“Ellen?” he cried eagerly, “here’s news!  Daisy’s coming to-morrow!  There’s scarlet fever in their house.  Old Aunt thinks she’d better come away for a few days.  So, you see, she’ll be here for her birthday.  Eighteen, that’s what she be on the nineteenth!  It do make me feel old—­that it do!”

Mrs. Bunting put down the tray.  “I can’t have the girl here just now,” she said shortly.  “I’ve just as much to do as I can manage.  The lodger gives me more trouble than you seem to think for.”

“Rubbish!” he said sharply.  “I’ll help you with the lodger.  It’s your own fault you haven’t had help with him before.  Of course, Daisy must come here.  Whatever other place could the girl go to?”

Bunting felt pugnacious—­so cheerful as to be almost light-hearted.  But as he looked across at his wife his feeling of satisfaction vanished.  Ellen’s face was pinched and drawn to-day; she looked ill —­ill and horribly tired.  It was very aggravating of her to go and behave like this—­just when they were beginning to get on nicely again.

“For the matter of that,” he said suddenly, “Daisy’ll be able to help you with the work, Ellen, and she’ll brisk us both up a bit.”

Mrs. Bunting made no answer.  She sat down heavily at the table.  And then she said languidly, “You might as well show me the girl’s letter.”

He handed it across to her, and she read it slowly to herself.

“Dear father (it ran)—­I hope this finds you as well at it leaves me.  Mrs. Puddle’s youngest has got scarlet fever, and Aunt thinks I had better come away at once, just to stay with you for a few days.  Please tell Ellen I won’t give her no trouble.  I’ll start at ten if I don’t hear nothing.—­Your loving daughter,

“Yes, I suppose Daisy will have to come here,” Mrs. Bunting slowly.  “It’ll do her good to have a bit of work to do for once in her life.”

And with that ungraciously worded permission Bunting had to content himself.

******

Quietly the rest of that eventful day sped by.  When dusk fell Mr. Sleuth’s landlady heard him go upstairs to the top floor.  She remembered that this was the signal for her to go and do his room.

He was a tidy man, was the lodger; he did not throw his things about as so many gentlemen do, leaving them all over the place.  No, he kept everything scrupulously tidy.  His clothes, and the various articles Mrs. Bunting had bought for him during the first two days he had been there, were carefully arranged in the chest of drawers.  He had lately purchased a pair of boots.  Those he had arrived in were peculiar-looking footgear, buff leather shoes with rubber soles, and he had told his landlady on that very first day that he never wished them to go down to be cleaned.

A funny idea—­a funny habit that, of going out for a walk after midnight in weather so cold and foggy that all other folk were glad to be at home, snug in bed.  But then Mr. Sleuth himself admitted that he was a funny sort of gentleman.