Harry Feversham was at that moment most likely listening to Ethne playing the violin under a clear sky in a high garden of Donegal.

But even as he was turning from the bulwarks, there came a lull of the wind, the lights burned bright and steady on the pier, and the face leaped from the shadows distinct in feature and expression.

Durrance leaned out over the side of the boat.
"Harry!" he shouted, at the top of a wondering voice.
But the figure beneath the lamp never stirred.

The wind blew the lights again this way and that, the paddles churned the water, the mail-boat passed beyond the pier.

It was an illusion, he repeated; it was a coincidence.