It had been an ineffectual day for Durrance. The general kept him
steadily to the history of the campaign from which he had just returned.
Only once was he able to approach the topic of Harry Feversham's
disappearance, and at the mere mention of his son's name the old
general's face set like plaster. It became void of expression and
inattentive as a mask.
"We will talk of something else, if you please," said he; and Durrance
returned to London not an inch nearer to Donegal.
Thereafter he sat under the great tree in the inner courtyard of his
club, talking to this man and to that, and still unsatisfied with the
conversation. All through that June the afternoons and evenings found
him at his post. Never a friend of Feversham's passed by the tree but
Durrance had a word for him, and the word led always to a question. But
the question elicited no answer except a shrug of the shoulders, and a
"Hanged if I know!"
Harry Feversham's place knew him no more; he had dropped even out of the
speculations of his friends.
Toward the end of June, however, an old retired naval officer limped
into the courtyard, saw Durrance, hesitated, and began with a remarkable
alacrity to move away.
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