Her last words were cut across by a tap-tap on the door.

Bunting and his wife looked at each other apprehensively.  Was it possible that, in their agitation, they had left the front door open, and that someone, some merciless myrmidon of the law, had crept in behind them?

Both felt a curious thrill of satisfaction when they saw that it was only Mr. Sleuth—­Mr. Sleuth dressed for going out; the tall hat he had worn when he had first come to them was in his hand, but he was wearing a coat instead of his Inverness cape.

“I heard you come in”—­he addressed Mrs. Bunting in his high, whistling, hesitating voice—­“and so I’ve come down to ask you if you and Miss Bunting will come to Madame Tussaud’s now.  I have never seen those famous waxworks, though I’ve heard of the place all my life.”

As Bunting forced himself to look fixedly at his lodger, a sudden doubt bringing with it a sense of immeasurable relief, came to Mr. Sleuth’s landlord.

Surely it was inconceivable that this gentle, mild-mannered gentleman could be the monster of cruelty and cunning that Bunting had now for the terrible space of four days believed him to be!

He tried to catch his wife’s eye, but Mrs. Bunting was looking away, staring into vacancy.  She still, of course, wore the bonnet and cloak in which she had just been out to do her marketing.  Daisy was already putting on her hat and coat.

“Well?” said Mr. Sleuth.  Then Mrs. Bunting turned, and it seemed to his landlady that he was looking at her threateningly.  “Well?”

“Yes, sir.  We’ll come in a minute,” she said dully.

CHAPTER XXVI

Madame Tussaud’s had hitherto held pleasant memories for Mrs. Bunting.  In the days when she and Bunting were courting they often spent there part of their afternoon-out.

The butler had an acquaintance, a man named Hopkins, who was one of the waxworks staff, and this man had sometimes given him passes for “self and lady.”  But this was the first time Mrs. Bunting had been inside the place since she had come to live almost next door, as it were, to the big building.

They walked in silence to the familiar entrance, and then, after the ill-assorted trio had gone up the great staircase and into the first gallery, Mr. Sleuth suddenly stopped short.  The presence of those curious, still, waxen figures which suggest so strangely death in life, seemed to surprise and affright him.

Daisy took quick advantage of the lodger’s hesitation and unease.

“Oh, Ellen,” she cried, “do let us begin by going into the Chamber of Horrors!  I’ve never been in there.  Old Aunt made father promise he wouldn’t take me the only time I’ve ever been here.  But now that I’m eighteen I can do just as I like; besides, Old Aunt will never know.”

Mr. Sleuth looked down at her, and a smile passed for a moment over his worn, gaunt face.