"Such a thing seemed to me entirely incredible," the doctor pursued. "I am forced--forced--to believe it is true. But remember this: I have known Mr. Cresswell for several years intimately. I have been again and again with him and Julian. I have noticed the extraordinary influence he had over Julian, and I know that influence used to be a noble influence, used solely for good. Mr. Cresswell was a man of extraordinary high-mindedness and purity of life. He had a brilliant intellect," the doctor continued, forgetting to whom he was talking, as his mind went back to the Valentine of the old days. "But, far more than that, he was born with a very wonderful and unusual nature. It was written in his face in the grandeur--I can call it nothing else--of his expression. And it was written in his life, in all his acts. But, most of all it was written in all he did for Julian. Ah, you look surprised!" Indeed Cuckoo's face, such of it as was visible under the black shadow of the veil, was a mask of blank wonderment. She looked upon the doctor as all that was clever and perfect and extraordinary; so this, it seemed to her, idiocy of his outlook upon Valentine was too much for her manner. "Well, I never! Him!" she could not help ejaculating with a long breath, that was almost like a little puff. "Remember," said Dr. Levillier, "this was before you knew him." He had taken the trouble to ascertain from Julian the exact date of Valentine's first introduction to the lady of the feathers. "Oh yes," said Cuckoo, still with absolute incredulity of the truth of the doctor's panegyric expressed in voice and look. "Men change greatly, terribly." "Oh, not like that," she jerked out suddenly, moved by an irresistible impulse to contradict his apparent deduction. "No, there you are right," he answered with emphasis. "Sane men do not, can never, I believe, change so utterly." "That's what I say. I've seen men go down, lots of 'em, but it ain't like that." Cuckoo spoke with some authority, as of one speaking from depths of a deep experience. She put her hands under the warm rug with a sensation of something that was like dignity of mind. She and the doctor were talking on equal terms of intellectuality just at this moment. She was saying sensible things and he was obliged to agree with her. "Not like that," she murmured again out of the embrace of the rug. He turned towards her so that he could see her more distinctly and make his words more impressive. "Remember now that what I am going to say to you must not be mentioned to Julian on any account, or to any one," he said. "I'll remember. Honour. I'll never tell." "I have a very sad theory to explain this great change in Mr. Cresswell, from what he was as I knew him, and you must take his beauty of character from me--to what he is as you and I know him now. I believe that he has become mad." For the doctor had resolutely put away from his mind the fancies called up in it by the visit of Marr's wife.