“Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,” Valentine said, quoting Poe.  “It must be the doctor.”

Julian reddened suddenly.

“I hope not,” he said.

“What?” Valentine cried.  “You don’t want our little doctor?”

“Somehow not—­to-day.”

The door opened and Doctor Levillier entered.  Valentine greeted him warmly.  They had not met since the night of the affray with the mastiffs.  In Julian’s manner there was a touch of awkwardness as he shook hands with the doctor.  Levillier did not seem to notice it.  He looked very tired and rather depressed.

“Cresswell,” he said, “I have come to you for a tonic.”

“Doctor coming to patient!”

“Doctors take medicine oftener than you may suppose.  I’m in bad spirits to-day.  I’ve been trying to cure too many people lately.  It’s hard work.”

“It must be.  Sit down and forget.  Imagine the world beautifully incurable and your occupation consequently gone.”

The doctor sat down, saying: 

“My imagination stops short at that feat.”

He kept silence for a moment, then he said: 

“You know what I want.”

“No,” Valentine answered.  “But I’ll do anything.  You know that.”

“I want your music.”

Valentine suddenly became unresponsive.  He didn’t speak at first, and both Julian and the doctor glanced at him in some surprise.

“Oh, you want me to be David to your Saul,” he said at length.

“Yes.”

“Do, Val,” said Julian.  “I should like it too.”

Valentine, who was sitting near the doctor, looked down thoughtfully on the carpet.

“I’m not in the mood to-day,” he said slowly.

“You are always in the mood enough to cheer and rest me,” Levillier said.

He had driven all the way from Harley Street for his medicine, and it was obvious that he meant to have it.  But Valentine still hesitated, and a certain slight confusion became noticeable in his manner.  Moving the toe of his right boot to and fro, following the pattern of the carpet, he glanced sideways at the doctor, and an odd smile curved his lips.

“Doctor,” he said, “d’you believe that talents can die in us while we ourselves live?”

“That’s a strange question.”

“It’s waiting an answer.”

“Well, my answer is, No; not wholly, unless through the approach of old age, or the development of madness.”

“I’m neither old nor mad.”

Levillier and Julian both looked at Valentine with some amazement.

“Are you talking about yourself?” the doctor asked.

“Certainly.”

“Why?  What talent is dead in you?”

“My talent for music.  Do you know that for the last few days I’ve been able neither to sing nor play?”

“Val, you’re joking,” exclaimed Julian.

“I am certainly not,” he answered, and quite gravely.  “I am simply stating a fact.”