But presently one, at which
he had looked long and fixedly, dawned upon him, cruelly, powerfully. It
was the face of Marr.
"Who is that?" he said abruptly to Cuckoo.
"That?" She too got up and came near to him, lowering her voice almost to
a whisper. "That's really _him_."
"Him?"
"Valentine."
The doctor looked at her in blank astonishment.
"Yes, it is," Cuckoo reiterated, and nodding her head with the obstinacy
of a child.
"That--Valentine! It has no resemblance to him."
The doctor took up the photograph, and examined it closely. "This is not
Valentine."
"He told me it was. It's Marr--and somehow it's him now."
"Marr," said the doctor, sharply. "Why, he is dead. Julian told me so.
He died--he died in the Euston Road on the night of Valentine's trance.
Ah, but you know nothing about that. Did you know Marr, then?"
"Yes, I knew him."
Cuckoo hesitated. But something taught her to be perfectly frank with the
doctor. So she added:
"I'd been with him at that hotel the night he died."
"You were the woman! But, then, how can you say that this (he touched the
photograph with his finger) is Valentine?"
"He says he's really Marr."
Cuckoo spoke in the most mulish manner, following her habit when she was
completely puzzled, but sticking to what she believed to be the truth.
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