It would have been less hard if two years ago you
had told me the whole truth, when I asked it of you that summer evening
in the courtyard of the club."
Compunction seized upon Lieutenant Sutch. The gentleness with which
Durrance had spoken, and the quiet accent of weariness in his voice,
brought home to him something of the cruelty of his great joy and pride.
After all, what Durrance said was true. If he had broken his word that
night at the club, if he had related Feversham's story, Durrance would
have been spared a great deal.
"I couldn't!" he exclaimed. "I promised Harry in the most solemn way
that I would tell no one until he came back himself. I was sorely
tempted to tell you, but I had given my word. Even if Harry never came
back, if I obtained sure knowledge that he was dead, even then I was
only to tell his father, and even his father not all that could be told
on his behalf."
He pushed back his chair and went to the window. "It is hot in here,"
he said. "Do you mind?" and without waiting for an answer he loosed the
catch and raised the sash. For some little while he stood by the open
window, silent, undecided. Durrance plainly did not know of the fourth
feather broken off from Ethne's fan, he had not heard the conversation
between himself and Feversham in the grill-room of the Criterion
Restaurant.
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