He was now quite beyond the town limits, and few pedestrians came in sight; if he really wished to find the abode of Martin Warricombe, he must stop the first questionable person.

But to what end this inquiry?
He could not even be certain that Martin was the man he had in mind, and even 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.