Harry Feversham had made his
story very real that night to Captain Willoughby; so that even after the
lapse of fifteen months this unimaginative creature was sensible of a
contrast and a deficiency in his manner of narration.
"In front of us was the quiet harbour and the Red Sea, above us the
African stars. Feversham spoke in the quietest manner possible, but with
a peculiar deliberation and with his eyes fixed upon my face, as though
he was forcing me to feel with him and to understand. Even when he
lighted his cigar he did not avert his eyes. For by this time I had
given him a cigar and offered him a chair. I had really, I assure you,
Miss Eustace. It was the first time in four years that he had sat with
one of his equals, or indeed with any of his countrymen on a footing of
equality. He told me so. I wish I could remember all that he told me."
Willoughby stopped and cudgelled his brains helplessly. He gave up the
effort in the end.
"Well," he resumed, "after Feversham had skulked for a fortnight in
Berber, the negro discovered Yusef, no longer selling salt, but tending
a small plantation of dhurra on the river's edge. From Yusef, Feversham
obtained particulars enough to guide him to the house where the letters
were concealed in the inner wall.
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