“Well, it appears that Chandler’s got to-morrow morning off too—­ this evening and to-morrow morning.  He’ll be on duty all night, but he proposes to go over and bring Daisy back in time for early dinner.  Will that suit you, Ellen?”

“Yes.  That’ll be all right,” she said.  “I don’t grudge the girl her bit of pleasure.  One’s only young once.  By the way, did the lodger ring while I was out?”

Bunting turned round from the gas-ring, which he was watching to see the kettle boil.  “No,” he said.  “Come to think of it, it’s rather a funny thing, but the truth is, Ellen, I never gave Mr. Sleuth a thought.  You see, Chandler came in and was telling me all about Margaret, laughing-like, and then something else happened while you was out, Ellen.”

“Something else happened?” she said in a startled voice.  Getting up from her chair she came towards her husband:  “What happened?  Who came?”

“Just a message for me, asking if I could go to-night to wait at a young lady’s birthday party.  In Hanover Terrace it is.  A waiter —­one of them nasty Swiss fellows as works for nothing—­fell out just at the last minute and so they had to send for me.”

His honest face shone with triumph.  The man who had taken over his old friend’s business in Baker Street had hitherto behaved very badly to Bunting, and that though Bunting had been on the books for ever so long, and had always given every satisfaction.  But this new man had never employed him—­no, not once.

“I hope you didn’t make yourself too cheap?” said his wife jealously.

“No, that I didn’t!  I hum’d and haw’d a lot; and I could see the fellow was quite worried—­in fact, at the end he offered me half-a-crown more.  So I graciously consented!”

Husband and wife laughed more merrily than they had done for a long time.

“You won’t mind being alone, here?  I don’t count the lodger—­he’s no good—­” Bunting looked at her anxiously.  He was only prompted to ask the question because lately Ellen had been so queer, so unlike herself.  Otherwise it never would have occurred to him that she could be afraid of being alone in the house.  She had often been so in the days when he got more jobs.

She stared at him, a little suspiciously.  “I be afraid?” she echoed.  “Certainly not.  Why should I be?  I’ve never been afraid before.  What d’you exactly mean by that, Bunting?”

“Oh, nothing.  I only thought you might feel funny-like, all alone on this ground floor.  You was so upset yesterday when that young fool Chandler came, dressed up, to the door.”

“I shouldn’t have been frightened if he’d just been an ordinary stranger,” she said shortly.  “He said something silly to me—­just in keeping with his character-like, and it upset me.  Besides, I feel better now.”

As she was sipping gratefully her cup of tea, there came a noise outside, the shouts of newspaper-sellers.