er of that winter and into
the early summer, as Mr. P. remained away from Laysford, and his
movements for a time were quite unknown even to Mrs. Arkwright, who
usually received periodical cheques for reserving his rooms while he was
absent. A brief note to that lady early in the year had explained that
her well-paying guest would be longer in returning than he had intended,
as he was making a stay of some months in Sardinia. Another paragraph
with the name properly spelt had found its way into the newspaper where
Henry saw the first. The second was even briefer, and merely mentioned
that Mr. P. was at present staying in the Mediterranean island, "where
probably some scenes in his next novel would be laid."

Doubt as to the identity of Adrian Grant had finally left Henry's mind,
and he had even persuaded himself that there were many passages both in
"The Corrupter" and "Ashes" which revealed the man behind the book. It
is surprisingly easy to find the man in his style when you start by
knowing him.

And now the man himself was back in Laysford once more. Henry heard the
strains of his 'cello before he met the player again. It was a Saturday
night, and Mr. P. had come downstairs for a chat with him.

"You must have thought that I had gone away for good," he said, after
warmly greeting his young friend. "I had it often on my mind to write,
but I am a bad correspondent. The most of my time away I spent in
Sardinia. My mother was a native of that country, and I find it most
interesting."

"I had heard you were making a prolonged stay there. Indeed, I saw some
mention of your movements in the _Weekly Review_."

Henry thought this an adroit remark, and fancied it must lead to a
confession, but his companion merely inclined his head as if he had not
quite caught the words, and went on:

"Ah, but Browning has expressed with grand simplicity the impulse that
sends the wanderer back--'Oh, to be in England now that April's there!'"

The chance had gone, "conversational openings" were valueless to one
pitted against Adrian Grant. Henry fumbled nervously among the
commonplaces of speech, and his friend, with scarcely another reference
to himself, was presently making the young journalist talk of--Henry
Charles.

"You seem to have been burning the midnight oil too assiduously, I
think. A trifle paler than when I saw you last. Still grinding away, I
suppose."

"Yes; it is grinding. I have moments when I think journalism shee