The thought came to the doctor, and once it had been born it was often near to him.  Yet he would not encourage it unless he could rest it upon facts.  That a man should change was not a proof of his madness, however unaccountable the change might seem.  The doctor watched Valentine, and was compelled to admit to himself that in every way Valentine seemed perfectly sane.  His cynicism, his love of ordinary life, his toleration of common and wretched people, might seem amazing to one who had known him well years ago, but there were many perfectly sane men of the same habits and opinions, of the same modes of speech and of action.  If the doctor’s strange thought were to become a definite belief, much more was needed, something at least of proof, something that would carry conviction not merely to the imagination, but to the cool and searching intellect.

On this night of the first snow the doctor’s thought moved a step forward towards conviction.

When he arrived at Julian’s rooms, he was greeted by Valentine alone.

“Our host has deserted us,” he said, leading the doctor into the fire.

“What, is he ill?”

“He has not returned.  He went away last night—­on a quest of a certain pleasure.  This afternoon he wired, asking me to entertain you.  He was unavoidably detained, but hoped to arrive in time for dessert.  His present love’s arms are very strong.  They keep him.”

“Oh!” the doctor said, slipping out of his cloak; “we dine here then?”

“We do, alone.  I don’t think we’ve dined alone since Julian and I came back from abroad, and you deserted your Russian.”

“No.  I will consider myself your guest.”

It struck the doctor that here was an excellent opportunity for confirming or abandoning his dreary suspicion.  Alone with Valentine, he would be able to lead the conversation in any direction he chose.  He was glad that Julian had not returned, and resolved to use this opportunity.

They went into the dining-room and sat down to dinner.  Valentine was apparently rather amused at playing the host in another man’s house.  It was novel, and entertained him.  He was obviously in splendid spirits, ate with good appetite and drank the champagne with an elation not unlike the elation of the dancing wine.  More than once, too, he alluded to Julian’s absence and probable occupation, as if both the one and the other were bouquets in his cap, or laurels in some crown which he alone could wear.  Dr. Levillier noticed it and sought to draw him on in that direction, and to lead him to some open acknowledgment of his share in Julian’s rapidly proceeding ruin.  But Valentine changed the conversation into another channel without apparently observing his companion’s intention, or deliberately frustrating it.  He chattered of a thousand things, mostly of topics that are the common converse of London dinner-tables.  The doctor joined in.  To a listening stranger the two men would have seemed old friends, pleasantly at ease and secure with one another.  Yet the doctor was doing detective duty all the time.  And Valentine! was he not secretly revelling in that destruction of a human soul that was galloping apace?