’Leave me to look after myself, Miss Fouracres.  And trust me to look after the house too, will you?  You know I can do it.  Will you trust me?’

‘It’s only that I’m ashamed, sir—­’

‘Not a bit of it.  I’m very glad, indeed, to be useful; I assure you I am.’

‘But your dinner, sir?’

’Why, there’s cold meat.  Don’t you worry, Miss Fouracres.  I’ll look after myself, and the house too; see if I don’t.  Go at once, and keep your mind at ease on my account, pray do!’

’It’s very good of you, sir, I’m sure it is.  Oh, I knew something was going to happen!  Didn’t I say so?’

Mr. Ruddiman helped her into the trap; they shook hands silently, and Miss Fouracres drove away.  Before the turn of the road she looked back.  Ruddiman was still watching her; he waved his hand, and the young woman waved to him in reply.

Left alone, the under-master took off his coat and put on an apron, then addressed himself to the task of washing up his breakfast things.  Afterwards he put his bedroom in order.  About ten o’clock the first customer came in, and, as luck had it, the day proved a busier one than usual.  No less than four cyclists stopped to make a meal.  Mr. Ruddiman was able to supply them with cold beef and ham; moreover, he cooked eggs, he made tea—­and all this with a skill and expedition which could hardly have been expected of him.  None the less did he think constantly of Miss Fouracres.  About five in the afternoon wheels sounded; aproned and in his shirt-sleeves, he ran to the door—­as he had already done several times at the sound of a vehicle—­and with great satisfaction saw the face of his hostess.  She, too, though her eyes showed she had been weeping long, smiled with gladness; the next moment she exclaimed distressfully.

‘Oh, sir!  To think you’ve been here alone all day!  And in an apron!’

’Don’t think about me, Miss Fouracres.  You look worn out, and no wonder.  I’ll get you some tea at once.  Let the pony stand here a little; he’s not so tired as you are.  Come in and have some tea, Miss Fouracres.’

Mr. Ruddiman would not be denied; he waited upon his hostess, got her a very comfortable tea, and sat near her whilst she was enjoying it.  Miss Fouracres’ story of the day’s events still left her father’s death most mysterious.  All that could be certainly known was that the landlord of the Pig and Whistle had drunk rather freely with his friend the gardener at an inn at Woodbury, and towards nine o’clock in the evening had gone out, as he said, for a stroll before bedtime.  Why he entered the grounds of Woodbury Manor, and how he got into the pond there, no one could say.  People talked of suicide, but Miss Fouracres would not entertain that suggestion.  Of course there was to be an inquest, and one could only await the result of such evidence as might be forthcoming.  During the day Miss Fouracres had telegraphed to the only relatives of whom she knew anything, two sisters of her father, who kept a shop in London.  Possibly one of them might come to the funeral.