"Whatever can I do?" she said; "Valentine's got him."
As she spoke, the doctor, restless, as men are in excitement, had moved over to the mantelpiece, and stood with one foot upon the edge of the fender. Thinking deeply, he glanced over the photographs of Cuckoo's acquaintance, without actually seeing them. 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."