arted to descend the hill. Night was
falling fast, with a heavy dew. The children had left their play and
crept to bed. They never sought him to say good-night.

He returned slowly, leaning on his staff, went to his room, lit the lamp,
and spent a couple of hours with his papers. This had become his nightly
habit of late.

On Wednesday he arose early, packed a hand-bag, crossed the ferry, and
took train for Plymouth.

CHAPTER III.

ROSEWARNE'S PILGRIMAGE.

From the railway station at Plymouth John Rosewarne walked straight to
Lockyer Street, to a house with a brass plate on the door, and on the
brass plate the name of a physician famous throughout the West of England.

The doctor had just come to the end of his morning consultations, and
received Rosewarne at once. The pair talked for five minutes on
indifferent matters, then of Paris, and the terrible doings of the
Commune--for this was the month of May 1871. At length Rosewarne stood
up.

"Best get it over," said he.

The doctor felt his pulse, took the stethoscope and listened, tapped and
sounded him, back and chest, then listened again.

"Worse?" asked Rosewarne.

"It is worse," answered the doctor gravely.

"I knew it. One or two in my family have died in the same way. The pains
are sharper of late, and more frequent."

"You keep that little phial handy?"

Rosewarne showed where it lay, close at hand in his watch-pocket.

"How long?" he asked.

"A few months, perhaps." The doctor seemed to hesitate.

"And you won't answer for _that_?"

"With care. It is folly for a man like you to be overworking."

Rosewarne laughed grimly. "You're right there, and I've often enough
asked myself why I do it. To what end, good Lord! But I'm taking no
care, all the same. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, my friend." The doctor did not remonstrate further.
He knew his man.

From Lockyer Street Rosewarne walked to his hotel, ordered a beef-steak
and a pint of champagne, and lunched leisurably. Lunch over, he lit a
cigar, and strolled in the direction of the Barbican. The streets were
full of holiday-keepers, and he counted a dozen brakes full of workers
pouring out of town to breathe the air of Dartmoor on this fine afternoon.
He himself was conscious of elation.

"I'll drink it regularly," he muttered to himself. "It's hard if a man
with maybe a month more to live cannot afford himself champagne."

The air in Southside Street differed from tha