“No, Julian,” Valentine said, and suddenly there came into his voice a weariness, “I am rather tired to-night.  I think I’ll go home to bed.”

“Oh,” Julian said.  He was obviously disappointed.  He hesitated.

“Shall I come too, old chap?  You’re sure—­you’re certain that you are not feeling ill after last night?”

He leant with his foot on the step of the cab to look at Valentine more closely.

“No; I am all right.  Only tired and sleepy, Julian.  Well, will you come or stay?”

“I think I will stay.  I want badly to have a talk with the doctor.”

“All right.  Good-night.”

“Good-night!”

Valentine called his address to the cabman, and the man whipped up his horse.  Just as the cab was turning round Valentine leaned out over the wooden door and cried to Julian, who was just going into the house: 

“Give my best regards to the doctor, Julian.”

The cab disappeared, splashing through the puddles.

Julian stood still on the doorstep.

“Who said that, Lawler?” he asked.

The servant looked at him in surprise.

“Mr. Valentine, sir.”

“Mr. Valentine?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course, of course.  But his voice, didn’t—­didn’t you notice-”

“It was Mr. Valentine’s usual voice, sir,” Lawler said, with increasing astonishment.

“I’m upset to-night,” Julian muttered.

He went into the house and Lawler closed the street door.

CHAPTER V

THE HARLEY STREET EPISODE

Julian was a favourite in Harley Street, so Lawler did not hesitate to show him into the doctor’s very private room,—­a room dedicated to ease, and to the cultivation of a busy man’s hobbies.  No patient ever told the sad secrets of his body here.  Here were no medical books, no appliances for the writing of prescriptions, no hints of the profession of the owner.  Several pots of growing roses gravely shadowed forth the doctor’s fondness for flowers.  A grand piano mutely spoke of his love for music.  Many of the books which lay about were novels; one, soberly dressed in a vellum binding, being Ouida’s “Dog of Flanders.”  All the photographs which studded the silent chamber with a reflection of life were photographs of children, except one.  That was Valentine’s.  The hearth, on which a fire flashed, was wide and had two mighty occupants, Rupert and Mab, the doctor’s mastiffs, who took their evening ease, pillowing their huge heads upon each other’s heaving bodies.  The ticking clock on the mantelpiece was an imitation of the Devil Clock of Master Zacharius.  There were no newspapers in the room.  That fact alone made it original.  A large cage of sleeping canaries was covered with a cloth.  The room was long and rather narrow, the only door being at one end.  On the walls hung many pictures, some of them gifts from the artists.  Some foils lay on an ottoman in a far corner.  The doctor fenced admirably, and believed in the exercise as a tonic to the muscles and a splendid drill-sergeant to the eyes.