Henry was seated in the garden behind his father's house--a real old-world garden, with rudely-made paths and a charming tangle of flowers--gigantic hollyhocks, bright calceolarias, sweet-smelling jasmine, stocks, early asters and chrysanthemums, growing in rich profusion and in the most haphazard manner. The jasmine climbed over the trellis-work of the summer-seat, made long years ago by the hands of Edward John before he had grown stout and lazy, and now creaking aloud to be repaired. He had come out here with a Birmingham morning paper in his hand--a paper which made his journalistic blood boil when he thought how intolerably dull and self-sufficient it was--and he had only opened it at the London letter when he saw a name that made him fumble the sheets quickly into small compass for close reading--Adrian Grant! A new book by him? a bit of personal gossip? No. He read: "The literary world will be shocked this morning to hear of the tragic death of Mr. Adrian Grant, the celebrated author of 'Ashes' and other novels, which have achieved great success in this country and America. As is well known, the name of the novelist is an assumed one, his own cognomen being the somewhat curious one of Phineas Puddephatt. He was a gentlemen of private means, and peculiar in his habits. There is probably no other living writer of his eminence about whose private life less is known. He was frequently absent from this country for long periods, and cared little for the usual attractions of literary life in London. This morning (Friday) he was found dead in his apartments at Gloucester Road, Kensington, under mysterious circumstances. He had intended leaving to-day for a short stay in the country, but as he did not appear at breakfast at the usual hour, and gave no response when summoned, the door of his bedroom was opened, and he was not there, nor had his bed been slept in. Entering his study, which adjoined the bedroom, the domestics were shocked to find Mr. Grant--to give him the name he is best known by--seated on a chair, with the handle of his 'cello in his left hand and the bow held in his right, in the very act of drawing it across the strings. He was dead; and the extraordinary life-likeness of the pose added greatly to the tragic nature of the discovery. At present no explanation is forthcoming, and an inquest will be held. The deceased novelist was an accomplished performer on the 'cello, and those who knew him describe him even as a master of that instrument, and capable of having achieved as great, if not greater, distinction as a musician than as a novelist. He is believed to have been just about forty years of age."