‘She will surely let her brother know where she is?’ he thought presently; and with that thought came a brief moment of hopefulness, which quickly changed again to despair. If she wanted to avoid him, Geoffrey, she would scarcely trust her secret to his bosom friend Lucius. There was that ever-ready medium—that universal go-between—the second column of the _Times_. He might advertise. He wrote a long appeal, so worded that, to the stranger, it was an absolute hieroglyphic, telling her that she was free—the only barrier that could divide them had been long removed—and entreating her to communicate with him immediately. This appeal he headed ‘_Voi che sapéte_’—the opening words of her favourite song. She could hardly fail to understand. But what if she did not see the _Times_? And if she were out of England, or even buried deep in some remote English watering-place, the chances against her seeing it were as ten to one. He sent the same advertisement to Galignani, and to a dozen provincial newspapers, chosen almost at random, but covering a wide area. He sent cheques to pay for a month’s insertions in every paper. He felt himself transformed into a man of business, and went to work as actively as if he had been advertising a new cocoa or a new hair-dye. This done, and there being nothing to detain him at Stillmington, he went back to Hillersdon, much to the delight of his cousins Belle and Jessie, who had in no wise expected this prompt return of the deserter. There was some comfort to him in the idea of being amidst the scenes of Janet’s youth. He went over to Tyrrelhurst, the cathedral town, saw the Registrar of Births, Deaths, and Marriages, and found the entry of that fatal union which stood between him and happiness. Yes, there it was: ‘Frederick Vandeleur, gentleman, &c. &c., to Janet Davoren.’ The ceremony had been legal enough. Nothing but some previous contract could invalidate such a marriage; and was it not very probable that this villain’s assertion of a previous marriage was but a lie, invented to release him from a union that had become troublesome to him? ‘I wish to Heaven I had as good a certificate of the scoundrel’s death,’ thought Geoffrey; ‘but even if I find her and tell her that he is dead, I doubt if my bare assertion will satisfy her scruples.’ He made a pilgrimage to Wykhamston, prowled about the gray old church, talked to the sexton, who had been an old man twenty years ago, and who calmly survived all changes, like a being over whom Time had no power. From him Geoffrey heard a great deal about the old rector and his beautiful daughter, who had played the organ, and how a stranger had come to Wykhamston, who took a great fancy to playing the organ, and played wonderful; and how Miss Davoren used oftentimes to be in the church practising when the stranger came in; and how not long after she ran away from home, as some folks said, and he, the sexton, was afraid no good had come of those meetings in the church.