ment with eyes cast down, then, looking
gravely at Mr. Ruddiman, said in a sorrowful voice--

'He calls the Pig and Whistle a pothouse.'

'Ah, that was wrong of him!' protested the other, no less earnestly. 'A
pothouse, indeed! Why, it's one of the nicest little inns you could find
anywhere. I'm getting fond of the Pig and Whistle. A pothouse, indeed! No,
I call that shameful.'

The listener's eyes shone with gratification.

'Of course we've got to remember,' she said more softly, 'that father has
known very different things.'

'I don't care what he has known!' cried Mr. Ruddiman. 'I hope I may never
have a worse home than the Pig and Whistle. And I only wish I could live
here all the rest of my life, instead of going back to that beastly
school!'

'Don't you like the school, Mr. Ruddiman?'

'Oh, I can't say I _dis_like it. But since I've been living here--well,
it's no use thinking of impossibilities.'

Towards midday the pony and trap came back, driven by a lad from Woodbury,
who had business in this direction. Miss Fouracres asked him to unharness
and stable the pony, and whilst this was being done Mr. Ruddiman stood by,
studiously observant. He had pleasure in every detail of the inn life.
To-day he several times waited upon passing guests, and laughed exultantly
at the perfection he was attaining. Miss Fouracres seemed hardly less
pleased, but when alone she still wore an anxious look, and occasionally
heaved a sigh of trouble.

Mr. Ruddiman, as usual, took an early supper, and soon after went up to his
room. By ten o'clock the house was closed, and all through the night no
sound disturbed the peace of the Pig and Whistle.

The morrow passed without news of Mr. Fouracres. On the morning after, just
as Mr. Ruddiman was finishing his breakfast, alone in the parlour, he heard
a loud cry of distress from the front part of the inn. Rushing out to see
what was the matter, he found Miss Fouracres in agitated talk with a man on
horseback.

'Ah, what did I say!' she cried at sight of the guest. '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 th