“Oh, sir,” she had exclaimed in dismay, “whatever are you doing?” And even now she could almost hear his merry voice, as he had answered, “I am doing my duty, fair Helen”—­he had always called her “fair Helen” when no one was listening.  “How can I draw ordinary animals when I see these half-human monsters staring at me all the time I am having my breakfast, my lunch, and my dinner?” That was what Mr. Algernon had said in his own saucy way, and that was what he repeated in a more serious, respectful manner to his aunt, when that dear old lady had come downstairs.  In fact he had declared, quite soberly, that the beautiful animals painted by Mr. Landseer put his eye out!

But his aunt had been very much annoyed—­in fact, she had made him turn the pictures all back again; and as long as he stayed there he just had to put up with what he called “those half-human monsters.”  Mrs. Bunting, sitting there, thinking the matter of Mr. Sleuth’s odd behaviour over, was glad to recall that funny incident of her long-gone youth.  It seemed to prove that her new lodger was not so strange as he appeared to be.  Still, when Bunting came in, she did not tell him the queer thing which had happened.  She told herself that she would be quite able to manage the taking down of the pictures in the drawing-room herself.

But before getting ready their own supper, Mr. Sleuth’s landlady went upstairs to clear away, and when on the staircase she heard the sound of—­was it talking, in the drawing-room?  Startled, she waited a moment on the landing outside the drawing-room door, then she realised that it was only the lodger reading aloud to himself.  There was something very awful in the words which rose and fell on her listening ears: 

“A strange woman is a narrow gate.  She also lieth in wait as for a prey, and increaseth the transgressors among men.”

She remained where she was, her hand on the handle of the door, and again there broke on her shrinking ears that curious, high, sing-song voice, “Her house is the way to hell, going down to the chambers of death.”

It made the listener feel quite queer.  But at last she summoned up courage, knocked, and walked in.

“I’d better clear away, sir, had I not?” she said.  And Mr. Sleuth nodded.

Then he got up and closed the Book.  “I think I’ll go to bed now,” he said.  “I am very, very tired.  I’ve had a long and a very weary day, Mrs. Bunting.”

After he had disappeared into the back room, Mrs. Bunting climbed up on a chair and unhooked the pictures which had so offended Mr. Sleuth.  Each left an unsightly mark on the wall—­but that, after all, could not be helped.

Treading softly, so that Bunting should not hear her, she carried them down, two by two, and stood them behind her bed.

CHAPTER IV

Mrs. Bunting woke up the next morning feeling happier than she had felt for a very, very long time.