At last dessert was placed upon the table.
Valentine raised his glass with a smile:
"Let us drink the health of Julian's absence," he said. "For you and I
get on so perfectly together."
"Rather a cruel toast in Julian's own rooms," said the doctor.
"Ah, but he's happy enough where he is."
"You know where that is?"
"No--I only suspect," Valentine cried gaily. "In the wilds of South
Kensington, in a tiny house, all Morris tapestry and Burne-Jones stained
glass, dwells the latest siren who has been calling to our Ulysses. He
is there, I suspect. Wait a moment, though. His telegram might tell us.
Where was it sent from?"
He sprang up, went to the writing-table near the window, and caught up
the crumpled thin paper that he had flung down there. Smoothing it out,
he read, holding the paper close to a wax candle:
"Handed in at the Marylebone Road office at 5:50."
His brow clouded.
"Marylebone Road," he repeated, looking at the doctor. "Why should he be
there?"
His words immediately set the doctor on the track.
"Does not Cuckoo Bright live there?" he said.
"Yes, she does."
"May he not be with her?"
Valentine had dropped the telegram. He was standing at the table, and he
pressed his two fists, clenched, upon the white cloth.
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