Mrs. Brigg uttered the words with some suspicion.

“Hurry up and light the fire!”

Cuckoo turned round, her hands darting in her hair, and actually laughed with a touch of merriment.

“You old owl!  He’s not come to doctor me, only to see me.”

Mrs. Brigg looked relieved, but still surprised.

“Oh,” she said.  “That’s it, is it?”

She paused as if in consideration.

Suddenly Cuckoo sprang on her, twisted her round, and spun her out into the cold passage.  “Light the fire, I tell you!”

She banged the bedroom door and went on with her rapid toilet.

When she came into the sitting-room an uneasy fire was sputtering in the grate, one gas-jet flared, and Doctor Levillier was standing by the window looking out at the fog.  He turned to greet her.

“I thought you’d forgotten—­or didn’t mean to come,” Cuckoo said; “they often do—­people that say they will to me, I mean.”

The doctor held out his hand with a smile.

“No.  Am I interrupting you?”

“Me!” said Cuckoo, in amazement, thinking of her empty days.  “Lord, no.”

Her accent was convincing.  The little doctor sat down by the fire and put his hat and gloves on the table.

“Mrs. Brigg thought I was ill—­you bein’ a doctor,” Cuckoo said, with an attempt at a laugh.  She felt nervous now, and was not sustained today by the strung-up enthusiasm which had supported her in Harley Street.  “Funny there bein’ a fog again this time, ain’t it?”

“Yes.  I hope we shall meet some day in clear weather.”

As the doctor said that, following a tender thought of the girl, he glanced round the room and at Cuckoo.  “I hope so,” he repeated.  Then, rather abruptly: 

“Two or three nights ago I went to dine with Mr. Addison.  He was out.  He was here with you.”

Cuckoo got red.  She could still be very sensitive with a few people, and perhaps Mrs. Brigg and her kind had trained her into irritable suspicion of suspicion in others.

“Only for a friendly visit,” she said hastily.  “Nothin’ else.  He would stop.”

“I understand perfectly,” the doctor said gently.  Cuckoo was reassured.

“Did he say as he’d been?”

“Yes.”

Cuckoo looked at the doctor and a world of reproach dawned in her eyes.

“I say,” she said, “you haven’t done nothin’.  He’s worse than ever.  He’s gettin’—­oh, he’s gettin’ cruel bad.”

Tears came up over the world of reproach.

“It’s all him, all Valentine,” she said.

And Doctor Levillier was moved to cast reticence, the usual loyalty of one man to another who has been his friend, away.  Somehow the dead body of Rip lying in the snow put that old friendship far off.  And also an inward thrill caught him near to Cuckoo.  An impulse, swift and vital, thrust his mind to hers.

“You are right,” he answered.  “I believe that it is all Valentine.”