This last matter accomplished, and one or two cheques to tradesmen signed and posted, I put on my overcoat and hat, and sallied out of the club towards noon. A feeling of lightness of body combined with a sense of calm exaltation of mind assisted me, as I walked slowly through the muddy streets towards the National Gallery, one of my most frequent haunts in London. Here I spent about an hour in sauntering through the huge rooms hung with the glowing works of the Old Masters, stopping occasionally to admire some special favourite, and even studying with interest a recent addition to the collection that hung on a solitary screen. Quitting the gallery, I crossed Trafalgar Square, the while sensing the gush of its fountains and gazing at Landseer's stolid lions; thence I strolled down the length of Whitehall as far as Westminster with its majestic group of Gothic towers, and after filling my eyes with its bristling outlines against the murky winter's sky, I entered the north portal of the Abbey. Here again I wandered in an erratic but pleasurable frame of mind that I vainly tried to analyse to myself, and after many pacings to and fro in the ancient cloisters, that held so many memories for me, I left the Abbey to proceed very slowly towards Charing Cross by way of the Embankment. According to our prearranged plan, I boarded a certain train that same afternoon for Dover. The journey seemed to me interminable, and as I lay back on the cushions at times I fitfully hoped for some collision that might prove fatal to me; whilst at other moments I grew morbidly nervous lest by some unforeseen accident I might be prevented from reaching my destination in good time. I alighted at Dover about five o'clock on a raw, cold, windy, showery evening. From the station I passed into the street, and thence, in pursuance of my instructions, I followed a road leading westward. Ere long I had left behind me the suburbs of the town and was now tramping a dreary exposed thoroughfare that ran between market gardens. As I walked ahead slowly and deliberately, I suddenly saw emerge from a mean inn beside the road a short, thick-set man in seafaring dress and bearing a bundle on his shoulder. I knew him to be d'Aragno, and I continued to follow in his track. He proceeded for some distance along the high road, and then striking abruptly into a by-path amongst the dismal vegetable plots led towards the sea. The lights of Dover were now far behind me, and I realised sharply the fact that I was saying farewell to the kindly and accustomed world of men for ever and aye, and was advancing towards a doom whose nature I only dimly understood. Like Rabelais, I was stepping into the Great Perhaps; I was about to take a plunge into the ocean of the Vast Unknown.