He walked to his hotel.

Yes, the name Warricombe stood there, but it occurred more than once.  He sought counsel of the landlord.  Which of these Warricombes was a gentleman of position, with grown-up sons and daughters?  To such a description answered Martin Warricombe, Esquire, well known in the city.  His house was in the Old Tiverton Road, out beyond St Sidwell’s, two miles away; anyone in that district would serve as guide to it.

With purpose indefinite, Godwin set forth in the direction suggested.  At little more than a saunter, he passed out of High Street into its continuation, where he soon descried the Church of St. Sidwell, and thence, having made inquiry, walked towards the Old Tiverton Road.  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.  No harm in asking where Mr. Warricombe lived.  The reply was prompt:  second house on the right hand, rather a large one, not a quarter of a mile onward.

Here, then.  The site was a good one.  From this part of the climbing road one looked over the lower valley of the Exe, saw the whole estuary, and beyond that a horizon of blue sea.  Fair, rich land, warm under the westering sun.  The house itself seemed to be old, but after all was not very large; it stood amid laurels, and in the garden behind rose a great yew-tree.  No person was visible; but for the wave-like murmur of neighbouring pines, scarce a sound would have disturbed the air.

Godwin walked past, and found that the road descended into a deep hollow, whence between high banks, covered with gorse and bracken and many a summer flower, it led again up a hill thick planted with firs; at the lowest point was a bridge over a streamlet, offering on either hand a view of soft green meadows.  A spot of exquisite retirement:  happy who lived here in security from the struggle of life!

It was folly to spoil his enjoyment of country such as this by dreaming impossible opportunities.  The Warricombes could be nothing to him; to meet with Buckland would only revive the shame long ago outlived.  After resting for a few minutes he turned back, passed the silent house again, delighted himself with the wide view, and so into the city once more, where he began to seek the remnants of its old walls.