He bent his head down on
the silent breast, listening. Surely if Valentine were alive he would
show it by some sign, the least stir, breath, shiver, pulse. There was
none. Julian might have been clasping stone or iron. If he could only
know for certain whether Valentine were really dead. Yet he dared not
leave him alone and go to seek aid. Suddenly a thought struck him. In the
hall of the flat was a handle which, when turned in a certain direction,
communicated with one of those wooden and glass hutches in which sleepy
boy-messengers harbour at night. Julian sprang to this handle, set the
communicator in motion, then ran back into the tentroom. His intention
was to write a note to Dr. Levillier. The writing-table was so placed
that, sitting at it, his back would be turned to that silent figure on
the divan. A shiver ran over him at the bare thought of such a blind
posture. No, he must face that terror, once so dear. He caught up a
pen and a sheet of note paper, and, swerving round, was about to write,
holding the paper on his knee, when the electric bell rang. The boy had
been very quick in his run from the hutch. Julian laid down the paper and
went to let the boy in. His knees shook as he descended the dark, echoing
stairs and opened the door.
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