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.
'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.
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