Perhaps that was why she rose so early the next morning.  Hardly giving herself time to swallow the tea Bunting had made and brought her, she got up and dressed.

She had suddenly come to the conclusion that the hall and staircase required a thorough “doing down,” and she did not even wait till they had eaten their breakfast before beginning her labours.  It made Bunting feel quite uncomfortable.  As he sat by the fire reading his morning paper—­the paper which was again of such absorbing interest—­he called out, “There’s no need for so much hurry, Ellen.  Daisy’ll be back to-day.  Why don’t you wait till she’s come home to help you?”

But from the hall where she was busy dusting, sweeping, polishing, his wife’s voice came back:  “Girls ain’t no good at this sort of work.  Don’t you worry about me.  I feel as if I’d enjoy doing an extra bit of cleaning to-day.  I don’t like to feel as anyone could come in and see my place dirty.”

“No fear of that!” Bunting chuckled.  And then a new thought struck him.  “Ain’t you afraid of waking the lodger?” he called out.

“Mr. Sleuth slept most of yesterday, and all last night,” she answered quickly.  “As it is, I study him over-much; it’s a long, long time since I’ve done this staircase down.”

All the time she was engaged in doing the hall, Mrs. Bunting left the sitting-room door wide open.

That was a queer thing of her to do, but Bunting didn’t like to get up and shut her out, as it were.  Still, try as he would, he couldn’t read with any comfort while all that noise was going on.  He had never known Ellen make such a lot of noise before.  Once or twice he looked up and frowned rather crossly.

There came a sudden silence, and he was startled to see that.  Ellen was standing in the doorway, staring at him, doing nothing.

“Come in,” he said, “do!  Ain’t you finished yet?”

“I was only resting a minute,” she said.  “You don’t tell me nothing.  I’d like to know if there’s anything—­I mean anything new—­in the paper this morning.”

She spoke in a muffled voice, almost as if she were ashamed of her unusual curiosity; and her look of fatigue, of pallor, made Bunting suddenly uneasy.  “Come in—­do!” he repeated sharply.  “You’ve done quite enough—­and before breakfast, too.  ’Tain’t necessary.  Come in and shut that door.”

He spoke authoritatively, and his wife, for a wonder, obeyed him.

She came in, and did what she had never done before—­brought the broom with her, and put it up against the wall in the corner.

Then she sat down.

“I think I’ll make breakfast up here,” she said.  “I—­I feel cold, Bunting.”  And her husband stared at her surprised, for drops of perspiration were glistening on her forehead.

He got up.  “All right.  I’ll go down and bring the eggs up.  Don’t you worry.  For the matter of that, I can cook them downstairs if you like.”