rrance said nothing in reply, but gave her in full measure what she
most needed, the sympathy of his silence. He imagined those hours in the
passage, six hours of twilight and darkness; he could picture her
standing close by the door, with her ear perhaps to the panel, and her
hand upon her heart to check its loud beating. There was something
rather cruel, he thought, in Dermod's resolve to die alone. It was Ethne
who broke the silence.

"I said that my father spoke to me just before he told me to leave him.
Of whom do you think he spoke?"

She was looking directly at Durrance as she put the question. From
neither her eyes nor the level tone of her voice could he gather
anything of the answer, but a sudden throb of hope caught away his
breath.

"Tell me!" he said, in a sort of suspense, as he leaned forward in his
chair.

"Of Mr. Feversham," she answered, and he drew back again, and rather
suddenly. It was evident that this was not the name which he had
expected. He took his eyes from hers and stared downwards at the carpet,
so that she might not see his face.

"My father was always very fond of him," she continued gently, "and I
think that I would like to know if you have any knowledge of what he is
doing or where he is."

Durrance did not answer nor did he raise his face. He reflected upon the
strange strong hold which Harry Feversham kept upon the affections of
those who had once known him well; so that even the man whom he had
wronged, and upon whose daughter he had brought much suffering, must
remember him with kindliness upon his death-bed. The reflection was not
without its bitterness to Durrance at this moment, and this bitterness
he was afraid that his face and voice might both betray. But he was
compelled to speak, for Ethne insisted.

"You have never come across him, I suppose?" she asked.

Durrance rose from his seat and walked to the window before he answered.
He spoke looking out into the street, but though he thus concealed the
expression of his face, a thrill of deep anger sounded through his
words, in spite of his efforts to subdue his tones.

"No," he said, "I never have," and suddenly his anger had its way with
him; it chose as well as informed his words. "And I never wish to," he
cried. "He was my friend, I know. But I cannot remember that friendship
now. I can only think that if he had been the true man we took him for,
you would not have waited alone in that dark passage during those six