ne much of that sort of thing in her house, he might
start doing it any minute. And then--then--where would she, and
--and Mr. Sleuth, be?

She thought of the bottle of red ink--of the leather bag which
must be hidden somewhere--and her heart almost stopped beating.
Those were the sort of things which, in the stories Bunting was
so fond of reading, always led to the detection of famous
criminals. . . .

Mr. Sleuth's bell for tea rang that afternoon far earlier than
usual. The fog had probably misled him, and made him think it
later than it was.

When she went up, "I would like a cup of tea now, and just one
piece of bread-and-butter," the lodger said wearily. "I don't
feel like having anything else this afternoon."

"It's a horrible day," Mrs. Bunting observed, in a cheerier voice
than usual. "No wonder you don't feel hungry, sir. And then it
isn't so very long since you had your dinner, is it?"

"No," he said absently. "No, it isn't, Mrs. Bunting."

She went down, made the tea, and brought it up again. And then,
as she came into the room, she uttered an exclamation of sharp
dismay.

Mr. Sleuth was dressed for going out. He was wearing his long
Inverness cloak, and his queer old high hat lay on the table,
ready for him to put on.

"You're never going out this afternoon, sir?" she asked falteringly.
"Why, the fog's awful; you can't see a yard ahead of you!"

Unknown to herself, Mrs. Bunting's voice had risen almost to a
scream. She moved back, still holding the tray, and stood between
the door and her lodger, as if she meant to bar his way--to erect
between Mr. Sleuth and the dark, foggy world outside a living
barrier.

"The weather never affects me at all," he said sullenly; and he
looked at her with so wild and pleading a look in his eyes that,
slowly, reluctantly, she moved aside. As she did so she noticed
for the first time that Mr. Sleuth held something in his right
hand. It was the key of the chiffonnier cupboard. He had been
on his way there when her coming in had disturbed him.

"It's very kind of you to be so concerned about me," he stammered,
"but--but, Mrs. Bunting, you must excuse me if I say that I do
not welcome such solicitude. I prefer to be left alone. I--I
cannot stay in your house if I feel that my comings and goings are
watched--spied upon."

She pulled herself together. "No one spies upon you, sir," she
said, with considerable dignity. "I've done my best to satisfy
you--"

"You h