‘O, a man ha’ got crazy-religious, and sent for the pa’son.’

‘Is that all?’

’Yes, sir.  He wished he was dead, he said, and he’s almost out of his mind wi’ wishen it so much.  That was before Mr. Raunham came.’

‘Who is he?’ said Owen.

’Joseph Chinney, one of the railway-porters; he used to be night-porter.’

’Ah—­the man who was ill this afternoon; by the way, he was told to come to the Old House for something, but he hasn’t been.  But has anything else happened—­anything that concerns the wedding to-day?’

‘No, sir.’

Concluding that the connection which had seemed to be traced between himself and the event must in some way have arisen from Cytherea’s friendliness towards the man, Owen turned about and went homewards in a much quieter frame of mind—­yet scarcely satisfied with the solution.  The route he had chosen led through the dairy-yard, and he opened the gate.

Five minutes before this point of time, Edward Springrove was looking over one of his father’s fields at an outlying hamlet of three or four cottages some mile and a half distant.  A turnpike-gate was close by the gate of the field.

The carrier to Casterbridge came up as Edward stepped into the road, and jumped down from the van to pay toll.  He recognized Springrove.  ‘This is a pretty set-to in your place, sir,’ he said.  ’You don’t know about it, I suppose?’

‘What?’ said Springrove.

The carrier paid his dues, came up to Edward, and spoke ten words in a confidential whisper:  then sprang upon the shafts of his vehicle, gave a clinching nod of significance to Springrove, and rattled away.

Edward turned pale with the intelligence.  His first thought was, ‘Bring her home!’

The next—­did Owen Graye know what had been discovered?  He probably did by that time, but no risks of probability must be run by a woman he loved dearer than all the world besides.  He would at any rate make perfectly sure that her brother was in possession of the knowledge, by telling it him with his own lips.

Off he ran in the direction of the old manor-house.

The path was across arable land, and was ploughed up with the rest of the field every autumn, after which it was trodden out afresh.  The thaw had so loosened the soft earth, that lumps of stiff mud were lifted by his feet at every leap he took, and flung against him by his rapid motion, as it were doggedly impeding him, and increasing tenfold the customary effort of running,

But he ran on—­uphill, and downhill, the same pace alike—­like the shadow of a cloud.  His nearest direction, too, like Owen’s, was through the dairy-barton, and as Owen entered it he saw the figure of Edward rapidly descending the opposite hill, at a distance of two or three hundred yards.  Owen advanced amid the cows.

The dairyman, who had hitherto been talking loudly on some absorbing subject to the maids and men milking around him, turned his face towards the head of the cow when Owen passed, and ceased speaking.