And then each knew that the other was in some nervous crisis that rendered action almost an impossibility. And while they thus hesitated there came a loud, repeated, and unsteady knock at the door. Julian opened it. Valentine's man was standing outside, pale and anxious. "Good God, sir," he ejaculated. "What is it? What on earth is the matter?" The man's exclamation broke through Julian's frost of inaction. He whispered to Wade: "It's all right," pushed him out and shut the door. Then he went straight up to the piano, seized Valentine's hands and dragged them from the keyboard. The silence was like a sweet blow. "I said my voice was out of order," Valentine said, simply and with a smile. "You did not say you had another voice, the voice of--of a devil," Julian said, almost falteringly, for he was still shaken by his distress of the senses, into a mental condition that was almost anger. Dr. Levillier said nothing. More sensitive to musical sounds than Julian, he dared not speak, lest he should say something that might stand like a fixed gulf to eternally separate him from Valentine. He knew the future that stretches out like a spear beyond one word. So he sat quietly with his eyes on the ground. His lips were set firmly together. Valentine turned to observe him. "Doctor, you're not angry?" he asked. The doctor made no reply. "You know I warned you," Valentine went on. "You brought this thing on yourself." "Yes," said Levillier. But Julian interposed. "No Valentine," he exclaimed. "For, of course, it is all a trick of yours. You didn't want to sing. We made you. This is your revenge, eh? I didn't know you had it in you to be so--so beastly and cantankerous." Valentine shook his head. "It's no trick. It's simply as I said. My talent for music is dead. You have been listening to the voice of its corpse." Dr. Levillier looked up at length. "You really mean that?" he said, and there was an awakening within him of his normal ready interest in all things. "I mean it absolutely." "That is the only event in which I can forgive the torture you have been inflicting upon me." "That is the true event." "But it's not possible," Julian said. "It's not conceivable. Surely, doctor, you would not say--" The doctor interrupted him. "I cannot believe that Cresswell would deliberately commit an outrage upon me," he said. "And it would be an outrage to sing like that to a tired man. Weeks of work would not fatigue me as I am fatigued by Cresswell's music." Julian was silent and looked uneasy. Valentine repeated again: "I couldn't help it. I am sorry."