Flames - Robert Hichens

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Valentine. "The atmosphere of that house was abominable."

      "Of course there can be no two opinions as to its character," Julian said.

      "Of course not."

      "What a dreary place to die in!"

      "Yes. But does it matter where one dies? I think not. I attach immense importance to where one lives."

      "It seems horrible to come to an end in such a place, to have had that wretched Frenchman as the only witness of one's death. Still, I suppose it is only foolish sentiment. Valentine, did you notice how happy Marr looked?"

      "No."

      "Didn't you? I thought you watched him almost as if you wondered as I did."

      "How could I? I had never seen him before."

      "It was curious the landlord seeing a likeness between you and him."

      "Do you think so? The man naturally supposed one of us might be a relation, as we came to see Marr. I should not suppose there could be much resemblance."

      "There is none. It's impossible. There can be none!"

      They rattled on towards Piccadilly, back through the dismal thoroughfares, towards the asphalt ways of Bloomsbury. Presently Julian said:

      "I wish I had seen Marr die."

      "But why, Julian? Why this extraordinary interest in a man you knew so slightly and for so short a time?"

      "It's because I can't get it out of my head that he had something to do with our sittings, more than we know."

      "Impossible."

      "I am almost certain the doctor thought so. I must tell him about Marr's death. Valentine, let us drive to Harley Street now."

      Valentine did not reply at once, and Julian said:

      "I will tell the cabman."

      "Very well."

      Julian gave the order.

      "I wonder if he will be in," Julian said presently. "What is the time?"

      He took out his watch and held it up sideways until the light of a gas-lamp flashed on it for a moment.

      "Just eleven. So late? I am surprised."

      "We were a good while at the 'European.'"

      "Longer than I thought. Probably the doctor will have come in, even if he has been out dining. Ah, here we are!"

      The cab drew up. Julian got out and rang the bell in the rain.

      "Is Doctor Levillier at home?"

      "No, sir. He is out dining. But I expect him every moment. Will you come in and wait?" said the man-servant, who knew Julian well.

      "Thanks; I think I will. I rather want to see him. I will just ask Mr.

       Cresswell. He's with me to-night."

      Julian returned to the cab, in which Valentine was sitting.

      "The doctor will probably be home in a few minutes. Let us go in and wait for him."

      "Yes, you go in."

      "But surely—"

      "No, Julian," Valentine said, and suddenly there came into his voice a weariness, "I am rather tired to-night. I think I'll go home to bed."

      "Oh," Julian said. He was obviously disappointed. He hesitated.

      "Shall I come too, old chap? You're sure—you're certain that you are not feeling ill after last night?"

      He leant with his foot on the step of the cab to look at Valentine more closely.

      "No; I am all right. Only tired and sleepy, Julian. Well, will you come or stay?"

      "I think I will stay. I want badly to have a talk with the doctor."

      "All right. Good-night."

      "Good-night!"

      Valentine called his address to the cabman, and the man whipped up his horse. Just as the cab was turning round Valentine leaned out over the wooden door and cried to Julian, who was just going into the house:

      "Give my best regards to the doctor, Julian."

      The cab disappeared, splashing through the puddles.

      Julian stood still on the doorstep.

      "Who said that, Lawler?" he asked.

      The servant looked at him in surprise.

      "Mr. Valentine, sir."

      "Mr. Valentine?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "Of course, of course. But his voice, didn't—didn't you notice-"

      "It was Mr. Valentine's usual voice, sir," Lawler said, with increasing astonishment.

      "I'm upset to-night," Julian muttered.

      He went into the house and Lawler closed the street door.

       Table of Contents

      THE HARLEY STREET EPISODE

      Julian was a favourite in Harley Street, so Lawler did not hesitate to show him into the doctor's very private room—a room dedicated to ease, and to the cultivation of a busy man's hobbies. No patient ever told the sad secrets of his body here. Here were no medical books, no appliances for the writing of prescriptions, no hints of the profession of the owner. Several pots of growing roses gravely shadowed forth the doctor's fondness for flowers. A grand piano mutely spoke of his love for music. Many of the books which lay about were novels; one, soberly dressed in a vellum binding, being Ouida's "Dog of Flanders." All the photographs which studded the silent chamber with a reflection of life were photographs of children, except one. That was Valentine's. The hearth, on which a fire flashed, was wide and had two mighty occupants, Rupert and Mab, the doctor's mastiffs, who took their evening ease, pillowing their huge heads upon each other's heaving bodies. The ticking clock on the mantelpiece was an imitation of the Devil Clock of Master Zacharius. There were no newspapers in the room. That fact alone made it original. A large cage of sleeping canaries was covered with a cloth. The room was long and rather narrow, the only door being at one end. On the walls hung many pictures, some of them gifts from the artists. Some foils lay on an ottoman in a far corner. The doctor fenced admirably, and believed in the exercise as a tonic to the muscles and a splendid drill-sergeant to the eyes.

      As Julian came into the room, which was lit only by wax candles, he could not help comparing it with the room he had just left, in which the body of Marr lay. The atmosphere of a house is a strange thing, and almost as definite to the mind as is an appearance to the eye. A sensitive nature takes it in like a breath of fetid or of fresh air. The atmosphere of the European Hotel had been sinister and dreary, as of a building consecrated to hidden deeds, and inhabited mainly by wandering sinners. This home of a great doctor was open-hearted and receptive, frank and refined. The sleeping dogs, heaving gently in fawn-coloured beatitude, set upon it the best hall-mark. It was a house—judging at least by this room—for happy rest. Yet it was the abode of incessant work, as the great world knew well. This sanctum alone was the shrine of lotos-eating. The doctor sometimes laughingly boasted that he had never insulted it by even so much as writing a post-card within its four walls.

      Julian stroked the dogs, who woke to wink upon him majestically, and sat down. Lawler quietly departed, and he was left alone. When he first entered the house he had been disappointed at the departure of Valentine. Now he felt rather glad to have the doctor to himself for a quiet half-hour. A conversation of two people is, under certain circumstances, more complete than a conversation of three, however delightful the third

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