"A clever man never leaves well enough alone," he said and smiled. The silk thread broke in her fingers. "You're blind," she said. "Blind and deaf. There's a shadow on your back tonight. But you're deaf and blind. You only think of playing cat and mouse with that boy." "One must have games." The Doctor's tone was amused. "And cat and mouse is an excellent game, for the cat." "You'd better watch your daughter." She turned her face now and looked at him. "My dear!" "I've told you. She and her lackey. They've been too quiet these last days. Oh, well--go your road. But my Greeks talk to me. There's a rat in the wall of this house, Hilary--a rat in the wall--" Her voice ceased. Her fingers busied themselves re-threading the needle. "I think you have the gift, tonight," he said quietly, regarding her. "See for me, my dear." His hand fell on her shoulder, light as a butterfly. She put it off. "No," she said in a dry, thin voice. "You're wrong. I haven't had the sight for years. If I had it tonight, would I use it? No." "Not for me?" His mouth had honey in it. "No." Her fingers were moving again, she seemed to have no mind for anything but her silk. "Not for you." He sighed. "Be consoled," he said. "I shan't live for ever. Indeed, sometimes I wonder that I have been able to live this long." "It would be like you to die first," she agreed, remorselessly. A flash passed over her face. "I'd save you from that," she said, with a prick of her needle. He chuckled a little. "I believe you. I believe you, indeed. But if something should--cripple me, for instance--just enough--eh?" She drew in a deep breath. "Some time," she said, huskily. "Soon or late. The candle's not burnt to the wick yet. I can wait for it." "Really, sometimes, one would think you believed in the fates, my dear. If one didn't know you." "I believe in waiting," she said, nodding her head. "Yes, I believe in waiting." His fingers twitched, momentarily. "I wish you'd see for me," he said. She made no reply. He hesitated for a moment, oddly indecisive. Then he looked at his watch again and turned toward the door. "Good night, my dear." The second petal of the flower was half-completed, the needle stitched on, the face was averted anew. "Good night," said the dry, colorless voice. Dr. Gentian passed out of the room. With his hand on the latch of the front door he hesitated for a second time and threw a glance back up the stairs. Then he shook his head impatiently, opened the door and went out.