And then, going downstairs, she showed Mr. Sleuth the nice bedroom which opened out of the drawing-room.  It was a replica of Mrs. Bunting’s own room just underneath, excepting that everything up here had cost just a little more, and was therefore rather better in quality.

The new lodger looked round him with such a strange expression of content and peace stealing over his worn face.  “A haven of rest,” he muttered; and then, “‘He bringeth them to their desired haven.’  Beautiful words, Mrs. Bunting.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mrs. Bunting felt a little startled.  It was the first time anyone had quoted the Bible to her for many a long day.  But it seemed to set the seal, as it were, on Mr. Sleuth’s respectability.

What a comfort it was, too, that she had to deal with only one lodger, and that a gentleman, instead of with a married couple!  Very peculiar married couples had drifted in and out of Mr. and Mrs. Bunting’s lodgings, not only here, in London, but at the seaside.

How unlucky they had been, to be sure!  Since they had come to London not a single pair of lodgers had been even moderately respectable and kindly.  The last lot had belonged to that horrible underworld of men and women who, having, as the phrase goes, seen better days, now only keep their heads above water with the help of petty fraud.

“I’ll bring you up some hot water in a minute, sir, and some clean towels,” she said, going to the door.

And then Mr. Sleuth turned quickly round.  “Mrs. Bunting”—­and as he spoke he stammered a little—­“I—­I don’t want you to interpret the word attendance too liberally.  You need not run yourself off your feet for me.  I’m accustomed to look after myself.”

And, queerly, uncomfortably, she felt herself dismissed—­even a little snubbed.  “All right, sir,” she said.  “I’ll only just let you know when I’ve your supper ready.”

CHAPTER III

But what was a little snub compared with the intense relief and joy of going down and telling Bunting of the great piece of good fortune which had fallen their way?

Staid Mrs. Bunting seemed to make but one leap down the steep stairs.  In the hall, however, she pulled herself together, and tried to still her agitation.  She had always disliked and despised any show of emotion; she called such betrayal of feeling “making a fuss.”

Opening the door of their sitting-room, she stood for a moment looking at her husband’s bent back, and she realised, with a pang of pain, how the last few weeks had aged him.

Bunting suddenly looked round, and, seeing his wife, stood up.  He put the paper he had been holding down on to the table:  “Well,” he said, “well, who was it, then?”

He felt rather ashamed of himself; it was he who ought to have answered the door and done all that parleying of which he had heard murmurs.

And then in a moment his wife’s hand shot out, and the ten sovereigns fell in a little clinking heap on the table.