CHAPTER XXII
DURRANCE LETS HIS CIGAR GO OUT
Captain Willoughby was known at his club for a bore. He was a determinedraconteur of pointless stories about people with whom not one of hisaudience was acquainted. And there was no deterring him, for he did notlisten, he only talked. He took the most savage snub with a vacant andamicable face; and, wrapped in his own dull thoughts, he continued hiscopious monologue. In the smoking-room or at the supper-table he crushedconversation flat as a steam-roller crushes a road. He was quiteirresistible. Trite anecdotes were sandwiched between aphorisms of thecopybook; and whether anecdote or aphorism, all was delivered with theair of a man surprised by his own profundity. If you waited long enough,you had no longer the will power to run away, you sat caught in a web ofsheer dulness. Only those, however, who did not know him waited longenough; the rest of his fellow-members at his appearance straightwayrose and fled.
It happened, therefore, that within half an hour of his entrance to hisclub, he usually had one large corner of the room entirely to himself;and that particular corner up to the moment of his entrance had been themost frequented. For he made it a rule to choose the largest group ashis audience. He was sitting in this solitary state one afternoon earlyin October, when the waiter approached him and handed to him a card.
Captain Willoughby took it with alacrity, for he desired company, andhis acquaintances had all left the club to fulfil the most pressing andimperative engagements. But as he read the card his countenance fell."Colonel Durrance!" he said, and scratched his head thoughtfully.Durrance had never in his life paid him a friendly visit before, and whyshould he go out of his way to do so now? It looked as if Durrance hadsomehow got wind of his journey to Kingsbridge.
"Does Colonel Durrance know that I am in the club?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," replied the waiter.
"Very well. Show him in."
Durrance had, no doubt come to ask questions, and diplomacy would beneeded to elude them. Captain Willoughby had no mind to meddle anyfurther in the affairs of Miss Ethne Eustace. Feversham and Durrancemust fight their battle without his intervention. He did not distrusthis powers of diplomacy, but he was not anxious to exert them in thisparticular case, and he looked suspiciously at Durrance as he enteredthe room. Durrance, however, had apparently no questions to ask.Willoughby rose from his chair, and crossing the room, guided hisvisitor over to his deserted corner.
"Will you smoke?" he said, and checked himself. "I beg your pardon."
"Oh, I'll smoke," Durrance answered. "It's not quite true that a mancan't enjoy his tobacco without seeing the smoke of it. If I let mycigar out, I should know at once. But you will see, I shall not let itout." He lighted his cigar with deliberation and leaned back in hischair.
"I am lucky to find you, Willoughby," he continued, "for I am only intown for to-day. I come up every now and then from Devonshire to see myoculist, and I was very anxious to meet you if I could. On my last visitMather told me that you were away in the country. You remember Mather, Isuppose? He was with us in Suakin."
"Of course, I remember him quite well," said Willoughby, heartily. Hewas more than willing to talk about Mather; he had a hope that intalking about Mather, Durrance might forget that other matter whichcaused him anxiety.
"We are both of us curious," Durrance continued, "and you can clear upthe point we are curious about. Did you ever come across an Arab calledAbou Fatma?"
"Abou Fatma," said Willoughby, slowly, "one of the Hadendoas?"
"No, a man of the Kabbabish tribe."
"Abou Fatma?" Willoughby repeated, as though for the first time he hadheard the name. "No, I never came across him;" and then he stopped. Itoccurred to Durrance that it was not a natural place at which to stop;Willoughby might have been expected to add, "Why do you ask me?" or somequestion of the kind. But he kept silent. As a matter of fact, he waswondering how in the world Durrance had ever come to hear of Abou Fatma,whose name he himself had heard for the first and last time a year agoupon the verandah of the Palace at Suakin. For he had spoken the truth.He never had come across Abou Fatma, although Feversham had spoken ofhim.
"That makes me still more curious," Durrance continued. "Mather and Iwere together on the last reconnaissance in '84, and we found Abou Fatmahiding in the bushes by the Sinkat fort. He told us about the Gordonletters which he had hidden in Berber. Ah! you remember his name now."
"I was merely getting my pipe out of my pocket," said Willoughby. "But Ido remember the name now that you mention the letters."
"They were brought to you in Suakin fifteen months or so back. Mathershowed me the paragraph in the _Evening Standard_. And I am curious asto whether Abou Fatma returned to Berber and recovered them. But sinceyou have never come across him, it follows that he was not the man."
Captain Willoughby began to feel sorry that he had been in such haste todeny all acquaintance with Abou Fatma of the Kabbabish tribe.
"No; it was not Abou Fatma," he said, with an awkward sort ofhesitation. He dreaded the next question which Durrance would put tohim. He filled his pipe, pondering what answer he should make to it. ButDurrance put no question at all for the moment.
"I wondered," he said slowly. "I thought that Abou Fatma would hardlyreturn to Berber. For, indeed, whoever undertook the job undertook it atthe risk of his life, and, since Gordon was dead, for no very obviousreason."
"Quite so," said Willoughby, in a voice of relief. It seemed thatDurrance's curiosity was satisfied with the knowledge that Abou Fatmahad not recovered the letters. "Quite so. Since Gordon was dead, for noreason."
"For no obvious reason, I think I said," Durrance remarkedimperturbably. Willoughby turned and glanced suspiciously at hiscompanion, wondering whether, after all, Durrance knew of his visit toKingsbridge and its motive. Durrance, however, smoked his cigar, leaningback in his chair with his face tilted up towards the ceiling. Heseemed, now that his curiosity was satisfied, to have lost interest inthe history of the Gordon letters. At all events, he put no morequestions upon that subject to embarrass Captain Willoughby, and indeedthere was no need that he should. Thinking over the possible way bywhich Harry Feversham might have redeemed himself in Willoughby's eyesfrom the charge of cowardice, Durrance could only hit upon this recoveryof the letters from the ruined wall in Berber. There had been nopersonal danger to the inhabitants of Suakin since the days of that lastreconnaissance. The great troop-ships had steamed between the coralreefs towards Suez, and no cry for help had ever summoned them back.Willoughby risked only his health in that white palace on the Red Sea.There could not have been a moment when Feversham was in a position tosay, "Your life was forfeit but for me, whom you call coward." AndDurrance, turning over in his mind all the news and gossip which hadcome to him at Wadi Halfa or during his furloughs, had been brought toconjecture whether that fugitive from Khartum, who had told him hisstory in the glacis of the silent ruined fort of Sinkat during onedrowsy afternoon of May, had not told it again at Suakin withinFeversham's hearing. He was convinced now that his conjecture wascorrect.
Willoughby's reticence was in itself a sufficient confirmation.Willoughby, without doubt, had been instructed by Ethne to keep histongue in a leash. Colonel Durrance was prepared for reticence, helooked to reticence as the answer to his conjecture. His trained ear,besides, had warned him that Willoughby was uneasy at his visit andcareful in his speech. There had been pauses, during which Durrance wasas sure as though he had eyes wherewith to see, that his companion wasstaring at him suspiciously and wondering how much he knew, or howlittle. There had been an accent of wariness and caution in his voice,which was hatefully familiar to Durrance's ears, for just with thataccent Ethne had been wont to speak. Moreover, Durrance had settraps,--that remark of his "for no obvious reason, I think I said," hadbeen one,--and a little start here, or a quick turn there, showed himthat Willoughby had tumbled into them.
He had no wish, however, that Willoughby should write off to Ethne andwarn her that Durrance was making inquiri
es. That was a possibility, herecognised, and he set himself to guard against it.
"I want to tell you why I was anxious to meet you," he said. "It wasbecause of Harry Feversham;" and Captain Willoughby, who wascongratulating himself that he was well out of an awkward position,fairly jumped in his seat. It was not Durrance's policy, however, tonotice his companion's agitation, and he went on quickly: "Somethinghappened to Feversham. It's more than five years ago now. He didsomething, I suppose, or left something undone,--the secret, at allevents, has been closely kept,--and he dropped out, and his place knewhim no more. Now you are going back to the Soudan, Willoughby?"
"Yes," Willoughby answered, "in a week's time."
"Well, Harry Feversham is in the Soudan," said Durrance, leaning towardshis companion.
"You know that?" exclaimed Willoughby.
"Yes, for I came across him this Spring at Wadi Halfa," Durrancecontinued. "He had fallen rather low," and he told Willoughby of theirmeeting outside of the cafe of Tewfikieh. "It's strange, isn't it?--aman whom one knew very well going under like that in a second,disappearing before your eyes as it were, dropping plumb out of sight asthough down an oubliette in an old French castle. I want you to look outfor him, Willoughby, and do what you can to set him on his legs again.Let me know if you chance on him. Harry Feversham was a friend ofmine--one of my few real friends."
"All right," said Willoughby, cheerfully. Durrance knew at once from thetone of his voice that suspicion was quieted in him. "I will look outfor Feversham. I remember he was a great friend of yours."
He stretched out his hand towards the matches upon the table beside him.Durrance heard the scrape of the phosphorus and the flare of the match.Willoughby was lighting his pipe. It was a well-seasoned piece of briar,and needed a cleaning; it bubbled as he held the match to the tobaccoand sucked at the mouthpiece.
"Yes, a great friend," said Durrance. "You and I dined with him in hisflat high up above St. James's Park just before we left England."
And at that chance utterance Willoughby's briar pipe ceased suddenly tobubble. A moment's silence followed, then Willoughby swore violently,and a second later he stamped upon the carpet. Durrance's imaginationwas kindled by this simple sequence of events, and he straightway madeup a little picture in his mind. In one chair himself smoking his cigar,a round table holding a match-stand on his left hand, and on the otherside of the table Captain Willoughby in another chair. But CaptainWilloughby lighting his pipe and suddenly arrested in the act by asentence spoken without significance, Captain Willoughby staringsuspiciously in his slow-witted way at the blind man's face, until thelighted match, which he had forgotten, burnt down to his fingers, and heswore and dropped it and stamped it out upon the floor. Durrance hadnever given a thought to that dinner till this moment. It was possibleit might deserve much thought.
"There were you and I and Feversham present," he went on. "Feversham hadasked us there to tell us of his engagement to Miss Eustace. He had justcome back from Dublin. That was almost the last we saw of him." He tooka pull at his cigar and added, "By the way, there was a third manpresent."
"Was there?" asked Willoughby. "It's so long ago."
"Yes--Trench."
"To be sure, Trench was present. It will be a long time, I am afraid,before we dine at the same table with poor old Trench again."
The carelessness of his voice was well assumed; he leaned forwards andstruck another match and lighted his pipe. As he did so, Durrance laiddown his cigar upon the table edge.
"And we shall never dine with Castleton again," he said slowly.
"Castleton wasn't there," Willoughby exclaimed, and quickly enough tobetray that, however long the interval since that little dinner inFeversham's rooms, it was at all events still distinct in hisrecollections.
"No, but he was expected," said Durrance.
"No, not even expected," corrected Willoughby. "He was dining elsewhere.He sent the telegram, you remember."
"Ah, yes, a telegram came," said Durrance.
That dinner party certainly deserved consideration. Willoughby, Trench,Castleton--these three men were the cause of Harry Feversham's disgraceand disappearance. Durrance tried to recollect all the details of theevening; but he had been occupied himself on that occasion. Heremembered leaning against the window above St. James's Park; heremembered hearing the tattoo from the parade-ground of WellingtonBarracks--and a telegram had come.
Durrance made up another picture in his mind. Harry Feversham at thetable reading and re-reading his telegram, Trench and Willoughby waitingsilently, perhaps expectantly, and himself paying no heed, but staringout from the bright room into the quiet and cool of the park.
"Castleton was dining with a big man from the War Office that night,"Durrance said, and a little movement at his side warned him that he wasgetting hot in his search. He sat for a while longer talking about theprospects of the Soudan, and then rose up from his chair.
"Well, I can rely on you, Willoughby, to help Feversham if ever you findhim. Draw on me for money."
"I will do my best," said Willoughby. "You are going? I could have won abet off you this afternoon."
"How?"
"You said that you did not let your cigars go out. This one's stonecold."
"I forgot about it; I was thinking of Feversham. Good-bye."
He took a cab and drove away from the club door. Willoughby was glad tosee the last of him, but he was fairly satisfied with his own exhibitionof diplomacy. It would have been strange, after all, he thought, if hehad not been able to hoodwink poor old Durrance; and he returned to thesmoking-room and refreshed himself with a whiskey and potass.
Durrance, however, had not been hoodwinked. The last perplexing questionhad been answered for him that afternoon. He remembered now that nomention had been made at the dinner which could identify the sender ofthe telegram. Feversham had read it without a word, and without a wordhad crumpled it up and tossed it into the fire. But to-day Willoughbyhad told him that it had come from Castleton, and Castleton had beendining with a high official of the War Office. The particular act ofcowardice which had brought the three white feathers to Ramelton waseasy to discern. Almost the next day Feversham had told Durrance in theRow that he had resigned his commission, and Durrance knew that he hadnot resigned it when the telegram came. That telegram could have broughtonly one piece of news, that Feversham's regiment was ordered on activeservice. The more Durrance reflected, the more certain he felt that hehad at last hit upon the truth. Nothing could be more natural than thatCastleton should telegraph his good news in confidence to his friends.Durrance had the story now complete, or rather, the sequence of factscomplete. For why Feversham should have been seized with panic, why heshould have played the coward the moment after he was engaged to EthneEustace--at a time, in a word, when every manly quality he possessedshould have been at its strongest and truest, remained for Durrance, andindeed, was always to remain, an inexplicable problem. But he put thatquestion aside, classing it among the considerations which he had learntto estimate as small and unimportant. The simple and true thing--thething of real importance--emerged definite and clear: Harry Fevershamwas atoning for his one act of cowardice with a full and an overflowingmeasure of atonement.
"I shall astonish old Sutch," he thought, with a chuckle. He took thenight mail into Devonshire the same evening, and reached his home beforemidday.