'For no obvious reason, I think I said,' Durrance remarked imperturbably. Willoughby turned and glanced suspiciously at his companion, wondering whether, after all, Durrance knew of his visit to Kingsbridge and its motive. Durrance, however, smoked his cigar, leaning back in his chair with his face tilted up towards the ceiling. He seemed, now that his curiosity was satisfied, to have lost interest in the history of the Gordon letters. At all events, he put no more questions upon that subject to embarrass Captain Willoughby, and indeed there was no need that he should. Thinking over the possible way by which Harry Feversham might have redeemed himself in Willoughby's eyes from the charge of cowardice, Durrance could only hit upon this recovery of the letters from the ruined wall in Berber. There had been no personal danger to the inhabitants of Suakin since the days of that last reconnaissance. The great troop-ships had steamed between the coral reefs towards Suez, and no cry for help had ever summoned them back. Willoughby risked only his health in that white palace on the Red Sea. There could not have been a moment when Feversham was in a position to say, 'Your life was forfeit but for me, whom you call coward.' And Durrance, turning over in his mind all the news and gossip which had come to him at Wadi Halfa or during his furloughs, had been brought to conjecture whether that fugitive from Khartum, who had told him his story in the glacis of the silent ruined fort of Sinkat during one drowsy afternoon of May, had not told it again at Suakin within Feversham's hearing. He was convinced now that his conjecture was correct.
Willoughby's reticence was in itself a sufficient confirmation. Willoughby, without doubt, had been instructed by Ethne to keep his tongue in a leash. Colonel Durrance was prepared for reticence, he looked to reticence as the answer to his conjecture. His trained ear, besides, had warned him that Willoughby was uneasy at his visit and careful in his speech. There had been pauses, during which Durrance was as sure as though he had eyes wherewith to see, that his companion was staring at him suspiciously and wondering how much he knew, or how little. There had been an accent of wariness and caution in his voice, which was hatefully familiar to Durrance's ears, for just with that accent Ethne had been wont to speak. Moreover, Durrance had set traps, — that remark of his 'for no obvious reason, I think I said,' had been one, — and a little start here, or a quick turn there, showed him that Willoughby had tumbled into them.
He had no wish, however, that Willoughby should write off to Ethne and warn her that Durrance was making inquiries. That was a possibility, he recognised, and he set himself to guard against it.
'I want to tell you why I was anxious to meet you,' he said. 'It was because of Harry Feversham;' and Captain Willoughby, who was congratulating himself that he was well out of an awkward position, fairly jumped in his seat. It was not Durrance's policy, however, to notice his companion's agitation, and he went on quickly: 'Something happened to Feversham. It's more than five years ago now. He did something, I suppose, or left something undone, — the secret, at all events, has been closely kept, — and he dropped out, and his place knew him no more. Now you are going back to the Soudan, Willoughby?'
'Yes,' Willoughby answered, 'in a week's time.'
'Well, Harry Feversham is in the Soudan,' said Durrance, leaning towards his companion.
'You know that?' exclaimed Willoughby.
'Yes, for I came across him this Spring at Wadi Halfa,' Durrance continued. 'He had fallen rather low,' and he told Willoughby of their meeting outside of the cafe of Tewfikieh. 'It's strange, isn't it? — a man whom one knew very well going under like that in a second, disappearing before your eyes as it were, dropping plumb out of sight as though down an oubliette in an old French castle. I want you to look out for him, Willoughby, and do what you can to set him on his legs again. Let me know if you chance on him. Harry Feversham was a friend of mine-one of my few real friends.'
'All right,' said Willoughby, cheerfully. Durrance knew at once from the tone of his voice that suspicion was quieted in him. 'I will look out for Feversham. I remember he was a great friend of yours.'
He stretched out his hand towards the matches upon the table beside him. Durrance heard the scrape of the phosphorus and the flare of the match. Willoughby was lighting his pipe. It was a well-seasoned piece of briar, and needed a cleaning; it bubbled as he held the match to the tobacco and sucked at the mouthpiece.
'Yes, a great friend,' said Durrance. 'You and I dined with him in his flat high up above St. James's Park just before we left England.'
And at that chance utterance Willoughby's briar pipe ceased suddenly to bubble. A moment's silence followed, then Willoughby swore violently, and a second later he stamped upon the carpet. Durrance's imagination was kindled by this simple sequence of events, and he straightway made up a little picture in his mind. In one chair himself smoking his cigar, a round table holding a match-stand on his left hand, and on the other side of the table Captain Willoughby in another chair. But Captain Willoughby lighting his pipe and suddenly arrested in the act by a sentence spoken without significance, Captain Willoughby staring suspiciously in his slow-witted way at the blind man's face, until the lighted match, which he had forgotten, burnt down to his fingers, and he swore and dropped it and stamped it out upon the floor. Durrance had never given a thought to that dinner till this moment. It was possible it might deserve much thought.
'There were you and I and Feversham present,' he went on. 'Feversham had asked us there to tell us of his engagement to Miss Eustace. He had just come back from Dublin. That was almost the last we saw of him.' He took a pull at his cigar and added, 'By the way, there was a third man present.'
'Was there?' asked Willoughby. 'It's so long ago.'
'Yes-Trench.'
'To be sure, Trench was present. It will be a long time, I am afraid, before we dine at the same table with poor old Trench again.'
The carelessness of his voice was well assumed; he leaned forwards and struck another match and lighted his pipe. As he did so, Durrance laid down his cigar upon the table edge.
'And we shall never dine with Castleton again,' he said slowly.
'Castleton wasn't there,' Willoughby exclaimed, and quickly enough to betray that, however long the interval since that little dinner in Feversham's rooms, it was at all events still distinct in his recollections.
'No, but he was expected,' said Durrance.
'No, not even expected,' corrected Willoughby. 'He was dining elsewhere. He sent the telegram, you remember.'
'Ah, yes, a telegram came,' said Durrance.
That dinner party certainly deserved consideration. Willoughby, Trench, Castleton-these three men were the cause of Harry Feversham's disgrace and disappearance. Durrance tried to recollect all the details of the evening; but he had been occupied himself on that occasion. He remembered leaning against the window above St. James's Park; he remembered hearing the tattoo from the parade-ground of Wellington Barracks-and a telegram had come.
Durrance made up another picture in his mind. Harry Feversham at the table reading and re-reading his telegram, Trench and Willoughby waiting silently, perhaps expectantly, and himself paying no heed, but staring out from the bright room into the quiet and cool of the park.
'Castleton was dining with a big man from the War Office that night,' Durrance said, and a little movement at his side warned him that he was getting hot in his search. He sat for a while longer talking about the prospects of the Soudan, and then rose up from his chair.
'Well, I can rely on you, Willoughby, to help Feversham if ever you find him. Draw on me for money.'
'I will do my best,' said Willoughby. 'You are going? I could have won a bet off you this afternoon.'
'How?'
'You said that you did not let your cigars go out. This one's stone cold.'
'I forgot about it; I was thinking of Feversham. Good-bye.'
He took a cab and drove away from the club door. Willoughby was glad to see the last of him, but he was fairly satisfied with his own exhibition of diplomacy. It would have been strange, after all, he thought, if he had not been able to hoodwink poor old Durrance; and he returned to the smoking-room and refreshed himself with a whiskey and potass.
Durrance, however, had not been hoodwinked. The last perplexing question had been answered for him that afternoon. He remembered now that no mention had been made at the dinner which could identify the sender of the telegram. Feversham had read it without a word, and without a word had crumpled it up and tossed it into the fire. But to-day Willoughby had told him that it had come from Castleton, and Castleton had been dining with a high official of the War Office. The particular act of cowardice which had brought the three white feathers to Ramelton was easy to discern. Almost the next day Feversham had told Durrance in the Row that he had resigned his
