As he did so he told himself that, after all, he was but human; it was natural that he should be thrilled and excited by the dreadful, extraordinary thing which had just happened close by.  Ellen wasn’t reasonable about such things.  How queer and disagreeable she had been that very morning—­angry with him because he had gone out to hear what all the row was about, and even more angry when he had come back and said nothing, because he thought it would annoy her to hear about it!

Meanwhile, Mrs. Bunting forced herself to go down again into the kitchen, and as she went through into the low, whitewashed place, a tremor of fear, of quick terror, came over her.  She turned and did what she had never in her life done before, and what she had never heard of anyone else doing in a kitchen.  She bolted the door.

But, having done this, finding herself at last alone, shut off from everybody, she was still beset by a strange, uncanny dread.  She felt as if she were locked in with an invisible presence, which mocked and jeered, reproached and threatened her, by turns.

Why had she allowed, nay encouraged, Daisy to go away for two days?  Daisy, at any rate, was company—­kind, young, unsuspecting company.  With Daisy she could be her old sharp self.  It was such a comfort to be with someone to whom she not only need, but ought to, say nothing.  When with Bunting she was pursued by a sick feeling of guilt, of shame.  She was the man’s wedded wife—­in his stolid way he was very kind to her, and yet she was keeping from him something he certainly had a right to know.

Not for worlds, however, would she have told Bunting of her dreadful suspicion—­nay, of her almost certainty.

At last she went across to the door and unlocked it.  Then she went upstairs and turned out her bedroom.  That made her feel a little better.

She longed for Bunting to return, and yet in a way she was relieved by his absence.  She would have liked to feel him near by, and yet she welcomed anything that took her husband out of the house.

And as Mrs. Bunting swept and dusted, trying to put her whole mind into what she was doing, she was asking herself all the time what was going on upstairs.

What a good rest the lodger was having!  But there, that was only natural.  Mr. Sleuth, as she well knew, had been up a long time last night, or rather this morning.

******

Suddenly, the drawing-room bell rang.  But Mr. Sleuth’s landlady did not go up, as she generally did, before getting ready the simple meal which was the lodger’s luncheon and breakfast combined.  Instead, she went downstairs again and hurriedly prepared the lodger’s food.

Then, very slowly, with her heart beating queerly, she walked up, and just outside the sitting-room—­for she felt sure that Mr. Sleuth had got up, that he was there already, waiting for her—­she rested the tray on the top of the banisters and listened.  For a few moments she heard nothing; then through the door came the high, quavering voice with which she had become so familiar: