Owen approached him and said—­

’A singular thing has happened, I hear.  The man is not insane, I suppose?’

‘Not he—­he’s sensible enough,’ said the dairyman, and paused.  He was a man noisy with his associates—­stolid and taciturn with strangers.

‘Is it true that he is Chinney, the railway-porter?’

‘That’s the man, sir.’  The maids and men sitting under the cows were all attentively listening to this discourse, milking irregularly, and softly directing the jets against the sides of the pail.

Owen could contain himself no longer, much as his mind dreaded anything of the nature of ridicule.  ’The people all seem to look at me, as if something seriously concerned me; is it this stupid matter, or what is it?’

’Surely, sir, you know better than anybody else if such a strange thing concerns you.’

‘What strange thing?’

‘Don’t you know!  His confessing to Parson Raunham.’

‘What did he confess?  Tell me.’

’If you really ha’n’t heard, ’tis this.  He was as usual on duty at the station on the night of the fire last year, otherwise he wouldn’t ha’ known it.’

‘Known what?  For God’s sake tell, man!’

But at this instant the two opposite gates of the dairy-yard, one on the east, the other on the west side, slammed almost simultaneously.

The rector from one, Springrove from the other, came striding across the barton.

Edward was nearest, and spoke first.  He said in a low voice:  ’Your sister is not legally married!  His first wife is still living!  How it comes out I don’t know!’

‘O, here you are at last, Mr. Graye, thank Heaven!’ said the rector breathlessly.  ’I have been to the Old House, and then to Miss Aldclyffe’s looking for you—­something very extraordinary.’  He beckoned to Owen, afterwards included Springrove in his glance, and the three stepped aside together.

’A porter at the station.  He was a curious nervous man.  He had been in a strange state all day, but he wouldn’t go home.  Your sister was kind to him, it seems, this afternoon.  When she and her husband had gone, he went on with his work, shifting luggage-vans.  Well, he got in the way, as if he were quite lost to what was going on, and they sent him home at last.  Then he wished to see me.  I went directly.  There was something on his mind, he said, and told it.  About the time when the fire of last November twelvemonth was got under, whilst he was by himself in the porter’s room, almost asleep, somebody came to the station and tried to open the door.  He went out and found the person to be the lady he had accompanied to Carriford earlier in the evening, Mrs. Manston.  She asked, when would be another train to London?  The first the next morning, he told her, was at a quarter-past six o’clock from Budmouth, but that it was express, and didn’t stop at Carriford Road—­it didn’t stop till it got to Anglebury.  “How