“She’s in ’sterics—­that’s what it is,” he said shortly.  “I’ll just get the water-jug.  Wait a minute!”

Bunting felt very put out.  Ellen was ridiculous—­that’s what she was, to be so easily upset.

The lodger’s bell suddenly pealed through the quiet house.  Either that sound, or maybe the threat of the water-jug, had a magical effect on Mrs. Bunting.  She rose to her feet, still shaking all over, but mentally composed.

“I’ll go up,” she said a little chokingly.  “As for you, child, just run down into the kitchen.  You’ll find a piece of pork roasting in the oven.  You might start paring the apples for the sauce.”

As Mrs. Bunting went upstairs her legs felt as if they were made of cotton wool.  She put out a trembling hand, and clutched at the banister for support.  But soon, making a great effort over herself, she began to feel more steady; and after waiting for a few moments on the landing, she knocked at the door of the drawing-room.

Mr. Sleuth’s voice answered her from the bedroom.  “I’m not well,” he called out querulously; “I think I’ve caught a chill.  I should be obliged if you would kindly bring me up a cup of tea, and put it outside my door, Mrs. Bunting.”

“Very well, sir.”

Mrs. Bunting turned and went downstairs.  She still felt queer and giddy, so instead of going into the kitchen, she made the lodger his cup of tea over her sitting-room gas-ring.

During their midday dinner the husband and wife had a little discussion as to where Daisy should sleep.  It had been settled that a bed should be made up for her in the top back room, but Mrs. Bunting saw reason to change this plan.  “I think ’twould be better if Daisy were to sleep with me, Bunting, and you was to sleep upstairs.”

Bunting felt and looked rather surprised, but he acquiesced.  Ellen was probably right; the girl would be rather lonely up there, and, after all, they didn’t know much about the lodger, though he seemed a respectable gentleman enough.

Daisy was a good-natured girl; she liked London, and wanted to make herself useful to her stepmother.  “I’ll wash up; don’t you bother to come downstairs,” she said cheerfully.

Bunting began to walk up and down the room.  His wife gave him a furtive glance; she wondered what he was thinking about.

“Didn’t you get a paper?” she said at last.

“Yes, of course I did,” he answered hastily.  “But I’ve put it away.  I thought you’d rather not look at it, as you’re that nervous.”

Again she glanced at him quickly, furtively, but he seemed just as usual—­he evidently meant just what he said and no more.

“I thought they was shouting something in the street—­I mean just before I was took bad.”

It was now Bunting’s turn to stare at his wife quickly and rather furtively.  He had felt sure that her sudden attack of queerness, of hysterics—­call it what you might—­had been due to the shouting outside.  She was not the only woman in London who had got the Avenger murders on her nerves.  His morning paper said quite a lot of women were afraid to go out alone.  Was it possible that the curious way she had been taken just now had had nothing to do with the shouts and excitement outside?