"I knew that."
"I guessed you did. The most horrible sensation I have had. During our
sitting to-night--don't be vexed--an extraordinary apprehension of--well,
of you, came over me. There! Now I have told you."
Valentine was greatly astonished.
"Of me?" he said.
"Yes. There was a moment when the idea that I was alone with you made my
blood run cold."
"Good heavens!"
"Do you wish I hadn't told you?"
"No, of course not. But it is so extraordinary, so unnatural."
"It is utterly gone now, thank God. I say, we have resolved that we won't
sit again, haven't we?"
"Yes; and what you have just told me makes me hate the whole thing. The
game seems a game no longer."
When the door had closed upon Julian, Valentine sat down and wrote a
note.
He addressed it to--
"Doctor Hermann Levillier,
"Harley Street, W.,"
and laid it on his writing-table, so that it might be posted early the
next morning.
CHAPTER VI
A CONVERSATION AT THE CLUB
Doctor Levillier was not a materialist, although he concerned himself
much with the functions of the body, and with that strange spider's
web of tingling threads which we call the nervous system. The man who
sweeps out the temple, who polishes the marble steps and dusts the
painted windows, may yet find time to bend in prayer before the altars
he helps to keep beautiful, may yet find a heart to wonder at the spirit
which the temple holds as an envelope holds a letter.
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