be pleased to see you," said Mrs. Adair, rather coldly.
Durrance did not notice the coldness, however. He had his own reasons
for making the most of the opportunity which had come his way; and he
urged his enthusiasm, and laid it bare in words more for his own benefit
than with any thought of Mrs. Adair. Indeed, he had always rather a
vague impression of the lady. She was handsome in a queer, foreign way
not so uncommon along the coasts of Devonshire and Cornwall, and she had
good hair, and was always well dressed. Moreover, she was friendly. And
at that point Durrance's knowledge of her came to an end. Perhaps her
chief merit in his eyes was that she had made friends with Ethne
Eustace. But he was to become better acquainted with Mrs. Adair. He rode
away from the park with the old regret in his mind that the fortunes of
himself and his friend were this morning finally severed. As a fact he
had that morning set the strands of a new rope a-weaving which was to
bring them together again in a strange and terrible relationship. Mrs.
Adair followed him out of the park, and walked home very thoughtfully.

Durrance had just one week wherein to provide his equipment and
arrange his estate in Devonshire. It passed in a continuous hurry of
preparation, so that his newspaper lay each day unfolded in his rooms.
The general was to travel overland to Brindisi; and so on an evening of
wind and rain, toward the end of July, Durrance stepped from the Dover
pier into the mail-boat for Calais. In spite of the rain and the gloomy
night, a small crowd had gathered to give the general a send-off. As the
ropes were cast off, a feeble cheer was raised; and before the cheer had
ended, Durrance found himself beset by a strange illusion. He was
leaning upon the bulwarks, idly wondering whether this was his last view
of England, and with a wish that some one of his friends had come down
to see him go, when it seemed to him suddenly that his wish was
answered; for he caught a glimpse of a man standing beneath a gas-lamp,
and that man was of the stature and wore the likeness of Harry
Feversham. Durrance rubbed his eyes and looked again. But the wind made
the tongue of light flicker uncertainly within the glass; the rain, too,
blurred the quay. He could only be certain that a man was standing
there, he could only vaguely distinguish beneath the lamp the whiteness
of a face. It was an illusion, he said to himself. Harry Feversham was
at that moment mos