There were one or two yokels in the tiny waiting-room, and the station-master addressed one of them as he passed through from his little ivy-covered cottage to the ticket-office.
“Sad thing, this, about Mr. Gascoyne, Edward.”
The young man in question answered slowly:
“Yes. They say as ’is ’orse kicked him to death.”
“That’s strange—very strange. Was the horse bad-tempered?”
“Not that I know of, and I’ve shod the mare often enough.”
“They say as Miss Gascoyne is powerful cut up.”
“That’s very likely; yer see, she doted on him.”
I scrutinised young Gray, the last speaker, narrowly. His manner betrayed no indication that he was in any way aware of his sister’s condition.
As Mr. Gascoyne descended from the train he pressed my hand warmly.