“I’ll go now,” she said.

The doctor did not hear.

“I’ll go now, please,” she repeated.

This time he heard and got up.  He looked at her and said, “I have your address.  I will see you again.”

If misery chanced to stand once in his path, he seldom lost sight of it till he had at least tried to bring a smile to its lips, a ray of hope to its eyes.  But in the instance of Cuckoo he had other reasons, or might have other reasons, for seeing her in the future.

“You are sure you have nothing more to say to me?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“No, I don’t think,” she murmured.

“Then good-bye.”

He held out his hand.  She put hers in it, with an action that was oddly ladylike for Cuckoo.  Then she went out, rather awkwardly, in a reaction, to the hall, the doctor following.  He opened the door for her, and the mist crawled instantly in.

“It’s a gloomy night,” he said.  “Very autumnal.”

“Yes, ain’t it?  I do hate the nights.”

She spoke the words with an accent that was venemous.

“C-r-r!” she said.

And with that ejaculation, half an uttered shiver, half a muttered curse, she gave herself to the fog, and was gone.

Doctor Levillier stood for a moment looking into the vague and dreamy darkness.  Then he put on his coat and hat, caught up a cab whistle, and with a breath, sent a shrill and piercing note into the night.  Long and mournfully it sounded.  And only the moist silence answered like that paradox—­a voice that is dumb.  Again and again the cry went forth, and at last there was an answering rattle.  Two bright eyes advanced in the fog very slowly, looking for the sound, it seemed, as for a thing visible.  The doctor got into the cab, and set forth in the fog to visit Valentine.

CHAPTER II

THE VOICE IN THE EMPTY ROOM

When the doctor arrived at the Victoria Street flat Valentine’s man answered his ring.  Wade had been with Valentine for many years and was always famous for his great devotion to, and admiration of, his master.  Wade was also especially partial—­as he would have expressed himself—­to Doctor Levillier, and when he saw who the visitor was, his face relaxed into contentment that strongly suggested a smile.

“Back at last Wade, you see,” the doctor said, cheerfully.  “Is Mr. Cresswell in?”

“No, sir.  But I expect him every minute to dress for dinner.  He’s dining out, and it’s near seven now.  Will you come in and wait?”

“Yes.”

The doctor entered and walked into the drawing-room, preceded by Wade, who turned on the light.

“Why! what have you been doing to the room?” the doctor said, looking round in some surprise.  “Dear me.  It’s very much altered.”