As the
ropes were cast off, a feeble cheer was raised; and before the cheer had
ended, Durrance found himself beset by a strange illusion. He was
leaning upon the bulwarks, idly wondering whether this was his last view
of England, and with a wish that some one of his friends had come down
to see him go, when it seemed to him suddenly that his wish was
answered; for he caught a glimpse of a man standing beneath a gas-lamp,
and that man was of the stature and wore the likeness of Harry
Feversham. Durrance rubbed his eyes and looked again. But the wind made
the tongue of light flicker uncertainly within the glass; the rain, too,
blurred the quay. He could only be certain that a man was standing
there, he could only vaguely distinguish beneath the lamp the whiteness
of a face. It was an illusion, he said to himself. Harry Feversham was
at that moment most likely listening to Ethne playing the violin under a
clear sky in a high garden of Donegal. But even as he was turning from
the bulwarks, there came a lull of the wind, the lights burned bright
and steady on the pier, and the face leaped from the shadows distinct in
feature and expression. Durrance leaned out over the side of the boat.
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