They lay like flakes of snow upon the dark
polished boards. But they were not whiter than Harry Feversham's cheeks.
He stood and stared at the feathers until he felt a light touch upon his
arm. He looked and saw Ethne's gloved hand upon his sleeve.
"What does it mean?" she asked. There was some perplexity in her voice,
but nothing more than perplexity. The smile upon her face and the loyal
confidence in her eyes showed she had never a doubt that his first word
would lift it from her. "What does it mean?"
"That there are things which cannot be hid, I suppose," said Feversham.
For a little while Ethne did not speak. The languorous music floated
into the hall, and the trees whispered from the garden through the open
door. Then she shook his arm gently, uttered a breathless little laugh,
and spoke as though she were pleading with a child.
"I don't think you understand, Harry. Here are three white feathers.
They were sent to you in jest? Oh, of course in jest. But it is a cruel
kind of jest--"
"They were sent in deadly earnest."
He spoke now, looking her straight in the eyes. Ethne dropped her hand
from his sleeve.
"Who sent them?" she asked.
Feversham had not given a thought to that matter.
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