Valentine looked him in the face and spoke with a complete sincerity. The doctor returned the glance, as he sometimes returned the glance of a patient, very directly, with a clear and simple gravity. Having done this he felt completely puzzled.
"The talent for music has died in you?" he asked.
"Entirely. I can do nothing with my piano. I have even locked it."
As he spoke he went over to it and pulled at the lid to show them that he was speaking the truth.
"Where's the key?" asked the doctor.
"Here," said Valentine, producing it from his pocket.
"Give it to me," said the doctor.
Valentine did so and the doctor quietly opened the piano, drew up the music-stool, and signed to Valentine to sit down.
"If you mean what you say, the explanation must simply be that you are suffering from some form of hysteria," he said, rather authoritatively. "Now sing me something. No; I won't let you off."
Valentine, sitting on the stool, extended his hands and laid the tips of his long fingers upon the keys, but without sounding them.