“I have the honor to be,
“Faithfully yours,
“Vergilio Mannetti.”

To this communication, albeit he felt little hope, Sir Walter made speedy response.  He declared his intention of returning to England during the following week, after which he hoped that Signor Mannetti would visit Chadlands at any time convenient to himself.  He thanked him gratefully, but feared that, since the Italian based his theory on a crime, he could not feel particularly sanguine, for the possibility of such a thing had proved non-existent.

Mary, however, looked deeper into the letter.  She even suspected that the writer himself entertained a greater belief in his powers than he declared.

“One has always felt the Grey Room is somehow associated with Italy,” she said.  “The ceiling we know was moulded by Italians in Elizabeth’s day.”

“It was; but so are all the other moulded ceilings in the house as well.”

“He may understand Italian workmanship, and know some similar roof that hid a secret.”

“The roof cannot conceal an assassin, and he clearly believes himself on the track of a crime.”  Nevertheless, Sir Walter’s interest increased as the hour approached for their return home.  Only when that was decided did he discover how much he longed to be there.  For the horror and suffering of the past were a little dimmed already; he thirsted to see his woods and meadows in their vernal dress, to hear the murmur of his river, and move again among familiar voices and familiar paths.

Chadlands welcomed them on a rare evening of May, and the very genuine joy of his people moved Sir Walter not a little.  Henry Lennox was already arrived, and deeply interested to read the Italian’s letter.  He and Mary walked presently in the gardens and he found her changed.  She spoke more slowly, laughed not at all.  But she had welcomed him with affection, and been interested to learn all that he had to tell her of himself.

“I felt that it would disappoint you to be stopped at the last moment,” she said, “but I knew the reason would satisfy you well enough.  I feel hopeful somehow; father does not.  Yet it is hope mixed with fear, for Signor Mannetti speaks of a great crime.”

“A vain theory, I’m afraid.  Tell me about yourself.  You are well?”

“Yes, very well.  You must come to Italy some day, Henry, and let me show you the wonderful things I have seen.”

“I should dearly love it.  I’m such a Goth.  But it’s only brutal laziness.  I want to take up art and understand a little of what it really matters.”

“You have it in you.  Are you writing any more poetry?”

“Nothing worth showing you.”

She exercised the old fascination; but he indulged in no hope of the future.  He knew what her husband had been to Mary, despite the shortness of their union; and, rightly, he felt positive that she would never marry again.