‘Oh, dear!’ sighed Mr. Ruddiman, as one for whom this mysterious answer had distressing significance.  ‘That’s a great pity.’

‘Yes, sir.  And I’m sorry to say,’ went on Miss Fouracres, in the same confidential tone, ’that the Prince is coming here.  I don’t mean here, sir, to the Pig and Whistle, but to Woodbury Manor.  Father saw it in the newspaper, and since then he’s had no rest, day or night.  He’s sitting out in the garden.  I don’t know whether you’d like to go and speak to him, sir?’

’I will.  Yes, I certainly will.  But there’s something I should like to ask you about first, Miss Fouracres.  I’m thinking of staying in this part of the country through the holidays’—­long ago he had made known his position—­’and it has struck me that perhaps I could lodge here.  Could you let me have a room?  Just a bedroom would be enough.’

‘Why, yes, sir,’ replied the landlord’s daughter.  ’We have two bedrooms, you know, and I’ve no doubt my father would be willing to arrange with you.’

‘Ah, then I’ll mention it to him.  Is he in very low spirits?’

’He’s unusual low to-day, sir.  I shouldn’t wonder if it did him good to see you, and talk a bit.’

Having finished his ginger-beer, Mr. Ruddiman walked through the house and passed out into the garden, where he at once became aware of Mr. Fouracres.  The landlord, a man of sixty, with grizzled hair and large, heavy countenance, sat in a rustic chair under an apple-tree; beside him was a little table, on which stood a bottle of whisky and a glass.  Approaching, Mr. Ruddiman saw reason to suspect that the landlord had partaken too freely of the refreshment ready to his hand.  Mr. Fouracres’ person was in a limp state; his cheeks were very highly coloured, and his head kept nodding as he muttered to himself.  At the visitor’s greeting he looked up with a sudden surprise, as though he resented an intrusion on his privacy.

‘It’s very hot, Mr. Fouracres,’ the under-master went on to remark with cordiality.

‘Hot?  I dare say it is,’ replied the landlord severely.  ’And what else do you expect at this time of the year, sir?’

‘Just so, Mr. Fouracres, just so!’ said the other, as good-humouredly as possible.  ‘You don’t find it unpleasant?’

’Why should I, sir?  It was a good deal hotter day than this when His Royal Highness called upon me; a good deal hotter.  The Prince didn’t complain; not he.  He said to me—­I’m speaking of His Royal Highness, you understand; I hope you understand that, sir?’

‘Oh, perfectly!’

’His words were—­“Very seasonable weather, Mr. Fouracres.”  I’m not likely to forget what he said; so it’s no use you or any one else trying to make out that he didn’t say that.  I tell you he did!  “Very season weather, Mr. Fouracres”—­calling me by name, just like that.  And it’s no good you nor anybody else—­’

The effort of repeating the Prince’s utterance with what was meant to be a princely accent proved so exhausting to Mr. Fouracres that he sank together in his chair and lost all power of coherent speech.  In a moment he seemed to be sleeping.  Having watched him a little while, Mr. Ruddiman spoke his name, and tried to attract his attention; finding it useless he went back into the inn.