"Harry!" he shouted, at the top of a wondering voice.
But the figure beneath the lamp never stirred. The wind blew the lights
again this way and that, the paddles churned the water, the mail-boat
passed beyond the pier. It was an illusion, he repeated; it was a
coincidence. It was the face of a stranger very like to Harry
Feversham's. It could not be Feversham's, because the face which
Durrance had seen so distinctly for a moment was a haggard, wistful
face--a face stamped with an extraordinary misery; the face of a man
cast out from among his fellows.
Durrance had been very busy all that week. He had clean forgotten the
arrival of that telegram and the suspense which the long perusal of it
had caused. Moreover, his newspaper had lain unfolded in his rooms. But
his friend Harry Feversham had come to see him off.
CHAPTER IV
THE BALL AT LENNON HOUSE
Yet Feversham had travelled to Dublin by the night mail after his ride
with Durrance in the Row. He had crossed Lough Swilly on the following
fore-noon by a little cargo steamer, which once a week steamed up the
Lennon River as far as Ramelton. On the quay-side Ethne was waiting for
him in her dog-cart; she gave him the hand and the smile of a comrade.
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