"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." "There! Didn't I tell you?" Cuckoo cried with eyes of triumph. "It's been him from the first. Oh, get him--get Julian away." The doctor laid his hand upon Cuckoo's, which was stretched upon the tablecloth, very gently, almost abstractedly. "Will you tell me something?" he said. "What's it?" "You love Julian?" "Me!" the lady of the feathers said. Her voice trembled over the word. She stole a hasty, hunted glance at the doctor. Was he, too, going to jeer at her? Would no one allow her to have a clean corner in her heart? "You're laughin' at me. What's the good of such as me doin' a thing like that--lovin' a man?" "I think you must love Julian. If you do, perhaps you are meant to protect and save him." A secret voice prompted the doctor with the words he spoke, gave them to him, bent him irresistibly to repeat them. Never before had he felt what it is to be between the strong hands of destiny. "Me! Me save any one!" Cuckoo said, trembling.