"I ain't _Mister_ Braddon," said the old soldier, doggedly; "I am only plain Derrick Braddon, once full private, and No. 2006 in Captain Trevelyan's company of the Old Cornish; and now, I think, I shall turn in." Sharkley succeeded in talking the veteran into a better humour again, to throw him off his guard; but his eyes never wandered from that left breast pocket where the outline of the tin case was distinctly visible, impressed on the worn-out, faded cloth. As the storm continued, he remained all night at the Trevanion Arms; and, after assuring himself that Derrick Braddon had no intention of leaving the neighbourhood in a hurry, an early hour next morning saw him spinning along the Cornwall and Devon Railway, in a corner of a third-class carriage, _en route_ to Rhoscadzhel. END OF VOL. II. BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.