“And who is the Nervina?”

Watson looked at me blankly.

“The Nervina?” he asked, “The Nervina—­what do you know about the Nervina?”

“Nothing.  You mentioned her just now.”

His mind seemed to ramble.  He looked about the room rather fearfully.  Perhaps he was afraid.

“Did I mention her?  I don’t know, Harry, my wits are muddled.  The Nervina?  She is a goddess.  Never was and never will be woman.  She loves; she never hates, and still again she does not love.  She is beautiful; too beautiful for man.  I’ve quit trying.”

“Is she Rhamda’s wife?”

His eyes lit fire.

“No!”

“Do you love her?”

He went blank again; but at last he spoke slowly.

“No, I don’t love her.  What’s the use?  She’s not for me.  I did; but I learned better.  I was after the professor—­and the Blind Spot.  She—­”

Again that look of haunted pursuit.  He glanced about the room.  Whatever had been his experience, it was plain that he had not given up.  He held something and he held it still.  What was it?

“You say you didn’t find the Blind Spot?”

“No, I did not find it.”

“Have you any idea?”

“My dear Harry,” he answered, “I am full of ideas.  That’s the trouble.  I am near it.  It’s the cause of my present condition.  I don’t know just what it is nor where.  A condition, or a combination of phenomena.  You remember the lecture that was never delivered?  Had the doctor spoken that morning the world would have had a great fact.  He had made a great discovery.  It is a terrible thing.”  He turned the ring so we could all see it—­beyond all doubt it was the doctor.  “There he is—­the professor.  If he could only speak.  The secret of the ages.  Just think what it means.  Where is he?  I have taken that jewel to the greatest lapidaries and they have one and all been startled.  Then they all come to the same conclusion—­trickery—­Chinese or Hindu work, they say; most of them want to cut.”

“Have you taken it to the police?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I would simply be laughed at.”

“Have you ever reported this Rhamda?”

“A score of times.  They have come and sought; but every time he has gone out—­like a shadow.  It’s got to be an old story now.  If you call them up and tell them they laugh.”

“How do you account for it?”

“I don’t.  I—­I—­I’m just dying.”

“And not one member of the force—­surely?”

“Oh, yes.  There’s one.  You have heard of Jerome.  Jerome followed the professor and the Rhamda to the house of the Blind Spot, as he calls it.  He’s not a man to fool.  He had eyes and he saw it.  He will not leave it till he’s dead.”

“But he did not see the Blind Spot, did he?  How about trickery?  Did it ever occur to you that the professor might have been murdered?”

“Take a look at that, Harry.  Does that look like murder?  When you see the man living?”