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.