On this the impulse of the doctor to flee changed, giving way to a strict desire and determination.  He was resolved to interview this night-wanderer, to see his face.  A greedy anxiety for view, for question, of this person came upon him.  He, too, wheeled round, and followed hastily in pursuit.  The man had already escaped from his sight into Vere Street, and the doctor broke into a soft run until he reached the corner, skirting which, the man was immediately in his view, but at a considerable distance from him.  As the doctor sprang upon the pavement the man turned round, and, evidently observing that he was pursued, quickened his steps impulsively.  The doctor was now absolutely determined to address him, and began openly to run.  And he was not far from coming up with the fellow when he suddenly whistled a passing hansom, bounded in, and thrust up the trapdoor in the roof.  The direction given was sufficiently obvious, for the cabby glanced round at the doctor, lifted his whip, brought it down with a sweep over the horse’s loins, and the cab disappeared down Oxford Street at a rocking gallop.

The doctor paused.  He was breathing hard, and the perspiration stood upon his face.  His disappointment was absurdly keen, and for an instant he had even some idea of hailing another cab, and of following in pursuit.  But, upon reflection, he deemed it more reasonable to return upon his steps, and to seek his bed in Harley Street.  This accordingly he did, wondering what had moved him so strangely, and wondering, also, not a little, at the abrupt flight of the unknown person.  In the brief and distant view of him, which was all that the doctor had obtained, he judged him to be tall, spare, and pale of countenance, with the figure of a gentleman.  The aspect of his face had not been revealed before the shelter of the cab concealed him.

CHAPTER VIII

PAUSE

It chanced that for three or four days after the night of the theatre expedition Valentine and Julian did not meet.  They were rarely apart for so long a period, and each was moved to wonder at this unwonted abstinence of their friendship.  What was the cause of it?  Each found it in a curious hesitation that enveloped him, and impelled him to avoidance of the other.  Valentine went about as usual.  He looked in at White’s, dined out, rode in the park, visited two theatres, lived the habitual London life which contents so many and disgusts not a few.  But he did not ask Julian to share any of these well-worn doings, and at first he did not acknowledge to himself why he did not do so.  He sought, more definitely than ever before, to gain amusement from amusements, and this definite intention, of course, frustrated his purpose.  His power of pleasure was, in fact, clogged by an abiding sense of dissatisfaction and depression.  And it was really his eventual knowledge of this depression’s cause that led him to bar Julian out from these few