It was a case for a specialist.
He himself would hesitate to pronounce an opinion; though, to be sure,
there was always hope of a cure.
"Have you ever suffered an injury in the head?" he asked. "Were you
ever thrown from your horse? Were you wounded?"
"No," said Durrance.
The Syrian did not disguise his conviction that the case was grave; and
after he had departed both men were silent for some time. Calder had a
feeling that any attempt at consolation would be futile in itself, and
might, moreover, in betraying his own fear that the hurt was
irreparable, only discourage his companion. He turned to the pile of
letters and looked them through.
"There are two letters here, Durrance," he said gently, "which you might
perhaps care to hear. They are written in a woman's hand, and there is
an Irish postmark. Shall I open them?"
"No," exclaimed Durrance, suddenly, and his hand dropped quickly upon
Calder's arm. "By no means."
Calder, however, did not put down the letters. He was anxious, for
private reasons of his own, to learn something more of Ethne Eustace
than the outside of her letters could reveal. A few rare references made
in unusual moments of confidence by Durrance had only informed Calder of
her name, and assured him that his friend would be very glad to change
it if he could.
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