Renouard got up to go, but hesitated, looking down at the seated Editor. “How funny,” he said at last with the utmost seriousness, and was making for the door, when the voice of his friend stopped him. “You know what has been said of you? That you couldn’t get on with anybody you couldn’t kick. Now, confess—is there any truth in the soft impeachment?” “No,” said Renouard. “Did you print that in your paper.” “No. I didn’t quite believe it. But I will tell you what I believe. I believe that when your heart is set on some object you are a man that doesn’t count the cost to yourself or others. And this shall get printed some day.” “Obituary notice?” Renouard dropped negligently. “Certain—some day.” “Do you then regard yourself as immortal?” “No, my boy. I am not immortal. But the voice of the press goes on for ever. . . . And it will say that this was the secret of your great success in a task where better men than you—meaning no offence—did fail repeatedly.” “Success,” muttered Renouard, pulling-to the office door after him with considerable energy. And the letters of the word PRIVATE like a row of white eyes seemed to stare after his back sinking down the staircase of that temple of publicity. Renouard had no doubt that all the means of publicity would be put at the service of love and used for the discovery of the loved man. He did not wish him dead. He did not wish him any harm. We are all equipped with a fund of humanity which is not exhausted without many and repeated provocations—and this man had done him no evil. But before Renouard had left old Dunster’s house, at the conclusion of the call he made there that very afternoon, he had discovered in himself the desire that the search might last long. He never really flattered himself that it might fail. It seemed to him that there was no other course in this world for himself, for all mankind, but resignation. And he could not help thinking that Professor Moorsom had arrived at the same conclusion too. Professor Moorsom, slight frame of middle height, a thoughtful keen head under the thick wavy hair, veiled dark eyes under straight eyebrows, and with an inward gaze which when disengaged and arriving at one seemed to issue from an obscure dream of books, from the limbo of meditation, showed himself extremely gracious to him. Renouard guessed in him a man whom an incurable habit of investigation and analysis had made gentle and indulgent; inapt for action, and more sensitive to the thoughts than to the events of existence. Withal not crushed, sub-ironic without a trace of acidity, and with a simple manner which put people at ease quickly. They had a long conversation on the terrace commanding an extended view of the town and the harbour.