The whirr and noise of the panting engine confused Helmsley's ears and dazed his brain, after his months of seclusion in such a quiet little spot as Weircombe,--and he was seized with quite a nervous terror and doubt as to whether he would be able, after all, to undertake the journey he had decided upon, alone.

But an energetic porter put an end to his indecision by opening all the doors of the various compartments in the train and banging them to again, whereupon he made up his mind quickly, and managed, with some little difficulty, to clamber up the high step of a third-class carriage and get in before the aforesaid porter had the chance to push him in head foremost.

In another few minutes the engine whistle set up a deafening scream, and the train ran swiftly out of the station.

He was off;--the hills, the sea, were left behind--and Weircombe--restful, simple little Weircombe, seemed not only miles of distance, but ages of time away! Had he ever lived there, he hazily wondered?
Would he ever go back?
Was he "old David the basket-maker," or David Helmsley the millionaire?
He hardly knew.

It did not seem worth while to consider the problem of his own identity.