"Val had
been at him?"
In two or three simple, straightforward words, the doctor described the
death of Rip. When he had finished Cuckoo gave a little cry, and clasped
the astonished and squirming Jessie close in her arms. Julian's brow
clouded.
"He might have left Rip alone," he said. "It's odd dogs can't bear Val
now."
"Again since that trance," the doctor said.
Julian looked at him with acute irritation, but said nothing. Then,
turning his eyes on Cuckoo, who was still hugging Jessie, he snapped his
fingers at the little dog and called its name. Cuckoo extended her arms,
holding Jessie, to Julian, and he took the small creature gently. And as
he took her he bent forward and gazed long and deeply into Cuckoo's eyes.
She trembled and flushed, half with pleasure, half with a nervous
consciousness of the doctor's presence.
"Oh, why do you?" she murmured, turning her head away. The action seemed
to make Julian aware that perhaps his manner was odd, and his subsequent
glance at the doctor was very plainly, and even rudely, explanatory
of a wish to be alone with Cuckoo. The doctor read its meaning and
resolved to go away. With the quick observation and knowledge of men
which long years of training had given to him, he saw that, strangely
enough, the only creature whose influence could in any way cope with the
influence of Valentine was not himself, who once had been as a seer to
the two young men, but the thin, spectral, weary, painted Cuckoo.
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