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.
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