Manston then looked at the reporter, who, after walking to the door with Owen, had come back again to lock up his books.  Manston did not need to be told that the shabby marble-covered book which he held in his hand, opening endways and interleaved with blotting-paper, was an old reporting-book.  He raised his eyes to the reporter’s face, whose experience had not so schooled his features but that they betrayed a consciousness, to one half initiated as the other was, that his late proceeding had been connected with events in the life of the steward.  Manston said no more, but, taking his newspaper, followed Owen from the office, and disappeared in the gloom of the street.

Edward Springrove was now in London again, and on this same evening, before leaving Casterbridge, Owen wrote a careful letter to him, stating therein all the facts that had come to his knowledge, and begging him, as he valued Cytherea, to make cautious inquiries.  A tall man was standing under the lamp-post, about half-a-dozen yards above the post-office, when he dropped the letter into the box.

That same night, too, for a reason connected with the rencounter with Owen Graye, the steward entertained the idea of rushing off suddenly to London by the mail-train, which left Casterbridge at ten o’clock.  But remembering that letters posted after the hour at which Owen had obtained his information—­whatever that was—­could not be delivered in London till Monday morning, he changed his mind and went home to Knapwater.  Making a confidential explanation to his wife, arrangements were set on foot for his departure by the mail on Sunday night.

3.  MARCH THE ELEVENTH

Starting for church the next morning several minutes earlier than was usual with him, the steward intentionally loitered along the road from the village till old Mr. Springrove overtook him.  Manston spoke very civilly of the morning, and of the weather, asking how the farmer’s barometer stood, and when it was probable that the wind might change.  It was not in Mr. Springrove’s nature—­going to church as he was, too—­to return anything but a civil answer to such civil questions, however his feelings might have been biassed by late events.  The conversation was continued on terms of greater friendliness.

’You must be feeling settled again by this time, Mr. Springrove, after the rough turn-out you had on that terrible night in November.’

’Ay, but I don’t know about feeling settled, either, Mr. Manston.  The old window in the chimney-corner of the old house I shall never forget.  No window in the chimney-corner where I am now, and I had been used to it for more than fifty years.  Ted says ’tis a great loss to me, and he knows exactly what I feel.’

‘Your son is again in a good situation, I believe?’ said Manston, imitating that inquisitiveness into the private affairs of the natives which passes for high breeding in country villages.

’Yes, sir.  I hope he’ll keep it, or do something else and stick to it.’