blind man. He would
not be discouraged at the meagre indications sent him.

"It is only by continued advertising that we shall get results," he
said always. Then again he advertised.

Finally, one day a letter from Bosnia gave them some information which
might lead to something. It was written in bad English, and stated that
if the advertiser would place the forty pounds promised with a banker at
Serajevo the writer would furnish authentic information concerning M.
Edmond Paindavoine going back to the month of November of the preceding
year. If this proposition was acceptable, the reply was to be sent to N.
917, General Delivery, Serajevo.

This letter seemed to give M. Vulfran so much relief and joy that it was
a confession of what his fears had been.

For the first time since he had commenced his investigations, he spoke
of his son to his two nephews and Talouel.

"I am delighted to tell you that at last I have news of my son," he
said. "He was in Bosnia last November."

There was great excitement as the news was spread through the various
towns and villages. As usual under such circumstances, it was
exaggerated.

"M. Edmond is coming back. He'll be home shortly," went from one to
another.

"It's not possible!" cried some.

"If you don't believe it," they were told, "you've only to look at
Talouel's face and M. Vulfran's nephews."

Yet there were some who would not believe that the exile would return.
The old man had been too hard on him. He had not deserved to be sent
away to India because he had made a few debts. His own family had cast
him aside, so he had a little family of his own out in India. Why should
he come back? And then, even if he was in Bosnia or Turkey, that was not
to say that he was on his way to Maraucourt. Coming from India to
France, why should he have to go to Bosnia? It was not on the route.

This remark came from Bendit, who, with his English coolheadedness,
looked at things only from a practical standpoint, in which sentiment
played no part. He thought that just because everyone wished for the son
and heir to return, it was not enough to bring him back. The French
could wish a thing and believe it, but he was English, he was, and he
would not believe that he was coming back until he saw him there with
his own eyes!

Day by day the blind man grew more impatient to see his son. Perrine
could not bear to hear him talk of his return as a certainty. Many times
she tried to tell him