was something different; she was of dreams and moonbeams; there was a film about her beauty, illusion; she was of spirit.