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Updated: June 3, 2025
Ethne came out with him on to the terrace, where Mrs. Adair stood at the top of the flight of steps. Durrance held out his hand to her, but she turned to Ethne and said: "I want to speak to Colonel Durrance before he goes." "Very well," said Ethne. "Then we will say good-bye here," she added to Durrance. "You will write from Wiesbaden? Soon, please!" "The moment I arrive," answered Durrance.
It was a delight to him to make discoveries which no one expected a man who had lost his sight to make, and to announce them unexpectedly. It was an additional pleasure to relate to his puzzled audience the steps by which he had reached his discovery. "Not one of your conjectures is right, Ethne," he said, and he practically asked her to question him. "Then how did you find out?" she asked.
"That's a cab," she said. "Yes." Ethne leaned forward and looked down. "But it's not stopping here;" and the jingle grew fainter and died away. Mrs. Adair looked at the clock. "Colonel Durrance is late," she said, and she turned curiously towards Ethne.
No detail was too insignificant for her inquiries, and while he spoke her eyes continually sounded him, and the smile upon her lips continually approved. Durrance did not understand what she was after. Possibly no one could have understood unless he was aware of what had passed between Harry Feversham and Ethne.
"But it is not necessary that the three men should be themselves in peril," objected Sutch, "for you to convince them that the fault is retrieved." "Oh, no. There may be other ways," agreed Feversham. "The plan came suddenly into my mind, indeed at the moment when Ethne bade me take up the feathers, and added the fourth.
For Ethne had spoken in a gentle voice just what his ears had so often longed to hear as he lay awake at night in the bazaar at Suakin, in the Nile villages, in the dim wide spaces of the desert, and what he had hardly dared to hope she ever would speak. He stood quite silently by her side, still hearing her voice though the voice had ceased.
But Willoughby could at all events remember and repeat, and Ethne had grown by five years of unhappiness since the night when Harry Feversham, in the little room off the hall at Lennon House, had told her of his upbringing, of the loss of his mother, and the impassable gulf between his father and himself, and of the fear of disgrace which had haunted his nights and disfigured the world for him by day.
But what took place, took place such a long while ago I look upon Mr. Feversham as a man whom one has known well, and who is now dead." They were walking toward the wide gap in the line of trees upon the bank of the creek, and as Ethne spoke she raised her eyes from the ground.
They had indeed almost vanished from her mind when something in his attitude suddenly brought them back. "I wrote to you from Wadi Halfa," he said. "I don't know whether you could read the letter." "Quite well," said Ethne. "I got a friend of mine to hold the paper and tell me when I was writing on it or merely on the blotting-pad," he continued with a laugh.
"You can have made no mistake, then," said Ethne, in a wondering voice. "No, the man who strummed upon the zither was " the Christian name was upon her lips, but she had the wit to catch it back unuttered "was Mr. Feversham. But he knew no music I remember very well."
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