“I’ll go down and start getting the lodger’s supper ready for you,” said the girl good-naturedly.  “He’s certain to come in when he gets hungry.  But he did look upset, didn’t he, Ellen?  Right down bad—­ that he did!”

Mrs. Bunting made no answer; she simply stepped aside to allow Daisy to go down.

“Mr. Sleuth won’t never come back no more,” she said sombrely, and then she felt both glad and angry at the extraordinary change which came over her husband’s face.  Yet, perversely, that look of relief, of right-down joy, chiefly angered her, and tempted her to add, “That’s to say, I don’t suppose he will.”

And Bunting’s face altered again; the old, anxious, depressed look, the look it had worn the last few days, returned.

“What makes you think he mayn’t come back?” he muttered.

“Too long to tell you now,” she said.  “Wait till the child’s gone to bed.”

And Bunting had to restrain his curiosity.

And then, when at last Daisy had gone off to the back room where she now slept with her stepmother, Mrs. Bunting beckoned to her husband to follow her upstairs.

Before doing so he went down the passage and put the chain on the door.  And about this they had a few sharp whispered words.

“You’re never going to shut him out?” she expostulated angrily, beneath her breath.

“I’m not going to leave Daisy down here with that man perhaps walking in any minute.”

“Mr. Sleuth won’t hurt Daisy, bless you!  Much more likely to hurt me,” and she gave a half sob.

Bunting stared at her.  “What do you mean?” he said roughly.  “Come upstairs and tell me what you mean.”

And then, in what had been the lodger’s sitting-room, Mrs. Bunting told her husband exactly what it was that had happened.

He listened in heavy silence.

“So you see,” she said at last, “you see, Bunting, that ’twas me that was right after all.  The lodger was never responsible for his actions.  I never thought he was, for my part.”

And Bunting stared at her ruminatingly.  “Depends on what you call responsible—­” he began argumentatively.

But she would have none of that.  “I heard the gentleman say myself that he was a lunatic,” she said fiercely.  And then, dropping her voice, “A religious maniac—­that’s what he called him.”

“Well, he never seemed so to me,” said Bunting stoutly.  “He simply seemed to me ’centric—­that’s all he did.  Not a bit madder than many I could tell you of.”  He was walking round the room restlessly, but he stopped short at last.  “And what d’you think we ought to do now?”

Mrs. Bunting shook her head impatiently.  “I don’t think we ought to do nothing,” she said.  “Why should we?”

And then again he began walking round the room in an aimless fashion that irritated her.

“If only I could put out a bit of supper for him somewhere where he would get it!  And his money, too?  I hate to feel it’s in there.”