"I dare say. A patient."
At this moment a voice, which Dr. Levillier immediately recognized as the voice of Valentine, was audible in the hall.
Mrs. Wilson turned suddenly very pale, and began to tremble and gnaw her nether lip with her teeth in an access of nervous disturbance.
"In God's name tell me who that is," she whispered, turning her head in the direction of the door. "It can't be—it can't be—" Valentine's voice rose a little louder. "It is his voice."
"Fancy!" the doctor said firmly. "It is the voice of a friend of mine,
Mr. Valentine Cresswell."
Mrs. Wilson said nothing. She was trying to force herself to believe the evidence of another's sense against her own. Such a task is always difficult. At last she looked up and said:
"There, doctor, there you have an exhibition of my illness. It's horrible to me. Can you cure it?"
"I will try," the doctor answered.
But he found it very difficult just at that moment to say the three words quietly, to let Valentine go after leaving his message, without confronting him with this haggard patient who was entering the pool of Bethesda.