"What is it? What on earth is the
matter?"
The man's exclamation broke through Julian's frost of inaction. He
whispered to Wade:
"It's all right," pushed him out and shut the door. Then he went straight
up to the piano, seized Valentine's hands and dragged them from the
keyboard.
The silence was like a sweet blow.
"I said my voice was out of order," Valentine said, simply and with a
smile.
"You did not say you had another voice, the voice of--of a devil," Julian
said, almost falteringly, for he was still shaken by his distress of the
senses, into a mental condition that was almost anger.
Dr. Levillier said nothing. More sensitive to musical sounds than Julian,
he dared not speak, lest he should say something that might stand like a
fixed gulf to eternally separate him from Valentine. He knew the future
that stretches out like a spear beyond one word. So he sat quietly with
his eyes on the ground. His lips were set firmly together. Valentine
turned to observe him.
"Doctor, you're not angry?" he asked.
The doctor made no reply.
"You know I warned you," Valentine went on. "You brought this thing on
yourself."
"Yes," said Levillier.
But Julian interposed.
"No Valentine," he exclaimed.
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