he illusion that it was just the
story of a stranger which Feversham was recounting merely to pass the
time. He began with the Crimean night at Broad Place, and ended with the
ball at Lennon House.

"I came back across Lough Swilly early that morning," he said in
conclusion, "and travelled at once to London. Since then I have stayed
in my rooms all day, listening to the bugles calling in the barrack-yard
beneath my windows. At night I prowl about the streets or lie in bed
waiting for the Westminster clock to sound each new quarter of an hour.
On foggy nights, too, I can hear steam-sirens on the river. Do you know
when the ducks start quacking in St. James's Park?" he asked with a
laugh. "At two o'clock to the minute."

Sutch listened to the story without an interruption. But halfway through
the narrative he changed his attitude, and in a significant way. Up to
the moment when Harry told of his concealment of the telegram, Sutch had
sat with his arms upon the table in front of him, and his eyes upon his
companion. Thereafter he raised a hand to his forehead, and so remained
with his face screened while the rest was told. Feversham had no doubt
of the reason. Lieutenant Sutch wished to conceal the scorn he felt, and
could not trust the muscles of his face. Feversham, however, mitigated
nothing, but continued steadily and truthfully to the end. But even
after the end was reached, Sutch did not remove his hand, nor for some
little while did he speak. When he did speak, his words came upon
Feversham's ears with a shock of surprise. There was no contempt in
them, and though his voice shook, it shook with a great contrition.

"I am much to blame," he said. "I should have spoken that night at Broad
Place, and I held my tongue. I shall hardly forgive myself." The
knowledge that it was Muriel Graham's son who had thus brought ruin and
disgrace upon himself was uppermost in the lieutenant's mind. He felt
that he had failed in the discharge of an obligation, self-imposed, no
doubt, but a very real obligation none the less. "You see, I
understood," he continued remorsefully. "Your father, I am afraid, never
would."

"He never will," interrupted Harry.

"No," Sutch agreed. "Your mother, of course, had she lived, would have
seen clearly; but few women, I think, except your mother. Brute courage!
Women make a god of it. That girl, for instance,"--and again Harry
Feversham interrupted.

"You must not blame her. I was defrauding h