The same minute saw two persons sit down in the rectory-house to share the rector’s usually solitary dinner.  One was a man of official appearance, commonplace in all except his eyes.  The other was Edward Springrove.

The discovery of the carefully-concealed letters rankled in the mind of Anne Seaway.  Her woman’s nature insisted that Manston had no right to keep all matters connected with his lost wife a secret from herself.  Perplexity had bred vexation; vexation, resentment; curiosity had been continuous.  The whole morning this resentment and curiosity increased.

The steward said very little to his companion during their luncheon at mid-day.  He seemed reckless of appearances—­almost indifferent to whatever fate awaited him.  All his actions betrayed that something portentous was impending, and still he explained nothing.  By carefully observing every trifling action, as only a woman can observe them, the thought at length dawned upon her that he was going to run away secretly.  She feared for herself; her knowledge of law and justice was vague, and she fancied she might in some way be made responsible for him.

In the afternoon he went out of the house again, and she watched him drive away in the direction of the county-town.  She felt a desire to go there herself, and, after an interval of half-an-hour, followed him on foot notwithstanding the distance—­ostensibly to do some shopping.

One among her several trivial errands was to make a small purchase at the druggist’s.  Near the druggist’s stood the County Bank.  Looking out of the shop window, between the coloured bottles, she saw Manston come down the steps of the bank, in the act of withdrawing his hand from his pocket, and pulling his coat close over its mouth.

It is an almost universal habit with people, when leaving a bank, to be carefully adjusting their pockets if they have been receiving money; if they have been paying it in, their hands swing laxly.  The steward had in all likelihood been taking money—­possibly on Miss Aldclyffe’s account—­that was continual with him.  And he might have been removing his own, as a man would do who was intending to leave the country.

3.  FROM FIVE TO EIGHT O’CLOCK P.M.

Anne reached home again in time to preside over preparations for dinner.  Manston came in half-an-hour later.  The lamp was lighted, the shutters were closed, and they sat down together.  He was pale and worn—­almost haggard.

The meal passed off in almost unbroken silence.  When preoccupation withstands the influence of a social meal with one pleasant companion, the mental scene must be surpassingly vivid.  Just as she was rising a tap came to the door.

Before a maid could attend to the knock, Manston crossed the room and answered it himself.  The visitor was Miss Aldclyffe.

Manston instantly came back and spoke to Anne in an undertone.  ’I should be glad if you could retire to your room for a short time.’