He saw Mr. Raunham. 'Have you done anything yet?' the rector inquired.
'No--I have not,' said Manston absently. 'But I am going to set about it.' He hesitated, as if ashamed of some weakness he was about to betray. 'My object in calling was to ask if you had heard any tidings from Budmouth of my--Cytherea. You used to speak of her as one you were interested in.' There was, at any rate, real sadness in Manston's tone now, and the rector paused to weigh his words ere he replied.
'I have not heard directly from her,' he said gently. 'But her brother has communicated with some people in the parish--' 'The Springroves, I suppose,' said Manston gloomily.
'Yes; and they tell me that she is very ill, and I am sorry to say, likely to be for some days.' 'Surely, surely, I must go and see her!' Manston cried.
'I would advise you not to go,' said Raunham. 'But do this instead --be as quick as you can in making a movement towards ascertaining the truth as regards the existence of your wife. You see, Mr.
Manston, an out-step place like this is not like a city, and there is nobody to busy himself for the good of the community; whilst poor Cytherea and her brother are socially too dependent to be able to make much stir in the matter, which is a greater reason still why you should be disinterestedly prompt.' 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.