A quarter of an hour later she was seated with the doctor in the victoria, the veil tightly stretched across her face, her poor mode of living up to his trust in her, and deserving the honour now conferred upon her. The coachman let his horses go, and Harley Street was left behind. Such a bright day it was. Even the cold seemed a gay and festive thing, spinning the circulation like a gold coin till it glittered, decorating the poorest cheeks with the brightest rose as if in honour of a festival. To Cuckoo London, as seen from a private carriage, was a wonder and a dream of novelty, a city of kings instead of a city of beggars, a city of crystal morning instead of a city of dreadful night. She gazed at it out of a new heart as these horses--that never came down--trotted briskly forward. Through the silk of her gloves her thumbs and fingers felt silently the warm sables of the rug that caressed her knees. And she thought that this feeling, and the feeling in her heart, must be constituent parts of the emotion called happiness. If the four ladies could see her now! If they could see her now, Cuckoo thought, she would take off her veil, just for a moment. When the aspect of the street began to change, when little gardens appeared, and bare trees standing bravely in the sun behind high walls and iron gates, the doctor said to Cuckoo: "Now I will tell you why I telegraphed to you." And then Cuckoo remembered that she was in this wonderful expedition for a reason. The doctor continued speaking in a low voice, with the obvious intention of being inaudible to the coachman, whose large furred back presented an appearance of broad indifference to their two lives. "You remember what I said to you the other day--that perhaps you could help Julian from great evil." Cuckoo nodded earnestly. "And you are prepared to do anything you can?" "Yes." She had forgotten the smart carriage, and the horses that never came down, now. "Good," said the doctor, shortly and decisively. "I will speak to you quite plainly to-day, for something leads me to trust you, and to say to you what I would say to no other person. Something leads me to believe that you can do more for Addison than any one else. Addison once implied it; but what I have observed for myself in your house leads me to be certain of it." "Oh," said Cuckoo. She had nothing more to say. She could have said nothing more. The stress of her excitement was too great. "Look at that holly tree. What a quantity of berries it has!" the doctor said. "That's because it is a hard winter. Miss Bright, you are right in you conviction. Valentine Cresswell is--has been--totally evil, and is deliberately, coldly, but with determination, compassing the utter ruin of the man who trusts him and believes in him--of Addison." Cuckoo nodded again, this time with a strangely matter-of-course air, which assured the doctor in a flash of the long certainty of her knowledge of Valentine.