Light shone through the shadows of the tired face at the words. "He said different from that," she exclaimed. "He--who?" "Him as you call Valentine. That's why he told me all about it, because he knew as I shouldn't understand, and because he thinks I can't do nothin' for any one. But I say, you do somethin' for Julian, will you, will you?" There was a passion of pleading in her voice. She had lost her fear of him, and, stretching out her hand, touched the sleeve of his coat. "I don't understand it all," the doctor said. "I don't like to accept what you say about Mr. Cresswell, even in thought. But I will go and see him, and Julian. The dogs," he added in a low and secret voice to himself. "There is something terribly strange in all this." He fell into a silence of consideration that lasted longer than he knew. The lady of the feathers began to fidget in it uneasily. She felt that her mission was perhaps accomplished and that she ought to go. She looked across at the doctor, pulled her silk gloves up on her thin arms, and kicked one foot against the other. He did not seem to notice. She glanced towards the window. The fog was pressing its face against the glass like a dreary and terrible person looking upon them with haggard eyes. It was time, she supposed, for her to drift out into the arms that belonged to that dreary and terrible face. She got up. "I'll go now," she said. The doctor did not hear. "I'll go now, please," she repeated. This time he heard and got up. He looked at her and said, "I have your address. I will see you again." If misery chanced to stand once in his path, he seldom lost sight of it till he had at least tried to bring a smile to its lips, a ray of hope to its eyes. But in the instance of Cuckoo he had other reasons, or might have other reasons, for seeing her in the future. "You are sure you have nothing more to say to me?" he asked. She shook her head. "No, I don't think," she murmured. "Then good-bye." He held out his hand. She put hers in it, with an action that was oddly ladylike for Cuckoo. Then she went out, rather awkwardly, in a reaction, to the hall, the doctor following. He opened the door for her, and the mist crawled instantly in. "It's a gloomy night," he said. "Very autumnal." "Yes, ain't it? I do hate the nights." She spoke the words with an accent that was venemous. "C-r-r!" she said. And with that ejaculation, half an uttered shiver, half a muttered curse, she gave herself to the fog, and was gone.