Part 30 (1/2)

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 sc.r.a.pe 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 a.s.sumed; 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.