Adair's answer relieved him of a fear. Ethne had heard nothing
whatever of his confession.
"Yes," he said, "she moved to the window to read a letter by the
moonlight. She must have escaped from the room the moment she had read
it. Consequently she did not hear that I had no longer any hope of
recovering my sight, and that I merely used the pretence of a hope in
order to delay our marriage. I am glad of that, very glad." He shook
hands with Mrs. Adair, and said good-night. "You see," he added
absently, "if I hear that Harry Feversham is in Omdurman, something
might perhaps be done--from Suakin or Assouan, something might be done.
Which way did Ethne go?"
"Over to the water."
"She had her dog with her, I hope."
"The dog followed her," said Mrs. Adair.
"I am glad," said Durrance. He knew quite well what comfort the dog
would be to Ethne in this bad hour, and perhaps he rather envied the
dog. Mrs. Adair wondered that at a moment of such distress to him he
could still spare a thought for so small an alleviation of Ethne's
trouble. She watched him cross the garden to the stile in the hedge. He
walked steadily forward upon the path like a man who sees.
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