'Didn't I _know_
something was going to happen? I must go at once--I must put in the pony--'
'I'll do that for you,' said Mr. Ruddiman. 'But what has happened?'
The horseman, a messenger from Woodbury, told a strange tale. Very early
this morning, a gardener walking through the grounds at Woodbury Manor, and
passing by a little lake or fishpond, saw the body of a man lying in the
water, which at this point was not three feet in depth. He drew the corpse
to the bank, and, in so doing, recognised his acquaintance, Mr. Fouracres,
with whom he had spent an hour or two at a public-house in Woodbury on the
evening before. How the landlord of the Pig and Whistle had come to this
tragic end neither the gardener nor any one else in the neighbourhood could
conjecture.
Mr. Ruddiman set to work at once on harnessing the pony, while Miss
Fouracres, now quietly weeping, went to prepare herself for the journey. In
a very few minutes the vehicle was ready at the door. The messenger had
already ridden away.
'Can you drive yourself, Miss Fouracres?' asked Ruddiman, looking and
speaking with genuine sympathy.
'Oh yes, sir. But I don't know what to do about the house. I may be away
all day.
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