ce had the story now complete, or rather, the sequence of facts
complete. For why Feversham should have been seized with panic, why he
should have played the coward the moment after he was engaged to Ethne
Eustace--at a time, in a word, when every manly quality he possessed
should have been at its strongest and truest, remained for Durrance, and
indeed, was always to remain, an inexplicable problem. But he put that
question aside, classing it among the considerations which he had learnt
to estimate as small and unimportant. The simple and true thing--the
thing of real importance--emerged definite and clear: Harry Feversham
was atoning for his one act of cowardice with a full and an overflowing
measure of atonement.

"I shall astonish old Sutch," he thought, with a chuckle. He took the
night mail into Devonshire the same evening, and reached his home before
midday.

CHAPTER XXIII

MRS. ADAIR MAKES HER APOLOGY

Within the drawing-room at The Pool, Durrance said good-bye to Ethne. He
had so arranged it that there should be little time for that
leave-taking, and already the carriage stood at the steps of Guessens,
with his luggage strapped upon the roof and his servant waiting at the
door.

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. He descended the steps with
Mrs. Adair, and left Ethne standing upon the terrace. The last scene of
pretence had been acted out, the months of tension and surveillance had
come to an end, and both were thankful for their release. Durrance
showed that he was glad even in the briskness of his walk, as he crossed
the lawn at Mrs. Adair's side. She, however, lagged, and when she spoke
it was in a despondent voice.

"So you are going," she said. "In two days' time you will be at
Wiesbaden and Ethne at Glenalla. We shall all be scattered. It will be
lonely here."

She had had her way; she had separated Ethne and Durrance for a time at
all events; she was no longer to be tortured by the sight of them and
the sound of their voices; but somehow her interference had brought her
little satisfaction. "The house will seem very empty afte