The Russian Grand Duke, whose malady was mainly composed of two ingredients, unlimited wealth and almost unlimited power, was slow in recovering, and slower still in making up his mind to part with the little nerve-doctor whom he had summoned from England.  And so London was beginning to fall into its misty autumn mood before Doctor Levillier was once more established in Harley Street.  He had heard occasionally from both Valentine and Julian during his long absence, but their letters had not communicated much, and once or twice when he, in replying to them, had put one or two friendly questions as to their doings, those questions had remained unanswered.  The doctor had been particularly reluctant to leave England at the time when the Grand Duke’s summons reached him, as his interest and curiosity about Valentine had just been keenly and thoroughly roused.  But fate fought for the moment against his curiosity.  It remained entirely ungratified.  He had not once seen Valentine since the afternoon in Victoria Street, when the lamentation of that thoroughfare’s saint had struck consternation into the hearts of musical sinners.  Nor had the doctor met any one who could give him news of the two youths over whose welfare his soul had learned to watch.  Now, when he returned to London, he found that both Valentine and Julian were abroad.  Only Rip, left in charge of Julian’s servant, greeted him with joy; Rip, whose conduct had given the first strong impulse to his wonder and doubt about Valentine.

Doctor Levillier took up the threads of his long-forsaken practice, and gave himself to his work while autumn closed round London.  One day he heard casually from a patient that Valentine and Julian had returned to town.  He wondered that they had not let him know:  the omission seemed curious and unfriendly.

During the day on which the news reached him he was, as usual, busily engaged from morning till evening in the reception of patients.  His reputation was very great, and men and women thronged his consulting-rooms.  Although his rule was that nobody could ever gain admission to him without an appointment, it was a rule made to be broken.  He never had the heart to turn any one from his door in distress, and so it frequently happened that his working-day was prolonged by the admission of people who unexpectedly intruded themselves upon him.  Great ladies, more especially, often came to him on the spur of the moment, prompted to seek his solace by sudden attacks of the nerves.  A lover had used them ill, perhaps, or a husband had turned upon them and had rent a long dressmaker’s bill into fragments, without paying it first.  Or the ennui of an exquisite life of unbridled pleasure had suddenly sprung upon them like a grisly spectre, torn their hearts, shaken them into tears.  Or—­and this happened often—­a fantastic recognition of the obvious fact that even butterflies must die, had abruptly started into their minds, obtruding a skeleton head above the billowing chiffons, rattling its bones until the dismal sound outvied the frou-frou of silk, the burr of great waving fans, the click of high heels from Paris.  Then, in terror, they drove to Doctor Levillier’s door and begged to see him, if only for a moment.