up his mind. Ethne wished him not to
know; it was some consolation to her in her distress to believe that she
had brought happiness to this one man whose friend she genuinely was.
And of that consolation Durrance was aware. He saw no reason to destroy
it--for the present. He must know certainly whether a misunderstanding
or an irreparable breach separated Ethne from Feversham before he took
the steps he had in mind. He must have sure knowledge, too, of Harry
Feversham's fate. Therefore he pretended to know nothing; he abandoned
even his habit of attention and scrutiny, since for these there was no
longer any need; he forced himself to a display of contentment; he made
light of his misfortune, and professed to find in Ethne's company more
than its compensation.

"You see," he said to her, "one can get used to blindness and take it as
the natural thing. But one does not get used to you, Ethne. Each time
one meets you, one discovers something new and fresh to delight one.
Besides, there is always the possibility of a cure."

He had his reward, for Ethne understood that he had laid aside his
suspicions, and she was able to set off his indefatigable cheerfulness
against her own misery. And her misery was great. If for one day she had
recaptured the lightness of heart which had been hers before the three
white feathers came to Ramelton, she had now recaptured something of the
grief which followed upon their coming. A difference there was, of
course. Her pride was restored, and she had a faint hope born of
Durrance's words that Harry after all might perhaps be rescued. But she
knew again the long and sleepless nights and the dull hot misery of the
head as she waited for the grey of the morning. For she could no longer
pretend to herself that she looked upon Harry Feversham as a friend who
was dead. He was living, and in what straits she dreaded to think, and
yet thirsted to know. At rare times, indeed, her impatience got the
better of her will.

"I suppose that escape is possible from Omdurman," she said one day,
constraining her voice to an accent of indifference.

"Possible? Yes, I think so," Durrance answered cheerfully. "Of course it
is difficult and would in any case take time. Attempts, for instance,
have been made to get Trench out and others, but the attempts have not
yet succeeded. The difficulty is the go-between."

Ethne looked quickly at Durrance.

"The go-between?" she asked, and then she said, "I think I b