Daisy opened her eyes.
“Why, Ellen,” she said, “I suppose I was that tired, and slept so sound, that I never heard you come to bed or get up—funny, wasn’t it?”
“Young people don’t sleep as light as do old folks,” Mrs. Bunting said sententiously.
“Did the lodger come in after all? I suppose he’s upstairs now?”
Mrs. Bunting shook her head. “It looks as if ’twould be a fine day for you down at Richmond,” she observed in a kindly tone.
And Daisy smiled, a very happy, confident little smile.
That evening Mrs. Bunting forced herself to tell young Chandler that their lodger had, so to speak, disappeared. She and Bunting had thought carefully over what they would say, and so well did they carry out their programme, or, what is more likely, so full was young Chandler of the long happy day he and Daisy had spent together, that he took their news very calmly.
“Gone away, has he?” he observed casually. “Well, I hope he paid up all right?”
“Oh, yes, yes,” said Mrs. Bunting hastily. “No trouble of that sort.”
And Bunting said shamefacedly, “Aye, aye, the lodger was quite an honest gentleman, Joe. But I feel worried, about him. He was such a poor, gentle chap—not the sort o’ man one likes to think of as wandering about by himself.”
“You always said he was ’centric,” said Joe thoughtfully.
“Yes, he was that,” said Bunting slowly. “Regular right-down queer. Leetle touched, you know, under the thatch,” and, as he tapped his head significantly, both young people burst out laughing.
“Would you like a description of him circulated?” asked Joe good-naturedly.
Mr. and Mrs. Bunting looked at one another.
“No, I don’t think so. Not yet awhile at any rate. ’Twould upset him awfully, you see.”
And Joe acquiesced. “You’d be surprised at the number o’ people who disappears and are never heard of again,” he said cheerfully. And then he got up, very reluctantly.
Daisy, making no bones about it this time, followed him out into the passage, and shut the sitting-room door behind her.
When she came back she walked over to where her father was sitting in his easy chair, and standing behind him she put her arms round his neck.
Then she bent down her head. “Father,” she said, “I’ve a bit of news for you!”
“Yes, my dear?”
“Father, I’m engaged! Aren’t you surprised?”
“Well, what do you think?” said Bunting fondly. Then he turned round and, catching hold of her head, gave her a good, hearty kiss.
“What’ll Old Aunt say, I wonder?” he whispered.
“Don’t you worry about Old Aunt,” exclaimed his wife suddenly. “I’ll manage Old Aunt! I’ll go down and see her. She and I have always got on pretty comfortable together, as you knows well, Daisy.”
“Yes,” said Daisy a little wonderingly. “I know you have, Ellen.”
Mr. Sleuth never came back, and at last after many days and many nights had gone by, Mrs. Bunting left off listening for the click of the lock which she at once hoped and feared would herald her lodger’s return.
As suddenly and as mysteriously as they had begun the “Avenger” murders stopped, but there came a morning in the early spring when a gardener, working in the Regent’s Park, found a newspaper in which was wrapped, together with a half-worn pair of rubber-soled shoes, a long, peculiarly shaped knife. The fact, though of considerable interest to the police, was not chronicled in any newspaper, but about the same time a picturesque little paragraph went the round of the press concerning a small boxful of sovereigns which had been anonymously forwarded to the Governors of the Foundling Hospital.
Meanwhile Mrs. Bunting had been as good as her word about “Old Aunt,” and that lady had received the wonderful news concerning Daisy in a more philosophical spirit than her great-niece had expected her to do. She only observed that it was odd to reflect that if gentlefolks leave a house in charge of the police a burglary is pretty sure to follow—a remark which Daisy resented much more than did her Joe.
Mr. Bunting and his Ellen are now in the service of an old lady, by whom they are feared as well as respected, and whom they make very comfortable.
Colophon
The Lodger
was published in 1913 by
Marie Belloc Lowndes.
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Ennui,
a painting completed in 1914 by
Walter Sickert.
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