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."
It seemed but yesterday that Henry read in the Weekly Review a paragraph about the identity of Adrian Grant, and now—this! The stabs of Fate come fast and ruthless to the young man, to rid him of youth's illusion of immortality. He sees men rise up suddenly into fame, and dreams that one day he shall do so too. Then a brief year or two glides by, and the hearse draws up at the door of Fame's latest favourite, and youth begins to understand that the bright game of life must now be played with a blinking eye on the end of all things mortal. If he also understands that the end is in truth the beginning, that "the best is yet to be," then he may be happy no less. If not, he is booked for cynicism and things unlovely.
Adrian Grant dead! Fame, fortune his, and but half-way through life. Dead, and "mysteriously." Henry sat dumb, struck thoughtless with amazement.
"'Ow d'you like them 'olly'ocks, 'Enry; ain't they tremenjous?"
The voice of his father recalled him, and the good human ring of it was sweet in his ears.
"Father, a terrible thing has happened. My friend Mr. Grant is dead."
Edward John pursed his mouth to whistle in token of blank surprise, but the scared look on Henry's face stayed him in the act, and he said "Well, well!" instead.
"'Ow did it happen? Run over?"
An accident was about the only means of death to people under seventy that was known in Hampton, if we except consumption.