eared the attractions
of the seaside, and also he feared completely rural isolation, for of
old he knew it charms, and so he determined to find some unpretentious
little town where there would be nothing to distract him. He refrained
from asking suggestions from any of his friends, for he argued that
each would recommend some place of which he had knowledge, and where
he had already acquaintances. As Malcolmson wished to avoid friends he
had no wish to encumber himself with the attention of friends'
friends, and so he determined to look out for a place for himself. He
packed a portmanteau with some clothes and all the books he required,
and then took ticket for the first name on the local time-table which
he did not know.

When at the end of three hours' journey he alighted at Benchurch, he
felt satisfied that he had so far obliterated his tracks as to be sure
of having a peaceful opportunity of pursuing his studies. He went
straight to the one inn which the sleepy little place contained, and
put up for the night. Benchurch was a market town, and once in three
weeks was crowded to excess, but for the remainder of the twenty-one
days it was as attractive as a desert, Malcolmson looked around the
day after his arrival to try to find quarters more isolated than even
so quiet an inn as 'The Good Traveller' afforded. There was only one
place which took his fancy, and it certainly satisfied his wildest
ideas regarding quiet; in fact, quiet was not the proper word to apply
to it--desolation was the only term conveying any suitable idea of its
isolation. It was an old rambling, heavy-built house of the Jacobean
style, with heavy gables and windows, unusually small, and set higher
than was customary in such houses, and was surrounded with a high
brick wall massively built. Indeed, on examination, it looked more
like a fortified house than an ordinary dwelling. But all these things
pleased Malcolmson. 'Here,' he thought, 'is the very spot I have been
looking for, and if I can get opportunity of using it I shall be
happy.' His joy was increased when he realised beyond doubt that it
was not at present inhabited.

From the post-office he got the name of the agent, who was rarely
surprised at the application to rent a part of the old house. Mr.
Carnford, the local lawyer and agent, was a genial old gentleman, and
frankly confessed his delight at anyone being willing to live in the
house.

'To tell you the truth,' said he, 'I shou