The steward stood in the office.  One passenger alighted, gave up his ticket, and crossed the room in front of Manston:  a young man with a black bag and umbrella in his hand.  He passed out of the door, down the steps, and struck out into the darkness.

‘Who was that young man?’ said Manston, when the porter had returned.  The young man, by a kind of magnetism, had drawn the steward’s thoughts after him.

‘He’s an architect.’

‘My own old profession.  I could have sworn it by the cut of him,’ Manston murmured.  ‘What’s his name?’ he said again.

‘Springrove—­Farmer Springrove’s son, Edward.’

‘Farmer Springrove’s son, Edward,’ the steward repeated to himself, and considered a matter to which the words had painfully recalled his mind.

The matter was Miss Aldclyffe’s mention of the young man as Cytherea’s lover, which, indeed, had scarcely ever been absent from his thoughts.

’But for the existence of my wife that man might have been my rival,’ he pondered, following the porter, who had now come back to him, into the luggage-room.  And whilst the man was carrying out and putting in one box, which was sufficiently portable for the gig, Manston still thought, as his eyes watched the process—­

‘But for my wife, Springrove might have been my rival.’

He examined the lamps of his gig, carefully laid out the reins, mounted the seat and drove along the turnpike-road towards Knapwater Park.

The exact locality of the fire was plain to him as he neared home.  He soon could hear the shout of men, the flapping of the flames, the crackling of burning wood, and could smell the smoke from the conflagration.

Of a sudden, a few yards ahead, within the compass of the rays from the right-hand lamp, burst forward the figure of a man.  Having been walking in darkness the newcomer raised his hands to his eyes, on approaching nearer, to screen them from the glare of the reflector.

Manston saw that he was one of the villagers:  a small farmer originally, who had drunk himself down to a day-labourer and reputed poacher.

‘Hoy!’ cried Manston, aloud, that the man might step aside out of the way.

‘Is that Mr. Manston?’ said the man.

‘Yes.’

‘Somebody ha’ come to Carriford:  and the rest of it may concern you, sir.’

‘Well, well.’

‘Did you expect Mrs. Manston to-night, sir?’

’Yes, unfortunately she’s come, I know, and asleep long before this time, I suppose.’

The labourer leant his elbow upon the shaft of the gig and turned his face, pale and sweating from his late work at the fire, up to Manston’s.

‘Yes, she did come,’ he said. . . .  ’I beg pardon, sir, but I should be glad of—­of—­’

‘What?’

‘Glad of a trifle for bringen ye the news.’

‘Not a farthing!  I didn’t want your news, I knew she was come.’