“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 the moonbeams.  No man may wear that ring and hold to life.  Again, Harry, I ask you; for your own sake.”

At this moment we passed Watson.  He was watching; as our eyes glanced he shook his head.  Who was this girl?  She was as beautiful as sin and as tender as a virgin.  What interest had she in myself?

“That’s just the reason,” I laughed.  “You are too interested.  You are too beautiful to wear it.  I am a man; I revel in trouble; you are a girl.  It would not be honourable to allow you to take it.  I shall keep it.”

She had overreached herself, and she knew it.  She bit her lip.  But she took it gracefully; so much so, in fact, that I thought she meant it.

“I’m sorry,” she answered slowly.  “I had hopes.  It is terrible to look at Watson and then to think of you.  It is, really”—­a faint tremor ran through her body; her hand trembled—­“it is terrible.  You young men are so unafraid.  It’s too bad.”

Just then the door was opened; outside I could see the bank of fog; someone passed.  She turned a bit pale.

“Excuse me.  I must be going.  Don’t you see I’m sorry—­”

She held out her hand—­the same sad little smile.  On the impulse of the moment, unmindful of place, I drew it to my lips and kissed it.  She was gone.

I returned to the table.  The three men were watching me:  Watson analytically, the doctor with wonder, and Hobart with plain disgust.  Hobart spoke first.

“Nice for sister Charlotte, eh, Harry?”

I had not a word to say.  In the full rush of the moment I knew that he was right.  It was all out of reason.  I had no excuse outside of sheer insanity—­and dishonour.  The doctor said nothing.  It was only in Watson’s face that there was a bit of understanding.

“Hobart,” he said, “I have told you.  It is not Harry’s fault.  It is the Nervina.  No man may resist her.  She is beauty incarnate; she weaves with the hearts of men, and she loves no one.  It is the ring.  She, the Rhamda, the Blind Spot, and the ring.  I have never been able to unravel them.  Please don’t blame Harry.  He went to her even as I. She has but to beckon.  But he kept the ring.  I watched them.  This is but the beginning.”

But Hobart muttered:  “She’s a beauty all right—­a beauty.  That’s the rub.  I know Harry—­I know him as a brother, and I want him so in fact.  But I’d hate to trust that woman.”

Watson smiled.

“Never fear, Hobart, your sister is safe enough.  The Nervina is not a woman.  She is not of the flesh.”