gone, purpose gone, while the
old craving for whisky dogged him at every step, what was there for him
to do? Life was a mockery, a great haggard failure! Why should he seek
to prolong it?

And so he spent his days amidst the loneliness of the moors, thinking
and brooding. He saw no newspapers, received no letters, had no
visitors. He had told the old lady who kept the cottage that he wanted a
week or two's quiet, and freedom from the bustle of the world. Besides,
he had a big problem to solve, and he had come there to solve it. He
gave his name as Robert Baxter; it was the first that came to his lips,
and he spoke of himself as keenly interested in sociology. It happened
that old Mrs. Sleeman had not the slightest idea what sociology meant,
but she had had several gentlemen in the past who had come to lodge with
her; they had called themselves artists, and naturalists, and they had
come pretty much in the same way as Leicester had come. They had been
easy to please, they had paid her well, and when they had left had
promised not only to come again, but to recommend her house to their
friends. His advent therefore was quite welcome to her, and as he had no
tastes that were difficult to satisfy, she hoped he would stay for a
long while.

Mrs. Sleeman was a cheerful old lady who managed her house and her
husband with great tact. It was also said that her influence was very
great at the little Bible Christian chapel to which she went on Sundays.
John Sleeman, her husband, was but little in evidence. He worked on his
little farm patch through the day, and in the evenings spent his time in
the little kitchen, which to Leicester was a sealed chamber.

No newspaper was brought into the cottage, and letters came rarely.
Indeed, the postman never came at all. By mutual agreement it was
arranged that when a letter came for Mr. Sleeman, it should be left at
the house of Mrs. Maddern, who lived close to the high road.
Occasionally Mr. and Mrs. Sleeman harnessed their little horse and drove
to the market town, which lay several miles across the moors, but this
was only on very rare occasions.

As a consequence, therefore, Leicester's life was completely isolated.
Day after day passed without any event happening to break the monotony
of life, and he spent his time roaming over the moors trying as best he
could to face the problem of his life, and to fight the despair which
was gnawing at his heart.

He knew nothing of what was h