However, he was always for peace, so he opened the drawing-room door, and as soon as he had started going downstairs Mrs. Bunting walked into the room.

And then at once there came over her the queerest feeling of relief, of lightness of heart.

As usual, the lodger was sitting at his old place, reading the Bible.

Somehow—­she could not have told you why, she would not willingly have told herself—­she had expected to see Mr. Sleuth looking different.  But no, he appeared to be exactly the same—­in fact, as he glanced up at her a pleasanter smile than usual lighted up his thin, pallid face.

“Well, Mrs. Bunting,” he said genially, “I overslept myself this morning, but I feel all the better for the rest.”

“I’m glad of that, sir,” she answered, in a low voice.  “One of the ladies I once lived with used to say, ’Rest is an old-fashioned remedy, but it’s the best remedy of all.’”

Mr. Sleuth himself removed the Bible and Cruden’s Concordance off the table out of her way, and then he stood watching his landlady laying the cloth.

Suddenly he spoke again.  He was not often so talkative in the morning.  “I think, Mrs. Bunting, that there was someone with you outside the door just now?”

“Yes, sir.  Bunting helped me up with the tray.”

“I’m afraid I give you a good deal of trouble,” he said hesitatingly.

But she answered quickly, “Oh, no, sir!  Not at all, sir!  I was only saying yesterday that we’ve never had a lodger that gave us as little trouble as you do, sir.”

“I’m glad of that.  I am aware that my habits are somewhat peculiar.”

He looked at her fixedly, as if expecting her to give some sort of denial to this observation.  But Mrs. Bunting was an honest and truthful woman.  It never occurred to her to question his statement.  Mr. Sleuth’s habits were somewhat peculiar.  Take that going out at night, or rather in the early morning, for instance?  So she remained silent.

After she had laid the lodger’s breakfast on the table she prepared to leave the room.  “I suppose I’m not to do your room till you goes out, sir?”

And Mr. Sleuth looked up sharply.  “No, no!” he said.  “I never want my room done when I am engaged in studying the Scriptures, Mrs. Bunting.  But I am not going out to-day.  I shall be carrying out a somewhat elaborate experiment—­upstairs.  If I go out at all” he waited a moment, and again he looked at her fixedly “—­I shall wait till night-time to do so.”  And then, coming back to the matter in hand, he added hastily, “Perhaps you could do my room when I go upstairs, about five o’clock—­if that time is convenient to you, that is?”

“Oh, yes, sir!  That’ll do nicely!”

Mrs. Bunting went downstairs, and as she did so she took herself wordlessly, ruthlessly to task, but she did not face—­even in her inmost heart—­the strange tenors and tremors which had so shaken her.  She only repeated to herself again and again, “I’ve got upset —­that’s what I’ve done,” and then she spoke aloud, “I must get myself a dose at the chemist’s next time I’m out.  That’s what I must do.”