“It’s a bit of a muddle, isn’t it?” Willoughby remarked. “It seems a little rough on Feversham perhaps, what? It’s a little rough on Jack Durrance, too, when you come to think of it.” Then he looked at Ethne. He noticed her careful handling of the feather; he remembered something of the glowing look with which she had listened to his story, something of the eager tones in which she had put her questions; and he added, “I shouldn’t wonder if it was rather rough on you too, Miss Eustace.”
Ethne did not answer him, and they walked together out of the enclosure towards the spot where Willoughby had moored his boat. She hurried him down the bank to the water’s edge, intent that he should sail away unperceived.
But Ethne had counted without Mrs. Adair, who all that morning had seen much in Ethne’s movements to interest her. From the drawing-room window she had watched Ethne and Durrance meet at the foot of the terrace-steps, she had seen them walk together towards the estuary, she had noticed Willoughby’s boat as it ran aground in the wide gap between the trees, she had seen a man disembark, and Ethne go forward to meet him. Mrs. Adair was not the woman to leave her post of observation at such a moment, and from the cover of the curtains she continued to watch with all the curiosity of a woman in a village who draws down the blind, that unobserved she may get a better peep at the stranger passing down the street. Ethne and the man from the boat turned away and disappeared amongst the trees, leaving Durrance forgotten and alone. Mrs. Adair thought at once of that enclosure at the water’s edge. The conversation lasted for some while, and since the couple did not promptly reappear, a question flashed into her mind. “Could the stranger be Harry Feversham?” Ethne had no friends in this part of the world. The question pressed upon Mrs. Adair. She longed for an answer, and of course for that particular answer which would convict Ethne Eustace of duplicity. Her interest grew into an excitement when she saw Durrance, tired of waiting, follow upon Ethne’s steps. But what came after was to interest her still more.
Durrance reappeared, to her surprise alone, and came straight to the house, up the terrace, into the drawing-room.
“Have you seen Ethne?” he asked.
“Is she not in the little garden by the water?” Mrs. Adair asked.
“No. I went into it and called to her. It was empty.”
“Indeed?” said Mrs. Adair. “Then I don’t know where she is. Are you going?”
“Yes, home.”
Mrs. Adair made no effort to detain him at that moment.
“Perhaps you will come in and dine tonight. Eight o’clock.”
“Thanks, very much. I shall be pleased,” said Durrance, but he did not immediately go. He stood by the window idly swinging to and fro the tassel of the blind.
“I did not know until today that it was your plan that I should come home and Ethne stay with you until I found out whether a cure was likely or possible. It was very kind of you, Mrs. Adair, and I am grateful.”
“It was a natural plan to propose as soon as I heard of your ill-luck.”
“And when was that?” he asked unconcernedly. “The day after Calder’s telegram reached her from Wadi Halfa, I suppose.”
Mrs. Adair was not deceived by his attitude of carelessness. She realised that his expression of gratitude had deliberately led up to this question.
“Oh, so you knew of that telegram,” she said. “I thought you did not.” For Ethne had asked her not to mention it on the very day when Durrance returned to England.
“Of course I knew of it,” he returned, and without waiting any longer for an answer he went out on to the terrace.
Mrs. Adair dismissed for the moment the mystery of the telegram. She was occupied by her conjecture that in the little garden by the water’s edge Durrance had stood and called aloud for Ethne, while within twelve yards of him, perhaps actually within his reach, she and someone else had kept very still and had given no answer. Her conjecture was soon proved true. She saw Ethne and her companion come out again on to the open lawn. Was it Feversham? She must have an answer to that question. She saw them descend the bank towards the boat, and, stepping from her window, ran.
Thus it happened that as Willoughby rose from loosening the painter, he saw Mrs. Adair’s disappointed eyes gazing into his. Mrs. Adair called to Ethne, who stood by Captain Willoughby, and came down the bank to them.
“I noticed you cross the lawn from the drawing-room window,” she said.
“Yes?” answered Ethne, and she said no more. Mrs. Adair, however, did not move away, and an awkward pause followed. Ethne was forced to give in.
“I was talking to Captain Willoughby,” and she turned to him. “You do not know Mrs. Adair, I think?”
“No,” he replied, as he raised his hat. “But I know Mrs. Adair very well by name. I know friends of yours, Mrs. Adair—Durrance, for instance; and of course I knew—”
A glance from Ethne brought him abruptly to a stop. He began vigorously to push the nose of his boat from the sand.
“Of course, what?” asked Mrs. Adair, with a smile.
“Of course I knew of you, Mrs. Adair.”
Mrs. Adair was quite clear that this was not what Willoughby had been on the point of saying when Ethne turned her eyes quietly upon him and cut him short. He was on the point of adding another name. “Captain Willoughby,” she repeated to herself. Then she said:—
“You belong to Colonel Durrance’s regiment, perhaps?”
“No, I belong to the North Surrey,” he answered.
“Ah! Mr. Feversham’s old regiment,” said Mrs. Adair, pleasantly. Captain Willoughby had fallen into her little trap with a guilelessness which provoked in her a desire for a closer acquaintanceship. Whatever Willoughby knew it would be easy to extract. Ethne, however, had
