like
my own business."

"Exactly, sir. I was only thinking about your letters."

"You can burn them. I don't care. I want no letters. You send the
carriage."

"If anybody inquires about you?"

"I believe you profess to be a very religious man, Jenkins, in spite of
your calling. The teetotalers say your calling is to send people to
hell. Well, I'll not be so explicit. Tell inquirers that I am gone to a
region where fires are supposed to be very good."

"But, sir----"

"As I told you before, this seems remarkably like my own business; yours
being to send my bill, and get a carriage."

"Yes, sir."

"And, by the way, Jenkins," added Leicester, with a joyless laugh,
"excuse me for meddling. I suppose I can tell those whom you have sent
to that place where I'm bound for, that you'll be on presently?"

Half an hour later he left the hotel in a close carriage, and drove to
West Billington. It seemed to him that his career had ended now. He had
left the town in disgrace. He had left by a backway, like a thief.
Arrived at West Billington, he took a ticket for a station twenty miles
away, among the Devonshire meadows. But he did not stop there. He did
not alight from the train until it had arrived at a little lonely
station among the wild moors. There he got out, and looked around. He
was the only passenger who alighted, and the porter eyed him
wonderingly.

"Want to git anywhere speshul, zur?" he asked.

"Yes. I want to find some old dame who has a room to spare in her
cottage," he said.

"Early fer fishin,' and laate fer shettin,' zur, be'ant 'ee? All th'
zame, I d' knaw a plaace."

"Where?"

"My a'nt, zur, d' live two miles fr'm 'ere, ovver the moors. Purty lill
plaace shee've got, ef you doan't mind et bein' quiet. Ef you'll wait
ten minnits I'll go ovver weth 'ee. I shaan't be wanted fer a 'our or
zo."

An hour later Leicester was sitting in a cottage parlour among the
lonely Devonshire moors. The old lady had provided him with a simple
meal, and the quietness of the place made him feel better. The day was
now drawing to a close, and the evening shadows were falling.

"Will 'ee 'ave a lamp then, zur?" asked the old lady.

"Not yet," said Leicester; "I'm going out for a walk."

For an hour he tramped, until the day had gone.

"I must make up my mind," he said: "the old life is impossible now. What
shall I do? Pull down the shutters, or shall I----?"

He entered the cottage again, and was met by the