him as he
passed under the colonnade, he turned up the narrow passage to the
publishing-office of the Post-Office Directory. He begged to be allowed
to see the Directory of the south-west counties of England for a moment.

The shopman immediately handed down the volume from a shelf, and Manston
retired with it to the window-bench. He turned to the county, and
then to the parish of Tolchurch. At the end of the historical and
topographical description of the village he read:--

'Postmistress--Mrs. Hurston. Letters received at 6.30 A.M. by foot-post
from Anglebury.'

Returning his thanks, he handed back the book and quitted the office,
thence pursuing his way to an obscure coffee-house by the Strand, where
he now partook of a light dinner. But rest seemed impossible with him.
Some absorbing intention kept his body continually on the move. He
paid his bill, took his bag in his hand, and went out to idle about the
streets and over the river till the time should have arrived at which
the night-mail left the Waterloo Station, by which train he intended to
return homeward.

There exists, as it were, an outer chamber to the mind, in which, when a
man is occupied centrally with the most momentous question of his life,
casual and trifling thoughts are just allowed to wander softly for an
interval, before being banished altogether. Thus, amid his concentration
did Manston receive perceptions of the individuals about him in the
lively thoroughfare of the Strand; tall men looking insignificant;
little men looking great and profound; lost women of miserable repute
looking as happy as the days are long; wives, happy by assumption,
looking careworn and miserable. Each and all were alike in this one
respect, that they followed a solitary trail like the inwoven threads
which form a banner, and all were equally unconscious of the significant
whole they collectively showed forth.

At ten o'clock he turned into Lancaster Place, crossed the river,
and entered the railway-station, where he took his seat in the down
mail-train, which bore him, and Edward Springrove's letter to Graye, far
away from London.

XVII. THE EVENTS OF ONE DAY

1. MARCH THE THIRTEENTH. THREE TO SIX O'CLOCK A.M.

They entered Anglebury Station in the dead, still time of early morning,
the clock over the booking-office pointing to twenty-five minutes to
three. Manston lingered on the platform and saw the mail-bags brought
out, noticing, as a pertinent past