“I think I’ll read a bit,” he said.  “Seems a long time since I’ve looked at a book.  The papers was so jolly interesting for a bit, but now there’s nothing in ’em.”

His wife remained silent.  She knew what he meant.  A good many days had gone by since the last two Avenger murders, and the papers had very little to say about them that they hadn’t said in different language a dozen times before.

She went into her bedroom and came back with a bit of plain sewing.

Mrs. Bunting was fond of sewing, and Bunting liked to see her so engaged.  Since Mr. Sleuth had come to be their lodger she had not had much time for that sort of work.

It was funny how quiet the house was without either Daisy, or—­or the lodger, in it.

At last she let her needle remain idle, and the bit of cambric slipped down on her knee, while she listened, longingly, for Mr. Sleuth’s return home.

And as the minutes sped by she fell to wondering with a painful wonder if she would ever see her lodger again, for, from what she knew of Mr. Sleuth, Mrs. Bunting felt sure that if he got into any kind of—­well, trouble outside, he would never betray where he had lived during the last few weeks.

No, in such a case the lodger would disappear in as sudden a way as he had come.  And Bunting would never suspect, would never know, until, perhaps—­God, what a horrible thought—­a picture published in some newspaper might bring a certain dreadful fact to Bunting’s knowledge.

But if that happened—­if that unthinkably awful thing came to pass, she made up her mind, here and now, never to say anything.  She also would pretend to be amazed, shocked, unutterably horrified at the astounding revelation.

CHAPTER XIV

“There he is at last, and I’m glad of it, Ellen.  ’Tain’t a night you would wish a dog to be out in.”

Bunting’s voice was full of relief, but he did not turn round and look at his wife as he spoke; instead, he continued to read the evening paper he held in his hand.

He was still close to the fire, sitting back comfortably in his nice arm-chair.  He looked very well—­well and ruddy.  Mrs. Bunting stared across at him with a touch of sharp envy, nay, more, of resentment.  And this was very curious, for she was, in her own dry way, very fond of Bunting.

“You needn’t feel so nervous about him; Mr. Sleuth can look out for himself all right.”

Bunting laid the paper he had been reading down on his knee.  “I can’t think why he wanted to go out in such weather,” he said impatiently.

“Well, it’s none of your business, Bunting, now, is it?”

“No, that’s true enough.  Still, ’twould be a very bad thing for us if anything happened to him.  This lodger’s the first bit of luck we’ve had for a terrible long time, Ellen.”

Mrs. Bunting moved a little impatiently in her high chair.  She remained silent for a moment.  What Bunting had said was too obvious to be worth answering.  Also she was listening, following in imagination her lodger’s quick, singularly quiet progress—­ “stealthy” she called it to herself—­through the fog-filled, lamp-lit hall.  Yes, now he was going up the staircase.  What was that Bunting was saying?