On Saturday evening Graye hurried off to Casterbridge, and called at the
house of the reporter to the Chronicle. The reporter was at home, and
came out to Graye in the passage. Owen explained who and what he was,
and asked the man if he would oblige him by turning to his notes of
the inquest at Carriford in the December of the year preceding the
last--just adding that a family entanglement, of which the reporter
probably knew something, made him anxious to ascertain some additional
details of the event, if any existed.
‘Certainly,’ said the other, without hesitation; ‘though I am afraid
I haven’t much beyond what we printed at the time. Let me see--my old
note-books are in my drawer at the office of the paper: if you will
come with me I can refer to them there.’ His wife and family were at tea
inside the room, and with the timidity of decent poverty everywhere he
seemed glad to get a stranger out of his domestic groove.
They crossed the street, entered the office, and went thence to an
inner room. Here, after a short search, was found the book required. The
precise address, not given in the condensed report that was printed, but
written down by the reporter, was as follows:--
‘ABRAHAM BROWN,
LODGING-HOUSE KEEPER,
41 CHARLES SQUARE,
HOXTON.’
Owen copied it, and gave the reporter a small fee. ‘I want to keep
this inquiry private for the present,’ he said hesitatingly. ‘You will
perhaps understand why, and oblige me.’
The reporter promised. ‘News is shop with me,’ he said, ‘and to escape
from handling it is my greatest social enjoyment.’
It was evening, and the outer room of the publishing-office was lighted
up with flaring jets of gas. After making the above remark, the reporter
came out from the inner apartment in Graye’s company, answering an
expression of obligation from Owen with the words that it was no
trouble. At the moment of his speech, he closed behind him the door
between the two rooms, still holding his note-book in his hand.
Before the counter of the front room stood a tall man, who was also
speaking, when they emerged. He said to the youth in attendance, ‘I will
take my paper for this week now I am here, so that you needn’t post it
to me.’
The stranger then slightly turned his head, saw Owen, and recognized
him. Owen passed out without recognizing the other as Manston.
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.