“Valentine, now that I am with you, I am attacked by a strange idea.”

“What is it?”

“That last night may have its consequences; yes, even though we strive to forget it, and to forget our sittings.  If it should be so!  If anything—­”

He was curiously upset, and did not seem able to-day to take the influence of Valentine’s mood.  Indeed, this new anxiety of his was only born in Valentine’s presence, was communicated apparently by him.

“Everything one does has its following consequence,” Julian said.

“It is the fashion to say so.  I do not believe it.  I believe, on the contrary, that we often do things with a special view to the doctrine of consequence, and that our intentions are frustrated by the falseness of the doctrine.  Suppose I kiss a woman.  I may do so with intention to make her love me, or, on the other hand, to make her hate me.  The chances are that she does neither the one nor the other.  She simply forgets all about such a trifle, and we go on shaking hands politely for the rest of our natural lives.  Julian, the memories of most people are like winter days—­very short.”

“Perhaps.  But there is some hidden thing in life whose memory is everlasting.  All the philosophers say so, especially those who are inclined to deny the Deity.  They put their faith in the chain of cause and effect.  What we have done,—­you and I, Valentine,—­must have an effect of some sort.”

“It will have a very bad effect upon you, I can see,” said Valentine, smiling, “unless you pull yourself together.  Come, this is nonsense.  We have sat once too often, and the consequence followed, and is over:  I went into a trance.  I have fortunately come out of it, so the penalty which you so firmly believe in has been paid.  The score is cleared, Julian.”

“I suppose so.”

“I have no doubt of it.  Let us forget the whole matter, since to remember it seems likely to affect those devils that make the hell of the physical man—­the nerves.  Let us forget it.  Where are you dining to-night?”

“Nowhere in particular.  I have not thought about it,” Julian said, rather listlessly.

“Dine with me then.”

“Yes, Valentine.”

Julian hesitated, then added: 

“But not in Victoria Street, if you don’t mind.”

“At the Savoy then; or shall we say the Berkeley?”

“Very well,—­the Berkeley.”

“At eight o’clock.  Good-bye till then.  I must ask you to give the shelter of your roof to Rip till he returns to a more reasonable frame of mind about me.”

When Valentine had gone Julian put on his coat, and walked down to the club, ostensibly to look at the evening papers, really because he had a desire to see Marr.  His intention, if he did meet the latter, was to question him closely as to the consequences which might follow upon a sitting, or series of sittings, undertaken by two people for some reason unsuited to carry out such an enterprise together.  That Marr would be in the club he felt no shadow of doubt.  Apparently the club had for Marr all the attraction that induces the new member to haunt the smoking and reading rooms of his freshly acquired home during the first week or two of its possession.  He was incessantly there, as Julian had had reason to know.