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