2. SIX O'CLOCK P.M.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 p
