It was evening--just at sunset--on the day of Manston’s death.
In the cottage at Tolchurch was gathered a group consisting of Cytherea,
her brother, Edward Springrove, and his father. They sat by the
window conversing of the strange events which had just taken place. In
Cytherea’s eye there beamed a hopeful ray, though her face was as white
as a lily.
Whilst they talked, looking out at the yellow evening light that coated
the hedges, trees, and church tower, a brougham rolled round the corner
of the lane, and came in full view. It reflected the rays of the sun in
a flash from its polished panels as it turned the angle, the spokes of
the wheels bristling in the same light like bayonets. The vehicle came
nearer, and arrived opposite Owen’s door, when the driver pulled the
rein and gave a shout, and the panting and sweating horses stopped.
‘Miss Aldclyffe’s carriage!’ they all exclaimed.
Owen went out. ‘Is Miss Graye at home?’ said the man. ‘A note for her,
and I am to wait for an answer.’