He saw Harry Feversham clearly now in a full light.
Harry's face was thin and haggard with lack of sleep, there were black hollows beneath his eyes; he drew his breath and made his movements in a restless feverish fashion, his nerves seemed strung to breaking-point.
Once or twice between the courses he began his story, but Sutch would not listen until the cloth was cleared.
"Now," said he, holding out his cigar-case.

"Take your time, Harry." Thereupon Feversham told him the whole truth, without exaggeration or omission, forcing himself to a slow, careful, matter-of-fact speech, so that in the end Sutch almost fell into the 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.