n were he right in all his conjectures, what had he to do with
the Warricombes?

Ten years ago the family had received him courteously as Buckland's
fellow-student; he had spent an hour or two at their house, and
subsequently a few words had passed when they saw him on prize-day at
Whitelaw. To Buckland he had never written; he had never since heard of
him; that name was involved in the miserable whirl of circumstances
which brought his College life to a close, and it was always his hope
that Buckland thought no more of him. Even had there been no
disagreeable memories, it was surely impossible to renew after this
interval so very slight an acquaintance. How could they receive him,
save with civilly mild astonishment?

An errand-boy came along, whistling townwards, a big basket over his
head. No harm in asking where Mr. Warricombe lived. The reply was
prompt: second house on the right hand, rather a large one, not a
quarter of a mile onward.

Here, then. The site was a good one. From this part of the climbing
road one looked over the lower valley of the Exe, saw the whole
estuary, and beyond that a horizon of blue sea. Fair, rich land, warm
under the westering sun. The house itself seemed to be old, but after
all was not very large; it stood amid laurels, and in the garden behind
rose a great yew-tree. No person was visible; but for the wave-like
murmur of neighbouring pines, scarce a sound would have disturbed the
air.

Godwin walked past, and found that the road descended into a deep
hollow, whence between high banks, covered with gorse and bracken and
many a summer flower, it led again up a hill thick planted with firs;
at the lowest point was a bridge over a streamlet, offering on either
hand a view of soft green meadows. A spot of exquisite retirement:
happy who lived here in security from the struggle of life!

It was folly to spoil his enjoyment of country such as this by dreaming
impossible opportunities. The Warricombes could be nothing to him; to
meet with Buckland would only revive the shame long ago outlived. After
resting for a few minutes he turned back, passed the silent house
again, delighted himself with the wide view, and so into the city once
more, where he began to seek the remnants of its old walls.

The next morning was Sunday, and he had planned to go by the Plymouth
train to a station whence he could reach Start Point; but his mood was
become so unsettled that ten o'clock, when already he