ion, I can catch a train to town. There's one at six."

"But you will stay the night, surely," cried General Feversham.

"It is impossible. I start for Wiesbaden early to-morrow."

Feversham rang the bell and gave the order for a carriage. "I should
have been very glad if you could have stayed," he said, turning to
Durrance. "I see very few people nowadays. To tell the truth I have no
great desire to see many. One grows old and a creature of customs."

"But you have your Crimean nights," said Durrance, cheerfully.

Feversham shook his head. "There have been none since Harry went away. I
had no heart for them," he said slowly. For a second the mask was lifted
and his stern features softened. He had suffered much during these five
lonely years of his old age, though not one of his acquaintances up to
this moment had ever detected a look upon his face or heard a sentence
from his lips which could lead them so to think. He had shown a
stubborn front to the world; he had made it a matter of pride that no
one should be able to point a finger at him and say, "There's a man
struck down." But on this one occasion and in these few words he
revealed to Durrance the depth of his grief. Durrance understood how
unendurable the chatter of his friends about the old days of war in the
snowy trenches would have been. An anecdote recalling some particular
act of courage would hurt as keenly as a story of cowardice. The whole
history of his lonely life at Broad Place was laid bare in that simple
statement that there had been no Crimean nights for he had no heart for
them.

The wheels of the carriage rattled on the gravel.

"Good-bye," said Durrance, and he held out his hand.

"By the way," said Feversham, "to organise this escape from Omdurman
will cost a great deal of money. Sutch is a poor man. Who is paying?"

"I am."

Feversham shook Durrance's hand in a firm clasp.

"It is my right, of course," he said.

"Certainly. I will let you know what it costs."

"Thank you."

General Feversham accompanied his visitor to the door. There was a
question which he had it in his mind to ask, but the question was
delicate. He stood uneasily on the steps of the house.

"Didn't I hear, Durrance," he said with an air of carelessness, "that
you were engaged to Miss Eustace?"

"I think I said that Harry would regain all that he had lost except his
career," said Durrance.

He stepped into the carriage and drove off to the station. His wo