But that, naturally, had only increased Daisy’s desire to view Mr. Sleuth.

There was another reason why Mrs. Bunting was glad that her stepdaughter had gone away for two days.  During her absence young Chandler was far less likely to haunt them in the way he had taken to doing lately, the more so that, in spite of what she had said to her husband, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that Daisy would ask Joe Chandler to call at Belgrave Square.  ’Twouldn’t be human nature —­at any rate, not girlish human nature—­not to do so, even if Joe’s coming did anger Aunt Margaret.

Yes, it was pretty safe that with Daisy away they, the Buntings, would be rid of that young chap for a bit, and that would be a good thing.

When Daisy wasn’t there to occupy the whole of his attention, Mrs. Bunting felt queerly afraid of Chandler.  After all, he was a detective—­it was his job to be always nosing about, trying to find out things.  And, though she couldn’t fairly say to herself that he had done much of that sort of thing in her house, he might start doing it any minute.  And then—­then—­where would she, and —­and Mr. Sleuth, be?

She thought of the bottle of red ink—­of the leather bag which must be hidden somewhere—­and her heart almost stopped beating.  Those were the sort of things which, in the stories Bunting was so fond of reading, always led to the detection of famous criminals. . . .

Mr. Sleuth’s bell for tea rang that afternoon far earlier than usual.  The fog had probably misled him, and made him think it later than it was.

When she went up, “I would like a cup of tea now, and just one piece of bread-and-butter,” the lodger said wearily.  “I don’t feel like having anything else this afternoon.”

“It’s a horrible day,” Mrs. Bunting observed, in a cheerier voice than usual.  “No wonder you don’t feel hungry, sir.  And then it isn’t so very long since you had your dinner, is it?”

“No,” he said absently.  “No, it isn’t, Mrs. Bunting.”

She went down, made the tea, and brought it up again.  And then, as she came into the room, she uttered an exclamation of sharp dismay.

Mr. Sleuth was dressed for going out.  He was wearing his long Inverness cloak, and his queer old high hat lay on the table, ready for him to put on.

“You’re never going out this afternoon, sir?” she asked falteringly.  “Why, the fog’s awful; you can’t see a yard ahead of you!”

Unknown to herself, Mrs. Bunting’s voice had risen almost to a scream.  She moved back, still holding the tray, and stood between the door and her lodger, as if she meant to bar his way—­to erect between Mr. Sleuth and the dark, foggy world outside a living barrier.

“The weather never affects me at all,” he said sullenly; and he looked at her with so wild and pleading a look in his eyes that, slowly, reluctantly, she moved aside.  As she did so she noticed for the first time that Mr. Sleuth held something in his right hand.  It was the key of the chiffonnier cupboard.  He had been on his way there when her coming in had disturbed him.