Henry was tempted to make a paragraph out of this newly acquired information, and to add thereto some references of a local nature which would have been widely quoted from the _Leader_. But he had second thoughts that the subject of the paragraph would not be pleased, and heroically he restrained himself, avoiding all mention of the matter. The ordinary person who has no means other than word of mouth for advertising abroad some choice bit of gossip that has come his way, can but vaguely estimate the personal restraint which the journalist possessed of a tit-bit of news must exercise in keeping the information to himself. It is the journalist's business to blab, and he is as fidgety as a woman with a secret. Henry, however, had the consolation that perhaps after all the statement might not be correct. There were frequent cases of coincidence in the most absurd cognomens. He had to nurse his mystery for the remainder 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!'"