‘Joseph Chinney, one of the railway-porters; he used to be night-porter.’
‘Ah—the man who was ill this afternoon; by the way, he was told to come to the Old House for something, but he hasn’t been. But has anything else happened—anything that concerns the wedding to-day?’
‘No, sir.’
Concluding that the connection which had seemed to be traced between himself and the event must in some way have arisen from Cytherea’s friendliness towards the man, Owen turned about and went homewards in a much quieter frame of mind—yet scarcely satisfied with the solution. The route he had chosen led through the dairy-yard, and he opened the gate.
Five minutes before this point of time, Edward Springrove was looking over one of his father’s fields at an outlying hamlet of three or four cottages some mile and a half distant. A turnpike-gate was close by the gate of the field.
The carrier to Casterbridge came up as Edward stepped into the road, and jumped down from the van to pay toll. He recognized Springrove. ‘This is a pretty set-to in your place, sir,’ he said. ‘You don’t know about it, I suppose?’
‘What?’ said Springrove.
The carrier paid his dues, came up to Edward, and spoke ten words in a confidential whisper: then sprang upon the shafts of his vehicle, gave a clinching nod of significance to Springrove, and rattled away.
Edward turned pale with the intelligence. His first thought was, ‘Bring her home!’
The next—did Owen Graye know what had been discovered? He probably did by that time, but no risks of probability must be run by a woman he loved dearer than all the world besides. He would at any rate make perfectly sure that her brother was in possession of the knowledge, by telling it him with his own lips.