‘Well,’ said Mr. Ruddiman, in a comforting tone, ’all you have to do is to keep quiet.  Don’t trouble about anything.  I’ll look after the business.’

Miss Fouracres smiled at him through her tears.

’It’s very good of you, sir, but you make me feel ashamed.  What sort of a day have you had?’

‘Splendid!  Look here!’

He exhibited the day’s receipts, a handful of cash, and, with delight decently subdued, gave an account of all that had happened.

‘I like this business!’ he exclaimed.  ’Don’t you trouble about anything.  Leave it all to me, Miss Fouracres.’

One of the London aunts came down, and passed several days at the Pig and Whistle.  She was a dry, keen, elderly woman, chiefly interested in the question of her deceased brother’s property, which proved to be insignificant enough.  Meanwhile the inquest was held, and all the countryside talked of Mr. Fouracres, whose story, of course, was published in full detail by the newspapers.  Once more opinions were divided as to whether the hapless landlord really had or had not entertained His Royal Highness.  Plainly, Mr. Fouracres’ presence in the grounds of Woodbury Manor was due to the fact that the Prince happened to be staying there.  In a state of irresponsibility, partly to be explained by intoxication, partly by the impulse of his fixed idea, he must have gone rambling in the dark round the Manor, and there, by accident, have fallen into the water.  No clearer hypothesis resulted from the legal inquiry, and with this all concerned had perforce to be satisfied.  Mr. Fouracres was buried, and, on the day after the funeral, his sister returned to London.  She showed no interest whatever in her niece, who, equally independent, asked neither counsel nor help.

Mr. Ruddiman and his hostess were alone together at the Pig and Whistle.  The situation had a certain awkwardness.  Familiars of the inn—­country-folk of the immediate neighbourhood—­of course began to comment on the state of things, joking among themselves about Mr. Ruddiman’s activity behind the bar.  The under-master himself was in an uneasy frame of mind.  When Miss Fouracres’ aunt had gone, he paced for an hour or two about the garden; the hostess was serving cyclists.  At length the familiar voice called to him.

‘Will you have your dinner, Mr. Ruddiman?’

He went in, and, before entering the parlour, stood looking at a cask of ale which had been tilted forward.

‘We must tap the new cask,’ he remarked.

‘Yes, sir, I suppose we must,’ replied his hostess, half absently.

‘I’ll do it at once.  Some more cyclists might come.’

For the rest of the day they saw very little of each other.  Mr. Ruddiman rambled musing.  When he came at the usual hour to supper, guests were occupying the hostess.  Having eaten, he went out to smoke his pipe in the garden, and lingered there—­it being a fine, warm night—­till after ten o’clock.  Miss Fouracres’ voice aroused him from a fit of abstraction.