The steward murmured an assent.  Still there was the same indecision!—­not the indecision of weakness—­the indecision of conscious perplexity.

On Manston’s return from this interview at the rectory, he passed the door of the Rising Sun Inn.  Finding he had no light for his cigar, and it being three-quarters of a mile to his residence in the park, he entered the tavern to get one.  Nobody was in the outer portion of the front room where Manston stood, but a space round the fire was screened off from the remainder, and inside the high oak settle, forming a part of the screen, he heard voices conversing.  The speakers had not noticed his footsteps, and continued their discourse.

One of the two he recognized as a well-known night-poacher, the man who had met him with tidings of his wife’s death on the evening of the conflagration.  The other seemed to be a stranger following the same mode of life.  The conversation was carried on in the emphatic and confidential tone of men who are slightly intoxicated, its subject being an unaccountable experience that one of them had had on the night of the fire.

What the steward heard was enough, and more than enough, to lead him to forget or to renounce his motive in entering.  The effect upon him was strange and strong.  His first object seemed to be to escape from the house again without being seen or heard.

Having accomplished this, he went in at the park gate, and strode off under the trees to the Old House.  There sitting down by the fire, and burying himself in reflection, he allowed the minutes to pass by unheeded.  First the candle burnt down in its socket and stunk:  he did not notice it.  Then the fire went out:  he did not see it.  His feet grew cold; still he thought on.

It may be remarked that a lady, a year and a quarter before this time, had, under the same conditions—­an unrestricted mental absorption—­shown nearly the same peculiarities as this man evinced now.  The lady was Miss Aldclyffe.

It was half-past twelve when Manston moved, as if he had come to a determination.

The first thing he did the next morning was to call at Knapwater House; where he found that Miss Aldclyffe was not well enough to see him.  She had been ailing from slight internal haemorrhage ever since the confession of the porter Chinney.  Apparently not much aggrieved at the denial, he shortly afterwards went to the railway-station and took his departure for London, leaving a letter for Miss Aldclyffe, stating the reason of his journey thither—­to recover traces of his missing wife.