A month later Durrance arrived in London and discovered a letter from Ethne awaiting him at his club. It told him simply that she was staying with Mrs. Adair, and would be glad if he would find the time to call; but there was a black border to the paper and the envelope. Durrance called at Hill Street the next afternoon and found Ethne alone.  
"I did not write to Wadi Halfa," she explained at once, "for I thought that you would be on your way home before my letter could arrive. My father died last month, towards the end of May."
 
"I was afraid when I got your letter that you would have this to tell me," he replied. "I am very sorry. You will miss him."
 
"More than I can say," said she, with a quiet depth of feeling. "He died one morning early—I think I will tell you if you would care to hear," and she related to him the manner of Dermod's death, of which a chill was the occasion rather than the cause; for he died of a gradual dissolution rather than a definite disease.
 
It was a curious story which Ethne had to tell, for it seemed that just before his death Dermod recaptured something of his old masterful spirit. "We knew that he was dying," Ethne said. "He knew it too, and at seven o'clock of the afternoon after—" she hesitated for a moment and resumed, "after he had spoken for a little while to me, he called his dog by name. The dog sprang at once on to the bed, though his voice had not risen above a whisper, and crouching² quite close, pushed its muzzle³ with a whine⁴ under my father's hand. Then he told me to leave him and the dog altogether alone. I was to shut the door upon him. The dog would tell me when to open it again. I obeyed him and waited outside the door until one o'clock. Then a loud sudden howl moaned through the house." She stopped for a while. This pause was the only sign of distress⁵ which she gave, and in a few moments she went on, speaking quite simply, without any of the affectations of grief. "It was trying to wait outside that door while the afternoon faded and the night came. It was night, of course, long before the end. He would have no lamp left in his room. One imagined him just the other side of that thin door-panel, lying very still and silent in the great four-poster bed with his face towards the hills, and the light falling. One imagined the room slipping away into darkness, and the windows continually looming⁶ into a greater importance, and the dog by his side and no one else, right to the very end. He would have it that way, but it was rather hard for me."
 
Durrance said nothing in reply, but gave her in full measure what she most needed, the sympathy of his silence. He imagined those hours in the passage, six hours of twilight⁷ and darkness; he could picture her standing⁸ close by the door, with her ear perhaps to the panel, and her hand upon her heart to check its loud beating. There was something rather cruel, he thought, in Dermod's resolve to die alone. It was Ethne who broke the silence.
 
"I said that my father spoke¹ to me just before he told me to leave him. Of whom do you think he spoke?"
 
She was looking directly at Durrance as she put the question. From neither her eyes nor the level tone of her voice could he gather anything of the answer, but a sudden throb⁹ of hope caught away his breath.
 
"Tell me!" he said, in a sort of suspense¹⁰, as he leaned forward in his chair.
 
"Of Mr. Feversham," she answered, and he drew back again, and rather suddenly. It was evident that this was not the name which he had expected. He took his eyes from hers and stared downwards¹¹ at the carpet, so that she might not see his face.
 
"My father was always very fond of him," she continued gently, "and I think that I would like to know if you have any knowledge of what he is doing or where he is."
 
Durrance did not answer nor did he raise his face. He reflected upon the strange strong hold which Harry¹² Feversham kept upon the affections of those who had once known him well; so that even the man whom he had wronged, and upon whose daughter he had brought much suffering, must remember him with kindliness¹³ upon his death-bed. The reflection was not without its bitterness to Durrance at this moment, and this bitterness he was afraid that his face and voice might both betray. But he was compelled to speak, for Ethne insisted.
 
"You have never come across him, I suppose?" she asked.
 
Durrance rose from his seat and walked to the window before he answered. He spoke looking out into the street, but though he thus concealed¹⁴ the expression of his face, a thrill of deep anger sounded through his words, in spite of his efforts to subdue¹⁵ his tones.
 
"No," he said, "I never have," and suddenly his anger had its way with him; it chose as well as informed his words. "And I never wish to," he cried. "He was my friend, I know. But I cannot remember that friendship now. I can only think that if he had been the true man we took him for, you would not have waited alone in that dark passage during those six hours." He turned again to the centre of the room and asked abruptly:—
 
"You are going back to Glenalla?"
 
"Yes."
 
"You will live there alone?"
 
"Yes."
 
For a little while there was silence between them. Then Durrance walked round to the back of her chair.
 
"You once said that you would perhaps tell me why your engagement was broken off."
 
"But you know," she said. "What you said at the window showed that you knew."
 
"No, I do not. One or two words your father let drop. He asked me for news of Feversham the last time that I spoke with him. But I know nothing definite. I should like you to tell me."
 
Ethne shook her head and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. "Not now," she said, and silence again followed her words. Durrance broke it again.
 
"I have only one more year at Halfa. It would be wise to leave Egypt then, I think. I do not expect much will be done in the Soudan for some little while. I do not think that I will stay there—in any case. I mean even if you should decide to remain alone at Glenalla."
 
Ethne made no pretence¹⁶ to ignore the suggestion of his words. "We are neither of us children," she said; "you have all your life to think of. We should be prudent¹⁷."
 
"Yes," said Durrance, with a sudden exasperation¹⁸, "but the right kind of prudence¹⁹. The prudence which knows that it's worth while to dare a good deal."
 
Ethne did not move. She was leaning forward with her back towards him, so that he could see nothing of her face, and for a long while she remained in this attitude, quite silent and very still. She asked a question at the last, and in a very low and gentle voice.
 
"Do you want me so very much?" And before he............