“No, no. I mean the other woman, what was taking her husband’s breakfast to him in the warehouse. She was far the most respectable-looking woman of the two,” said Mrs. Bunting impatiently.
And then, seeing her husband’s look of utter, blank astonishment, she felt a thrill of unreasoning terror. She must have gone suddenly mad to have said what she did! Hurriedly she got up from her chair. “There, now,” she said; “here I am gossiping all about nothing when I ought to be seeing about the lodger’s supper. It was someone in the train talked to me about that person as thinks she saw The Avenger.”
Without waiting for an answer, she went into her bedroom, lit the gas, and shut the door. A moment later she heard Bunting go out to buy the paper they had both forgotten during their dangerous discussion.
As she slowly, languidly took off her nice, warm coat and shawl, Mrs. Bunting found herself shivering. It was dreadfully cold, quite unnaturally cold even for the time of year.
She looked longingly towards the fireplace. It was now concealed by the washhand-stand, but how pleasant it would be to drag that stand aside and light a bit of fire, especially as Bunting was going to be out tonight. He would have to put on his dress clothes, and she didn’t like his dressing in the sitting-room. It didn’t suit her ideas that he should do so. How if she did light the fire here, in their bedroom? It would be nice for her to have bit of fire to cheer her up after he had gone.
Mrs. Bunting knew only too well that she would have very little sleep the coming night. She looked over, with shuddering distaste, at her nice, soft bed. There she would lie, on that couch of little ease, listening—listening. …
She went down to the kitchen. Everything was ready for Mr. Sleuth’s supper, for she had made all her preparations before going out so as not to have to hurry back before it suited her to do so.
Leaning the tray for a moment on the top of the banisters, she listened. Even in that nice warm drawing-room, and with a good fire, how cold the lodger must feel sitting studying at the table! But unwonted sounds were coming through the door. Mr. Sleuth was moving restlessly about the room, not sitting reading, as was his wont at this time of the evening.
She knocked, and then waited a moment.
There came the sound of a sharp click, that of the key turning in the lock of the chiffonnier cupboard—or so Mr. Sleuth’s landlady could have sworn.
There was a pause—she knocked again.
“Come in,” said Mr. Sleuth loudly, and she opened the door and carried in the tray.
“You are a little earlier than usual, are you not Mrs. Bunting?” he said, with a touch of irritation in his voice.
“I don’t think so, sir, but I’ve been out. Perhaps I lost count of the time. I thought you’d like your breakfast early, as you had dinner rather sooner than usual.”
“Breakfast? Did you say breakfast, Mrs. Bunting?”
“I beg your pardon, sir, I’m sure! I meant supper.” He looked at her fixedly. It seemed to Mrs. Bunting that there was a terrible questioning look in his dark, sunken eyes.
“Aren’t you well?” he said slowly. “You don’t look well, Mrs. Bunting.”
“No, sir,” she said. “I’m not well. I went over to see a doctor this afternoon, to Ealing, sir.”
“I hope he did you good, Mrs. Bunting”—the lodger’s voice had become softer, kinder in quality.
“It always does me good to see the doctor,” said Mrs. Bunting evasively.
And then a very odd smile lit up Mr. Sleuth’s face. “Doctors are a maligned body of men,” he said. “I’m glad to hear you speak well of them. They do their best, Mrs. Bunting. Being human they are liable to err, but I assure you they do their best.”
“That I’m sure they do, sir”—she spoke heartily, sincerely. Doctors had always treated her most kindly, and even generously.
And then, having laid the cloth, and put the lodger’s one hot dish upon it, she went towards the door. “Wouldn’t you like me to bring up another scuttleful of coals, sir? it’s bitterly cold—getting colder every minute. A fearful night to have to go out in—” she looked at him deprecatingly.
And then Mr. Sleuth did something which startled her very much. Pushing his chair back, he jumped up and drew himself to his full height.
“What d’you mean?” he stammered. “Why did you say that, Mrs. Bunting?”
She stared at him, fascinated, affrighted. Again there came an awful questioning look over his face.
“I was thinking of Bunting, sir. He’s got a job tonight. He’s going to act as waiter at a young lady’s birthday party. I was thinking it’s a pity he has to turn out, and in his thin clothes, too”—she brought out her words jerkily.
Mr. Sleuth seemed somewhat reassured, and again he sat down. “Ah!” he said. “Dear me—I’m sorry to hear that! I hope your husband will not catch cold, Mrs. Bunting.”
And then she shut the door, and went downstairs.
Without telling Bunting what she meant to do, she dragged the heavy washhand-stand away from the chimneypiece, and lighted the fire.
Then in some triumph she called Bunting in.
“Time for you to dress,” she cried out cheerfully, “and I’ve got a little bit of fire for you to dress by.”
As he exclaimed at her extravagance, “Well, ’twill be pleasant for me, too; keep me company-like while you’re out; and make the room nice and warm when you come in. You’ll be fair perished, even walking that short way,” she said.
And then, while her husband was dressing, Mrs. Bunting went upstairs and cleared away Mr. Sleuth’s supper.
The lodger said no word while she was so engaged—no word at all.
He was sitting away from the table, rather an unusual thing for him to do, and staring into the fire, his hands on his knees.
Mr. Sleuth looked lonely, very,
