But in the instance of Cuckoo he had other reasons, or might
have other reasons, for seeing her in the future.
"You are sure you have nothing more to say to me?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"No, I don't think," she murmured.
"Then good-bye."
He held out his hand. She put hers in it, with an action that was oddly
ladylike for Cuckoo. Then she went out, rather awkwardly, in a reaction,
to the hall, the doctor following. He opened the door for her, and the
mist crawled instantly in.
"It's a gloomy night," he said. "Very autumnal."
"Yes, ain't it? I do hate the nights."
She spoke the words with an accent that was venemous.
"C-r-r!" she said.
And with that ejaculation, half an uttered shiver, half a muttered curse,
she gave herself to the fog, and was gone.
Doctor Levillier stood for a moment looking into the vague and dreamy
darkness. Then he put on his coat and hat, caught up a cab whistle, and
with a breath, sent a shrill and piercing note into the night. Long and
mournfully it sounded. And only the moist silence answered like that
paradox--a voice that is dumb. Again and again the cry went forth, and at
last there was an answering rattle. Two bright eyes advanced in the fog
very slowly, looking for the sound, it seemed, as for a thing visible.
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