Then he went down-stairs, speaking again when he was half-way down.

“How goes it, Miss Yorke?  Is Mr. Ridgett in the office?”

And this time it was absolutely his old voice—­rather loud, rather authoritative, but really quite cheerful.

Thinking of his manner to her and his manner to others, she believed that she could now understand all that he intended.  She was to be held in disgrace perhaps for a long time, but appearances were to be kept up.  No breath of scandal was to tarnish the reputation of the Rodchurch postmaster; the curious world must not be allowed the very slightest peep behind the scenes of his private life; and she, without explicit instructions, was to assist in preventing any one—­even poor humble Mary—­from guessing that as husband and wife they were not as heretofore on the best possible terms.

Down below in the sorting-room Dale greeted Mr. Ridgett very heartily.

“Here I am.  May I venture to come in a minute?  I’m only a visitor till Monday, you know.”  And he told Ridgett how he had taken a liberty in returning before the stipulated date; but he had written to headquarters explaining the circumstances, and he had no doubt they would approve.  “There’s the funeral, you know.  Though I suppose that won’t be till Tuesday or even Wednesday.  But there’s the inquest.  And I felt it like a duty to attend that too.”

“Yes, I suppose this is a bit of a blow to you—­knowing him so long.  Your good lady was mightily upset.”

“So she had cause to be,” said Dale gravely.

“He’d always shown himself a real friend?”

“The best friend anybody ever had,” said Dale with impressive earnestness.  Then, going, he returned to speak in a confidential whisper close to Mr. Ridgett’s ear.  “It was he who did the trick for me up there.  But for him, I was to be hoofed out of this, as sure as eggs.”

“Really!  Well, I’ll tell you frankly, I’m not surprised to hear it.  Ever since the little Missis came home with the happy tale, I’ve been wondering what miracle pulled you through so grand with them.”

Then Dale went out and down the street, talking to everybody he met.

The village received him with tranquil indifference.  No one congratulated him.  The greater excitement had obliterated all memory of the less:  not a soul seemed to recollect the famous controversy, the postmaster’s campaign against detractors, his long absence or his brilliant success.  Kibworth Rocks, the drawn blinds of the Abbey House, the decorations of the Abbey Church—­these were the only things that Rodchurch could now think of, or talk about.

The inquest, held on Monday in one of the state rooms at the Abbey, brought to light no new facts that were of the least importance.  All sorts of people gave evidence, but no one had anything to say that was really worth saying.  Mr. Allen, it appeared, had “acted foolish” and been reproved by the Coroner, first for irrelevance and then for impertinence.