If the
doctor's strange thought were to become a definite belief, much more
was needed, something at least of proof, something that would carry
conviction not merely to the imagination, but to the cool and searching
intellect.
On this night of the first snow the doctor's thought moved a step forward
towards conviction.
When he arrived at Julian's rooms, he was greeted by Valentine alone.
"Our host has deserted us," he said, leading the doctor into the fire.
"What, is he ill?"
"He has not returned. He went away last night--on a quest of a certain
pleasure. This afternoon he wired, asking me to entertain you. He was
unavoidably detained, but hoped to arrive in time for dessert. His
present love's arms are very strong. They keep him."
"Oh!" the doctor said, slipping out of his cloak; "we dine here then?"
"We do, alone. I don't think we've dined alone since Julian and I came
back from abroad, and you deserted your Russian."
"No. I will consider myself your guest."
It struck the doctor that here was an excellent opportunity for
confirming or abandoning his dreary suspicion. Alone with Valentine, he
would be able to lead the conversation in any direction he chose. He was
glad that Julian had not returned, and resolved to use this opportunity.
Pages:
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494