She nodded. Then with a flash of understanding, a flash of that smouldering power which she had felt in loneliness and longed to tear out from its prison, she cried:
"That's it. That's how he's Marr, then."
She hesitated.
"Isn't it?" she said, flushing with the thought that she might be showing herself a fool. For she scarcely understood what she really meant.
"Valentine, no longer himself, but endowed with the influence of Marr," the doctor muttered; "she means that he told her something like that. The phantasy of an unsteady brain."—"Go on," he added to her.
But Cuckoo was relapsing into confusion already.
"And then he talked a lot about will, as he called it. Can't remember what he said."
"Try to."
She was silent, knitting her brows.
"It's no use. I can't," she said, despairingly. "But I know he says that he's really Marr and that he's killed Valentine. He said that; I know he did."